In Memoriam of 
CROSBY STUART NOYES 



The bridegrcom may forget the bride, 

Was made his wedded wife yeste'en ; 
The monarch may forget his crown 

That on his head an hour has been ; 
The mother may forget the child 

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee; 
Bui. ni rem.ember thee, dear Moyes, 

And a' that thou hast done for me. 

. — William Robertson Smith. 




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THE WORKS 



William H. Sm.' ' 
U, S. Botanic Gardt^i 



OF 



MAEY RUSSELL MITFORD, 



PROSE AND VERSE, 



VIZ: 



OUR VILLAGE, 
BELFORD REGIS, 
COUNTRY STORIES, 
FINDEN'S TABLEAUX. 



FOSCARI, 

JULIAN, 

RIENZI, 

CHARLES THE FIRST. 



PHILADELPHIA: 
PUBLISHED BY CKISSY & MxVRKLEY, 

GOLDSMITHS' HALL, LIBRARY SXKEET. 



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BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 



MAKY RUSSELL MITFORD. 



There are few names which fall with a plea- 
santer sound upon llie ears of those who adopt 
autliors as friends, in recognition of the moral 
purily and geniality of feeling as much as of tiie 
original talent displayed in their works, than 
the name of Mary Russeli^ Mitford. Happy 
thoughts and fresh images rise up when it is 
ppokcn ; and yet we are a trifle too apt to think 
( r' it only as connected with all tliat is lovely in 
>'ae rural scenery, and characteristic in the rural 
ociety of Southern England, and to forget tliat 
c also appertains to a dramatist of no common 
jower, who has wrought in a period, when — if 
'he theatres be deserted, and the popular acted 
drama have degenerated into melo-drama, bur- 
letta, and farce — the plays published exhibit far 
more signs of strength and promise, than were 
shown by those produced in the palmy days of 
Garrick, or the yet more glorious after-summer of 
the Kembles. 

It was at Christmas time, in the year 1789, 
that Miss Mitford was born, her birth-place being 
the little town of Alrcsford, Hampshire. She is 
descended on the father's side, from an ancient 
family in Northumberland, not remotely con- 
nected with nobility ; and there is a quaint rhyme 
current in the north country, which promises the 
name a long duration : 

" Midforci was Midford when Morpeth was nano, 
Midford shall be Midford when Morpclh is guiie ; 
Si) long as the sun sets or the moon runs her round, 
A Midford in Midford shall always be found." 

Her mother was the only daughter of Dr, Rus- 
sell, of Ashe, in Hampshire; this lady was a sin- 
gularly good classical scholar, and it would have 
been strange if under such auspices, the educa- 
tion of her daughter had not been liberally plan- 
ned and carefully completed. How delightfully 
Miss Mitford iias chronicled her school pleasures 
and scliool feelings, during the years bctvveeti the 
ages often and fifteen, passed by her at a London 
boarding-school of high repute, no one who has 
read " Our Village" can have forgotten. IJy her 
own shou'ing she was as shy as she was clever, 
atler a somewhat original fashion — a keen lover 
of poetry and plays. And shortly after she left 
school, she sliovved the next evidence of talent, 
the possession of a creative as well as appreciative 
power, by publishing a volume of miscellaneous 
poems, which were favourably received ; for in 
tliosc days poetry was read. These, and other 
juvenile effusions, now all but forgotten, were, 
at the time of tlieir appearing, successful ; but 
their young writer was herself dissatisfied with 
them; conscious, perhaps, that tliey were little 
more than imitations, and forgetting that it was 



by imitation that genius has almost always in 
the first instance manifested itself. She with- 
drew herself from composition — read much, 
though \^ithout any decided aim or object, and 
would never (she thinks) have attempted author- 
ship again, had not those vicissitudes of fortune, 
which try the metal of the sufferer no less search- 
ingly than the sincerity of his friends, compelled 
her to come forth from her retreat, and honour- 
ably to exercise the talents with which she had 
been so largely gifted. It would be raising the 
veil too high to dwell upon the sequel ; upon 
the rich reward of love, and respect, and conside- 
ration, which have repaid so zealous and unselfish 
a devotion of time and talent as Miss Mitford's 
life has shown. We have but to speak of the 
good which has come out of evil, in the shape of 
lier writings ; and we do this briefly and rapidly, 
because of the limited space within which we are 
restricted. > y 

Miss Mitford's principal efforts have been a 
series of tragedies. "The Two Foscari," — "Ju- 
lian," — " Rienzi," — "Charles the First," — have 
been all represented, and all well received — the 
third with signal success. Besides these may be 
mentioned two other tragedies, still in manu- 
script, " Inez de Castro" and " Otto of Wittels- 
bach," Mias Mitford's last, finest work. In all 
these plays there is strong vigorous writing, — 
masculine in the free unshackled use of language, 
but wholly womanly in its purity from coarse- 
ness or license, and in the intermixture of those 
incidental touches of soflest feeling and finest ob- 
servation, which are peculiar to the gentler sex. 
A rich air of the soutli breathes over " Rienzi ;" 
and in the " Charles," though tite character of 
Cromwell will be felt to vibrate, it is, on tlie whole, 
conceived with a just and acute discernment of 
its real and false greatness — of the thousand con- 
tradictions which, in reality, make the son of the 
Huntingdon brewer a character too difficult, and 
mighty, for any one beneath a Shakspeare to ex- 
hibit. As also in Joanna Baillie's fine tragedies, 
the poetry of these plays is singularly fresh and 
unconventional ; equally clear of Elizabi tlian 
quaintness and of modern Della-cruscanism, 
which, as some hold, indicate an exhausted and 
artificial state of society, in which the drama — 
the hearty, bold, natural drama — has no exist- 
ence. At all events, it is now too much the fash- 
ion that every thing which is written for the stage 
shall be forgotten so soon as the actors employed 
in it have " fretted their hour." Were it other- 
wise, we should not have need to dwell, even thus 
briefly, upon the distinctive merits of Miss Mit^ 
ford's trajredies. 



PREFACE. 



In leaving- them, however, we cannot, but point 
attention to the happy choice of their subjects, and 
in doing- this, may venture a remark or two which 
will lead us on to the works by which Miss Mit- 
ford is most widely known — her sketches of coun- 
try life and scenery. Among the characteristics 
which eminently distinguish female authorship, 
it has ollen struck us, that there is none more 
certiin and striking than an instinctive quickness 
of discovery and happiness in working- out avail- 
able subjects and fresh veins of fancy. At least, 
if we travel through the domains of lighter litera- 
ture during the last fifty years, we shall find 
enough to prove our assertion. We shall find the 
supernatural romance growing into eminence 
under the hands of Aima Radcliffe — the national 
tale introduced to the public by Miss Edgeworth 
and Lady Morgan — the historical novel by Miss 
Lee and tlie Miss Porters — the story of domestic 
life, witii commonplace persons for its actors, 
brought to its last perfection by Miss Austen. 
We shall find " Kenilworth" anticipated by the 
" Recess" (a tale strangely forgotten,) and " Wer- 
ner," owinji- not only its origin, but its very dia- 
logue to " Ivruitzner" — and the stories of " Fos- 
cari" and " Rienzi," ere they fell into the hands 
of Byron and Bulwer, fixed upon with a happy 
boldness by the authoress under notice. But the 
claims of Miss Mitford to swell tiie list of i«uen- 
tors, rest upon yet firmer grounds ; tiiey rest upon 
those exquisite sketches by which — their scenery 
all, and their characters half real — she has cre- 
ated a scliool of writing, homely but not vulgar, 
familiar but not breeding contempt, (in this point 
alone not resembling the highly finished pictures 
of the Dutch school,) wherein the small events 
and the simple characters of rural life, are made 
interesting by the truth and sprightliness with 
which they are represented. 

Every one now knows "Our Village," and every 
one knows that the nooks and corners, the haunts 
and copses so delightfully described in its pages, 
will be (bund in the immediate neighbourhood of 
Reading, and more especially around " Three 
Mile Cross," a cluster of cottages on the Basing- 
stoke road, in one of which our authoress has 
now resided for many years. But so little was 
the |)eculia,r and original excellence of her descrip- 
tions understood, in the first instance, that, after 
having gone the round of rejection through the 
more important periodicals, they at last saw the 
liffht in no worthier publication than the Ladi/s 
Mn^azine. But the series of rural ()ictures grew, 
and the venture of collecting them into a separate 
volume was tried. The public began to relish the 
style so fresh yet so finisiicd, to enjoy the delicate 
humour and tiic sim[)le pathos of the tales ; and 
the end was, that the popularity of these sketches 



somewhat outgrew that of the works of loflier or- 
der, proceeding from the same pen — that young 
writers, English and American, began to imitate 
so artless and charming a manner of narration; 
and that an obscure Berkshire hamlet, by the 
magic of talent and kindly feeling, was converted 
into a place of resort and interest for not a few of 
the finest spirits of the age. 

It should, perhaps, be owned in speaking of 
these village sketches, that their writer enamels 
too brightly — not the hedge-rows and the mea- 
dow-streams, the orchards and the cottage gar- 
dens, for who could exceed nature? — but the 
figures which people the scene ; that her country 
boys and village girls are too refined, too constantly 
turned " to favour and to prettincss." But this 
flattery only shows to us the health and benevo- 
lence of mind belonging to the writer ; nor would 
it be just to count it as a fault, unless we also 
were to denounce Crabbe as an unfaithful painter 
of English life and scenery, because, with a ten- 
dency diametrically opposite, he lingers like a 
lover in the workhouse and the hovel, and dwells 
rather upon decay, and meanness, and misery, 
than the prosperity and charity and comfort with 
which their gloom is so largely chequered. He 
may be called the Caravaggio, Miss Mitford the 
Claude, of village life in England ; and the truth 
lies between them. Both, however, are remark- 
able for the purity and selectness of their lan- 
guage; both paint with words, in a manner as 
faithful as it is significant. Crabbe should be re- 
served for those bright moments when the too 
buoyant spirits require a chastencr, a memento of 
the "days of darkness;" Miss Mitford resorted to 
in hours of depression and misgiving, when any 
book bearing an olive-branch to tell us that there 
is fair weather abroad, is a blessed visitant. 

After publishing five volumes of these charm- 
ing sketches, a wider field for the same descrip- 
tive powers was found in a small market-town, 
its peculiarities and its inhabitants, — and " Bel- 
ford Regis" was written. But the family likeness 
between this work and " Our Village" is so strong 
as to spare us the necessity of dwelling upon its 
features. And now our record may be closed, as I 
it is not permitted to us to dwell ujjon the private 
pleasures and cares of an uneventful life, spent | 
for the most part in a " labourer's cottage, with a j 
duchess's flower-garden." We should mention, ! 
however, the recent addition of Miss Mitford's 
name to the pension-list, as one among many } 
gratifying proofs, that literature is increasingly j 
becoming an object of care and protection to I 
statesmen, and that in this nmch-stiginatized i 
world, talent and self-sacrifice do not always puss ; 
on their way unsympathized with or unrecog- I 
nized. ■ 1 



CONTENTS. 



OUR VILLAGE: 

First Series: — ■ Page 

Preface 7 

Our Village 7 

Hannah 11 

Walks in the Country. Frost and Thaw. 13 

Modern Antiques 15 

A Great Farm-IIouse 18 

Lucy 20 

Walks in the Country. The First Prim- 
rose 24 

Bramley Maying 26 

Cousin Mary 28 

Walks in the Country. Violating 31 

The Talking Lady 32 

Ellen 34 

Walks in the Country. The Cowslip-Ball 38 

A Country Cricket-Match 41 

Tom Cordery 45 

An Old Bachelor • 48 

A Village Beau 51 

Walks in the Country. The Hard Sum- 
mer 54 

The Talking Gentleman 57 

Mrs. Mosse. . .". 59 

Walks in tiie Country. Nutting 64 

Aunt Martha 66 

Walks in the Country. The Visit 67 

A Parting Glance at Our Village 71 

Preface to the Second Volume 76 

Second Series : — 

A Walk through the Village 76 

The Tenants of Beechgrove 80 

Early Recollections. The French Teacher 83 

Walks in the Country. The Copse. . . 87 

The Touchy Lady. 90 

Jack Hatch 93 

Early Recollections. My School-fellows. 95 

Walks in the Country. The Wood 100 

The Vicar's Maid 101 

Marianne 106 

Early Recollections. The English Teacher 111 

A Visit to Lucy 116 

Dr. Tubb 119 

The Black Velvet Bag 121 

Walks in the Country. The Dell. . . . . 123 

Early Recollections. French Emigrants 126 

The Inquisitive Gentleman 131 

Walks in the Country. The Old House 

at Aberleigh 133 

Early Recollections. My Godfather... 136 

The Old Gipsy 139 



1* 



Little Rachel 142 

Early Recollections. My Godfather's 

Manoeuvring 144 

The Young Gipsy 147 

Third Series : — 

Introduction. Extracts from Letters ■ . . . 150 

Grace Neville 153 

A new-mairied Couple 156 

Olive Hathaway 159 

A Christmas Party 161 

A Quiet Gentlewoman 164 

The Two Valentines 168 

A Country Apothecary 170 

Wheat-Hoeing. A morning Ramble. .. . 174 

The Village Schoolmistress 177 | 

Fanny's Fairings 181 I 

The Chalk-Pit 183 j 

Whitsun-Eve 185 1 

Jessy Lucas 1 87 

A Country Barber 190 

Hay-carrying 193 

Our Maying 197 

An Admiral on Shore 201 

The Queen of the Meadow 206 

Dora Creswell 209 

The Bird-Catcher 212 

My Godmothers 215 

The Mole-Catcher 220 

Mademoiselle Therese 222 

Lost and Found 224 

Fourth Series : — 

Introductory Letter, to Miss W 226 

Lost and Won 230 

Children of the Village. Amy Lloyd. . . 234 
Early Recollections. The Cobbler over 

the way 235 

Patty's new Hat 238 

Children of the Village. The Magpies. . 240 

Cottage Names 241 

Walks in the Country. The Shaw 244 

Little Miss Wren 247 

Walks in the Country. Hannah Bint. . • 249 
Children of the Village. The Robins... 253 
Early Recollections. The General and 

his Lady 254 

Going to the Races 258 

The China Jug 261 

Early Recollections. Tom Hopkins .... 264 

Louisa 266 

Children of the Village. Harry Lewington 269 

The Election 271 

A Castle in the Air 274 

(5) 



VI 



CONTENTS. 



The Two Sisters 276 

Children of the Village. Pride shall have 

a fall 279 

Rosedale 280 

Walks in the Country. The Fall of the 

Leaf. 285 

Children of the Village. The Two Dolls 287 

Hopping' Bob 289 

A Viait to Richmond 292 

Ghost Stories 295 

Matthew Shore 3Ui 



Will. 



BELFORD REGIS : 

The Town 

Stephen Lane, the Butcher. . 

William and Hannah 

The Curate of St. Nicholas. . 

King Harwood 

The Carpenter's Daughter . . 

Suppers and Balls 

The Old Emigre 

The Tambourine 

Mrs. Hollis, the Fruiterer. . . 

Belles of the Bali-Room. Tl 

The Greek Plays 

Peter Jenkins, the Poulterer 

The Sailor's Wedding 

Country Excursions 

The Ydang Sculptor 

Belles of the Ball-room, No. IL Match- 
making 

Mrs. Tomkins, the Cheese-monger 

The Young Market Woman 

Hester 

Flirtation Extraordinary 

Belles of the Ball-room, No. IIL The 
Silver Arrow 

The Young Painter 

The Surgeon's Courtship 



307 
309 
315 
319 
3:23 
332 
336 
339 
347 
351 
359 
3o3 
307 
372 
378 
385 

39G 
400 
405 
410 
426 

429 
442 
450 



The Irish Haymaker 456 

Mark Bridgman 461 

Rosamond : a Story of the Plague 466 

Old Davy Dykes 472 

The Dissenting Minister 475 

Bclford Races 480 

The Absent Member 490 

COUNTRY STORIES: 

Country Lodgings 496 

The London Visiter 501 

Jesse Cliffe 503 

Miss Philly Firkin, the China- woman. . . . 512 

The Ground-ash 516 

Mr. Joseph Hanson, the Haberdasher. . . . 521 

The Beauty of the Village 526 

Town versus Country 530 

The Widow's Dog 534 

The Lost Dahlia 538 

Honor O'Callaghan 545 

Aunt Deborah 549 

EXTRACTS FROM FINDEN'S TABLEAUX. 

England. The King's Ward 557 

Florence. The Wager 560 

Ceylon. The Lost Pearl 563 

Scotland. Sir Allan and his Dog 566 

Castile. The Signal 568 

The Return from the Fair 570 

The Rustic Toilet 575 

The Gleaner 580 

The Village Amanuensis 585 

Hop Gathering 588 

TRAGEDIES: 

FoscARi 593 

Julian 613 

RiENZi 632 

Charles the First 651 



OUR VILLAGE: 



SKETCHES OF RURAL CHARACTER AND SCENERY. 



PREFACE.* 



The following pages contain an attempt to 
delineate country scenery and country man- 
ners, as they exist in a small village in the 
south of England. The writer may at least 
claim the merit of a hearty love of her subject, 
and of that local and personal familiarity, 
which only a long residence in one neighbour- 
hood could have enabled her to attain. Her 
descriptions have always been written on the 
spot, and at the moment, and in nearly every 
instance with the closest and most resolute 
fidelity to the place and the people. If she 
be accused of having given a brighter aspect 
to her villagers than is usually met with in 
books, she cannot help it, and would not if 
she could. She has painted, as they appeared 
to her, their little frailties and their many 
virtues, under an intense and thankful con- 
viction, that in every condition of life, good- 
ness and happiness may be found by those 
who seek thcra, and never more surely than 
in the fresh air, the shade, and the sunshine 
of nature. 



OUR VILLAGE. 



Of all situations for a constant residence, 
that which appears to me most delightful is 
a little village far in the country; a small 
neighbourhood, not of fine mansions finely 
peopled, but of cottages and cottage-like 
houses, " messuages or tenements," as a friend 
of mine calls such ignoble and nondescript 
dwellings, with inhabitants whose faces are 
as familiar to us as the flowers in our garden ; 
a little world of our own, close-packed and 
insulated like ants in an ant-hill, or bees in a 
hive, or sheep in a fold, or nuns in a convent, 
or sailors in a ship ; where we know every 
one, are known to every one, interested in 
every one, and authorised to hope that every 



one feels an interest in us. How pleasant it 
is to slide into these true-hearted feelings 
from the kindly and unconscious influence of 
habit, and to learn to know and to love the 
people about us, with all their peculiarities, 
just as we learn to know and to love the 
nooks and turns of the shady lanes and sunny 
commons that we pass every day. Even in 
books I like a confined locality, and so do the 
critics when they talk of the unities. Nothing 
is so tiresome as to be whirled half over 
Europe at the chariot wheels of a hero, to go 
to sleep at Vienna, and awaken at Madrid ; 
it produces a real fatigue, a weariness of spirit. 
On the other hand, nothing is so delightful as 
to sit down in a country village in one of 
Miss Austen's delicious novels, quite sure 
before we leave it to become intimate with 
every spot and every person it conJ:ains ; or 
to ramble with Mr. White f over his own 
parish of Selborne, and form a friendship with 
the fields and coppices, as well as with the 
birds, mice, and squirrels, who inhabit thexn ; 
or to sail with Robinson Crusoe to his island, 
and live there with him and his goats and his 
man Friday; — how much we dread any new 
comers, any fresh importation of savage or 
sailor I we never sympathise for a moment in 
our hero's want of company, and are quite 
grieved when he gets away ; — or to be ship- 
wrecked with Ferdinand on that other lovelier 
island — the island of Prospero, and Miranda, 
and Caliban, and Ariel, and nobody else, none 
of Dryden's exotic inventions ; — that is best 
of all. And a small neighbourhood is as 
good in sober waking reality as in poetry or 
prose; a village neighbourhood, such as this 
Berkshire Hamlet in which I write, a long, 
straffo-ling winding street at the bottom of a 
fine'eminence, with a road through it, ahvays 
abounding in carts, horsemen, and carriages, 
and lately enlivened by a stage-coach from 

B .to S , which passed through 

about ten days ago, and will I suppose return 
some time or other. There are coaches of all 
varieties now-a-days ; perhaps this may be 
intended for a monthly diligence, or a fortnight 



L 



*To ihe first volume, as originally published. 



t White's Natural History and Antiquities of Sel- 
borno ; one of the most faFi'kialiog books ever written. 
I wonder that no natunlist has adopted the same 
plan. 



(7) 



OUR VILLAGE. 



fly. Will you walk, with me throug-h our 
village, courteous reader"? The journey is 
not long. We will hegiii at the lower end, 
and proceed up the hill. 

The tidy, square, red cottage on the right 
hand, with the long well-stocked garden by 
the side of the road, belongs to a retired pub- 
lican from a neighbouring town ; a substantial 
person with a comely wife; one who piques 
himself on independence and idleness, talks 
politics, reads newspapers, hates the minister, 
and cries out for reform. He introduced into 
our peaceable vicinage the rebellious innova- 
tion of an illumination on the queen's acquittal. 
Remonstrance and persuasion were in vain ; 
he talked of liberty and broken windows — 
so we all lighted up. Oh ! how he shone 
that night with candles and laurel, and white 
bows, and gold paper, and a transparency 
(originally designed for a pocket handker- 
chief) with a flaming portrait of her Majesty, 
hatted and feathered, in red ochre. He had 
no rival in the village, that we all acknow- 
ledged ; the very bonfire was less splendid ; 
the little boys reserved their best crackers to 
be expended in his honour, and he gave them 
full sixpence more than any one else. He 
would like an illumination once a month ; for 
it must not be concealed that, in spite of gar- 
dening, of newspaper reading, of jaunting 
about in his littj* cart, and frequenting both 
church and meeting, our worthy neighbour 
begins to feel the weariness of idleness. He 
hangs over his gate, and tries to entice pas- 
sengers to stop and chat; he volunteers little 
jobs all round, smokes cherry-trees to cure 
the blight, and traces and I'lows up all the 
wasp-nests in the parish. I have seen a great 
many wasps in our garden to-day, and shall 
enchant him with the intelligence. He even 
assists his wife in her sweepings and dustings. 
Poor man ! he is a very respectable person, 
and would be a very happy one, if he would 
add a little employment to his dignity. It 
would be the salt of life to him. 

Next to his house, though parted from it by 
another long garden with a yew arbour at tbe 
end, is the pretty dwelling of the shoemaker, 
a pale, sickly-looking, black-haired man, the 
very model of sober industr}'. There he sits 
in his little shop from early morning till late 
at night. An earthquake would hardly stir 
him : the illumination did not. He stuck 
immoveably to his last, from the first lighting 
up, through the long blaze and the slow de- 
cay, till his large solitary candle was the only 
light in the place. One cannot conceive any 
thing niiire perfect fh;in the contempt which 
the liicui of transparenci ;s and the man of 
shoe» must have felt tor each other on that 
evening. There was at least as much vanity 
in the sturdy industry as in the strenuous 
idleness, for our shoemaker is a man of sub- 
stance; lie employs three journeymen, two 
lame, and one a dwarf, so that his shop looks 



like an hospital; he has purchased the lease 
of his commodious dwelling, some even say 
that he has bought it out and out ; and he has 
only one pretty daughter, a light, delicate, 
fair-haired girl of fourteen, the champion, 
protectress, and playfellow of every brat under 
three years old, whom she jumps, dances, 
dandles, and feeds all day long. A very at- 
tractive person is that child-loving girl. I 
have never seen any one in her station who 
possessed so thoroughly that undefmable 
charm, the lady-look. See her on a Sunday 
in her simplicity and her white frock, and she 
might pass for an earl's daughter. She likes 
flowers too, and has a profusion of M'hite 
stocks under her window, as pure and delicate 
as herself. 

The first house on the opposite side of the 
way is the blacksmith's ; a gloomy dwelling, 
where the sun never seems to shine; dark 
and smoky within and without, like a forge. 
The blacksmith is a high oflicer in our little 
state, nothing less than a constable : but, 
alas ! alas ! when tumults arise, and the con- 
stable is called for, he will commonly be 
found in the thickest of the fray. Lucky 
would it be for his wife and her eight children 
if there were no public-house in the land : an 
inveterate inclination to enter those bewitch- 
ing doors is Mr. Constable's only fault. 

Next to this ofiicial dwelling is a spruce 
brick tenement, red, high, and narrow, boast- 
ing, one above another, three sash windows, 
the only sash windows in the village, with a 
clematis on one side and a rose on the other, 
tall and narrow like itself. That slender 
mansion has a fine genteel look. The little 
parlour seems made for Hogarth's old maid 
and her stunted footboy ; for tea and card- 
parties, — it would just hold one table : for 
the rustle of faded silks, and the splendour 
of old China; for the delight of four by 
honours, and a little snug quiet scandal be- 
tween the deals ; for affected gentility and 
real starvation. This should have been its 
destiny; but fate has been unpropitious : it 
belongs to a plump, merry, hustling dame, 
with four fat, rosy, noisy children, the very 
essence of vulgarity and plenty. 

Then comes the village shop, like other 
village shops, multifarious as a bazaar; a 
repository for bread, shoes, tea, cheese, tape, 
ribands, and bacon ; for every thing, in short, 
except the one particular thing which you 
happen to want at the moment, and will be 
sure not to find. The people are civil and 
thriving, and frugal withal; they have let 
the upper part of their house to two youug 
women (one of them is a pretty blue-eyed 
girl) who teach little children their ABC, 
and make caps and gowns for their mam- 
mas, — parcel schoolmistress, parcel mantua- 
maker. I believe they find adorning the 
body a more profitable vocation than adorning 
the mind. 



OUR VILLAGE. 



9 



Divided from the shop by a narrow yard, 
and opposite the shoemaker's, is a habitation, 
of whose inmates I shall say nothingr. A cot- 
tafre — no — a miniature house, with many 
additions, little odds and ends of places, pan- 
tries, and what not; all angles, and of a 
charm.ing in-and-outness ; a little bricked court 
before one half, and a little flower-yard bo- 
fore the other; the walls old and weather- 
stained, covered with hollyhocks, roses, ho- 
ney-suckles, and a great apricot tree ; the 
casements full of geraniums; (ah, there is 
our superb vi'hite cat peeping out from amongst 
them!) the closets (our landlord has the 
assurance to call them rooms) full of con- 
trivances and corner-cupboards; and the little 
garden behind full of common flowers, tulips, 
pinks, larkspurs, pionies, stocks, and carna- 
tions, with an arbour of privet, not unlike a 
sentry-box, where one lives in a delicious 
green light, and looks out on the gayest of all 
gay flower-beds. That house was built on 
purpose to show in what an exceedingly 
small compass comfort may be packed. Well, 
I will loiter there no longer. 

The next tenement is a place of impor- 
tance, the Rose inn ; a white-washed build- 
ing, retired from the road behind its fine 
swinging sign, with a little bow-window 
room coming out on one side, and forming, 
with our stable on the other, a sort of open 
square, which is the constant resort cf carts, 
wagons, and return chaises. There are two 
carts there now, and mine host is serving 
them with beer in his eternal red waistcoat. 
He is a thriving man, and a portly, as his 
waistcoat attests, which has been twice let 
out within this twelvemonth. Our landlord 
has a stirring wife, a hopeful son, and a 
daughter, the belle of the village ; not so 
pretty as the fair nymph of the shoe-shop, 
and far less elegant, but ten times as fine ; all 
curl-papers in the morning, like a porcupine, 
all curls in the afternoon, like a poodle, with 
more flounces than curl-papers, and more 
lovers than curls. Miss Phoebe is fitter for 
town than country ; and, to do her justice, 
she has a consciousness of that fitness, and 
turns her steps town-ward as often as she 

can. She is gone to B to-day with her 

last and principal lover, a recruiting serjeant 
— a man as tall as Serjeant Kite, and as im- 
pudent. Some day or other he will carry off 
Miss Phoebe. 

In a line with the bow-window room is a 
low garden wall, belonging to a house under 
repair: — the white house opposite the collar- 
maker's shop, with four lime trees before it, 
and a wagon-load of bricks at the door. — 
That house is the plaything of a wealthy, 
well-meaning, whimsical person, who lives 
about a mile oflf. He has a passion for brick 
and mortar, and, being too wise to meddle 
with his own residence, diverts himself with 
altering and re-altering, improving and re- 

B 



improving, doing and undoing here. It is a 
perfect Penelope's web. Carpenters and brick- 
layers have been at work for these eighteen 
months, and yet I sometimes stand and won- 
der whether any thing has really been done. 
One exploit in last June was, however, by no 
means equivocal. Our good neighbour fan- 
cied that the limes shaded the rooms, and 
made them dark, (there was not a creature in 
the house but the workmen,) so he had all 
the leaves stripped from every tree. There 
they stood, poor miserable skeletons, as bare 
as Christmas under the glowing midsummer 
sun. Nature revenged herself in her own 
sweet and gracious manner ; fresh leaves 
sprang out, and at early Christmas the fo- 
liage was as brilliant as when the outrage 
was committed. 

Next door lives a carpenter, " famed ten 
miles round, and worthy all his fame," — few 
cabinet-makers surpass him, with his excel- 
lent wife, and their little daughter Lizzy, the 
plaything and queen of the village, a child 
three years old according to the register, but 
six in size and strength and intellect, in 
power and in self-will. She manages every 
body in the place, her schoolmistress in- 
cluded; turns the wheeler's children out of 
their own little cart, and makes them draw 
her ; seduces cakes and lollypops from the 
very shop-window ; makes the lazy carry 
her, the silent talk to her, -the grave ro,mp 
with her; does any thing she pleases; is 
absolutely irresistible. Her chief attraction 
lies in her exceeding power of loving, and 
her firm reliance on the love and indulgence 
of others. How impossible it would be to 
disappoint the dear little girl when she runs 
to meet you, slides her pretty hand into yours, 
looks up gladly in your face, and says, 
" Come !" You must go : you cannot help 
it. Another part of her charm is her singular 
beauty. Together with a good deal of the 
character of Napoleon, she has something of 
his square, sturdy, upright form, with the 
finest limbs in the world, a complexion purely 
English, a round laughing face, sunburnt 
and rosy, large merry blue eyes, curling 
brown hair, and a wonderful play of counte- 
nance. She has the imperial attitudes too, 
and loves to stand with her hands behind her, 
or folded over her bosom ; and sometimes, 
when she has a little touch of shyness, she 
clasps them together on the top of her head, 
pressing down her shining curls, and looking 
so exquisitely pretty ! Yes, Lizzy is queen 
of the village ! She has but one rival in her 
dominions, a certain white grey-hound called 
May-flower, much her friend, who resembles 
her in beauty and strength, in playfulness, 
and almost in sagacity, and reigns over the 
animal world as she over the human. They 
are both coming with me, Lizzy and Lizzy's 
" pretty May." We are now at the end of 
the street ; a cross lane, a rope-wallc, shaded 



10 



OUR VILLAGE. 



with limes and oaks, and a cool clear pond 
overhung with elms, lead us to the bottom of 
the hill. There is still one house round the 
corner, ending in a picturesque wiieeler's 
shop. The dwelling-house is more ambitious. 
Look at the fine flowered window-blinds, the 
green door with the brass knocker, and the 
somewhat prim but very civil person, who is 
sending ott a labouring man with sirs and 
curtsies enough for a prince of the blood. 
Those are the curate's lodgings — apartments, 
his landlady would call them : he lives with 
his own family four miles off, but once or 
twice a week he comes to his neat little par- 
lour to write sermons, to marry, or to bury, 
as the case may require. Never were better 
or kinder people than his host and hostess; 
and there is a reflection of clerical impor- 
tance about them, since their connection with 
the church, which is quite edifying — a de- 
corum, a gravity, a solemn politeness. Oh, 
to see the worthy wheeler carry the gown 
after his lodger on a Sunday, nicely pinned 
up in his wife's best handkerchief! — or to 
hear him rebuke a squalling child or a squab- 
bling woman ! The curate is nothing to him. 
He is fit to be perpetual churchwarden. 

We must now cross the lane into the shady 
rope-walk. That pretty white cottage oppo- 
site, which stands straggling at the end of the 
village, in a garden full of flowers, belongs to 
our mason, the shortest of men, and his hand- 
some, tall wife : he, a dwarf, with the voice 
of a giant ; one starts when he begins to talk 
as if he were shouting through a speaking- 
trumpet; she, the sister, daughter, and grand- 
daughter, of a long line of gardeners, and no 
cont'emptible one herself. It is very mag- 
nanimous in me not to hate her ; for she beats 
me in my own waj;^, in chrysanthemums, and 
dahlias, and the like gauds. Her plants are 
sure to live ; mine have a sad trick of dying, 
perhaps because I love them, " not wisely, 
but too well," and kill them with over-kind- 
ness. Half-way up the hill is another de- 
tached cottage, the residence of an oflicer and 
his beautiful family. That eldest boy, who 
is hanging over the gate, and looking with 
such intense childish admiration at my Lizzy, 
might be a model for a Cupid. 

How pleasantly the road winds up the hill, 
with its broad green borders and hedge-rows 
so thickly timbered ! How finely the evening 
sun falls on that sandy excavated bank, and 
touches the farm-house on the top of the emi- 
nence ! and how clearly defined and relieved 
is the figure of the man who is just coming 
down ! It is poor .John Evans, the gardener 
— an excellent gardener till about ten years 
ao-o, when he lost his wife, and became in- 
sane. He was sent to St. Luke's, and dis- 
missed as cured ; but his power was gone 
and his strength ; he could no longer manage 
a garden, nor submit to the restraints, nor en- 
counter the fatigue of regular employment; 



so he retreated to the work-house, the pen- 
sioner and factotum of the village, amongst 
whom he divides his services. His mind 
often wanders, intent on some fantastic and 
impracticable plan, and lost to present ob- 
jects ; but he is perfectly harmless, and full 
of a child-like simplicity, a smiling contented- 
ness, a most touching gratitude. Every one 
is kind to John Evans, for there is that about 
him which must be loved ; and his unpro- 
tectedness, his utter defencelessness, have an 
irresistible claim on every better feeling. I 
know nobody who inspires so deep and ten- 
der a pity; he improves all around him. He 
is useful, too, to the extent of his little pow- 
er; will do any thing, but loves gardening 
best, and still piques himself on his old arts 
of pruning fruit-trees, and raising cucumbers. 
He is the happiest of men just now, for he 
has the management of a melon bed — a melon 
bed! — fie! What a grand pompous name 
was that for three melon plants under a hand- 
light ! John Evans is sure that they will 
succeed. We shall see: as the chancellor 
said, "I doubt." 

We are on the very brow of the eminence 
close to the Hill-house and its beautiful gar- 
den. On the outer edge of the paling, hang- 
ing over the bank that skirts the road, is an 
old thorn — such a thorn ! The long sprays 
covered with snowy blossoms, so graceful, so 
elegant, so lightsome, and yet so rich ! There 
only wants a pool under the thorn to give a 
still lovelier reflection, quivering and trem- 
bling, like a tuft of feathers, whiter and 
greener than the life,' and more prettily mixed 
with the bright blue sky. There should in- 
deed be a pool ; but on the dark grass-plat, 
under the high bank, which is crowned by 
that magnificent plume, there is something 
that does almost as well, — Lizzy and May- 
flower in the midst of a game at romps, 
" making a sun-shine in the shady place ;" 
Lizzy rolling, laughing, clapping her hands, 
and glowing like a rose ; May-flower playing 
about her like summer lightning, dazzling the 
eyes with her sudden turns, her leaps, her 
bounds, her attacks and her escapes. She 
darts round the lovely little girl, with the 
same momentary touch that the swallow 
skims over the water, and has exactly the 
same power of flight, the same matchless 
ease and strength and grace. What a pretty 
picture they would make ; what a pretty fore- 
ground they do make to the real landscape! 
The road winding down the hill with a slight 
bend, like that in the High-street at Oxford ; 
a wagon slowly ascending, and a horseman 
passing it at a full trot — (ah! Lizzy, May- 
flower will certainly desert you to have a 
gambol with that blood-horse!) — half-way 
down, just at the turn, the red cottage of the 
lieutenant, covered with vines, the very image 
of comfort and content; farther down, on the 
opposite side, the small white dwelling of 



HANNAH. 



11 



the little mason ; then the limes and the rope- 
walk ; then the villag-e street, peepincr throufrh 
the trees, whose clustering tops hide all but 
the cliimne5's, and various roofs of the houses, 
and here and there some anofle of a wall : 

farther on, the elegant town of B , with 

its fine old church towers and spires ; the 
whole view shut in by a range of chalky 
hills ; and over every part of the picture, trees 
so profusely scattered, that it appears like a 
woodland scene, with glades and villages in- 
termixed. The trees are of all kinds and all 
hues, chiefly the finely shaped elm, of so deep 
and bright a green, the tips of whose high 
outer branches droop down with such a crisp 
and garland-like richness, and the oak, whose 
stately form is just now so splendidly adorned 
by the sunny colouring of the young leaves. 
Turning again up the hill, we find ourselves 
on that peculiar charm of English scenery, a 
green common, divided by the road ; the right 
side fringed by hedge-rows and trees, with 
cottages and farm-houses irregularly placed, 
and terminated bj'^ a double avenue of noble 
oaks : the left, prettier still, dappled by bright 
pools of water, and islands of cottages and 
cottage-gardens, and sinking gradually down 
to corn-fields and meadows, and an old farm- 
house, with pointed roofs and clustered chim- 
neys, looking out from its blooming orchard, 
and backed by woody hills. The common is 
itself the prettiest part of the prospect ; half 
covered with low furze, whose golden blos- 
soms reflect so intensely the last beams of the 
setting sun, and alive with cows and sheep, 
and two sets of cricketers : one of young men, 
surrounded with spectators, some standing, 
some sitting, some stretched on thfe grass, all 
taking a delightful interest in the game ; the 
other, a merry group of little boys, at an 
humble distance, for whom even cricket is 
scarcely lively enough, shouting, leaping, and 
enjoyintj themselves to their hearts' content. 
But cricketers and country boys are too im- 
portant persons in our village to be talked of 
merely as figures in the landscape. They 
deserve an individual introduction — an essay 
to themselves — and they shall have it. No 
fear of forgetting the good-humoured faces 
that meet us in our walks every day. 



HANNAH. 

The prettiest cottage on our village-green 
is the little dwelling of Dame Wilson. It 
stands in a corner of the common, where the 
hedge-rows go curving oft' into a sort of bay 
round a clear bright pond, the earliest haunt 
of the swallow. A deep, woody, green lane, 
such as Hobbima or Ruydsdael might have 
painted, a lane that hints of nightingales, 
forms one boundary of the garden, and a 
sloping meadow of the other : whilst the 
cottage itself, a low thatched irregular build- 



ing, backed by a blooming orchard, and cover- 
ed with honeysuckle and jessamine, looks 
like the chosen abode of snugness and com- 
fort. And so it is. 

Dame Wilson was a respected servant in a 
most respectable family, where she passed 
all the early part of her life, and which she 
quitted only on her marriage with a man of 
character and industry, and of that peculiar 
universality of genius which forms, what is 
called in our country phrase, a handy fellow. 
He could do any sort of work ; was thatcher, 
carpenter, bricklayer, painter, gardener, game- 
keeper, " every thing by turns, and nothing 
long." No job came amiss to him. He 
killed pigs, mended shoes, cleaned clocks, 
doctored cows, dogs, and horses, and even 
went so far as bleeding and drawing teeth in 
his experiments on the human subject. In 
addition to these multifarious talents, he was 
ready, obliging, and unfearing; jovial withal, 
and fond of good fellowship ; and endowed 
with a promptness of resource which made 
him the general adviser of the stupid, the 
puzzled, and the timid. He was universally 
admitted to be the cleverest man in the parish ; 
and his death, which happened about ten 
years ago, in consequence of standing in the 
water, drawing a pond for one neighbour, at a 
time when he was over-heated by loading hay 
for another, made quite a gap in our village 
commonwealth. John Wilson had no rival, 
and has had no successor: — for the Robert 
Ellis, whom certain youngsters would fain 
exalt to a co-partnery of fame, is simply no- 
body — a bell-ringer, a ballad-singer — a troller 
of profane catches — a fiddler — a bruiser — a 
loller on alehouse benches — a teller of good 
stories — a mimic — a poet! — What is all this 
to compare with the solid parts of .John Wil- 
son ] Whose clock hath Robert Ellis clean- 
ed 1 — whose windov/s hath he mended"? — 
whose dog hath he broken 1 — whose pigs hath 
he rung] — whose pond hath he fished"? — 
whose hay hath he saved "? — whose cow hath 
he cured"? — whose calf hath he killed] — 
whose teeth hath he drawn — whom hath he 
bled"? Tell me that, irreverent whipsters! 
No ! John Wilson is not to be replaced. He 
was missed by the whole parish ; and most 
of all he was missed at home. His excellent 
wife was left the sole guardian and protector 
of two fatherless girls; one an infant at her 
knee, the other a pretty handy lass about nine 
years old. Cast thus upon the world, there 
must have been much to endure, much to suf- 
fer; but it was borne with a smiling patience, 
a hopeful cheeriness of spirit, and a decent 
pride, which seemed to command success as 
well as respect in their struggle for independ- 
ence. Without assistance of any sort, by 
needle-work, by washing and mending lace 
and fine linen, and other skilful and profitable 
labours, and by the produce of her orchard 
and poultry, Dame Wilson contrived to main- 



12 



OUR VILLAGE. 



tain herself and her children in their own 
comfortable home. There was no visible 
change ; she and tlie little girls were as neat 
as ever ; the house had still within and with- 
out the same sunshiny cleanliness, and the 
garden was still famous overall other gardens 
for its cloves, and stocks, and double wall- 
flowers. But the sweetest flower of the gar- 
den, the joy and pride of her mother's heart, 
was her daughter Haimah. Well might she 
be proud of her ! At sixteen Hannah Wilson 
was, beyond doubt, the prettiest girl in the 
village, and the best. Her beauty was quite 
in a different style from the common country 
rosebud — far more choice and rare. Its chief 
characteristic was modesty. A light youthful 
figure, exquisitely graceful and rai)id in all its 
movements ; springy, elastic, and buoyant as 
a bird, and almost as shy ; a fair innocent 
face with downcast blue eyes, and smiles and 
blushes coming and going almost with her 
thoughts ; a low soft voice, sweet even in its 
monosyllables; a dress remarkable for neat- 
ness and propriety, and borrowing from her 
delicate beauty an air of superiority not its 
own ; — such was the outward woman of Han- 
nah. Her mind was very like her person ; 
modest, graceful, gentle, affectionate, grateful, 
and generous above all. The generosity of 
the poor is always a very real and fine thing ; 
they give what they want ; and Hannah was 
of all poor people the most generous. She 
loved to give ; it was her pleasure, her 1 uxury. 
Rosy-cheeked apples, plums with the bloom 
on them, nosegays of cloves and blossomed 
myrtle : these were offering? which Hannah 
delighted to bring to those whom she loved, 
or those who had shown her kindness ; whilst 
to such of her neighbours as needed other 
attentions than fruit and flowers, she would 
give her time, her assistance, her skill; for 
Hannah inherited her mother's dexterity in 
feminine employments, with something of her 
father's versatile power. Besides being an 
i excellent laundress, she was accomplished in 
all the arts of the needle, millinery, dress- 
making, and plain work; a capital cutter-out, 
an incomparable mender, and endowed with 
a gift of altering, which made old things bet- 
ter than new. She had no rival at a rifaci- 
mentn, as half the turned gowns on the common 
can witness. As a dairy-woman, and a rearer 
of pigs and poultry, she was equally success- 
ful : none of her ducks and turkeys ever died 
of neglect or carelessness, or, to use the phrase 
of the poultry-yard on such occasions, of " ill 
luck." Hannah's fowls never dreamed of 
sliding out of the world in such an ignoble 
way ; they all lived to be killed, to make a 
noise at their deaths, as chickens should do. 
She was also a famous " scholar;" kept ac- 
counts, wrote bills, read letters, and answered 
them ; was a trusty accomptant, and a safe 
confidante. There was no end to Hannah's 
usefulness or Hannah's kindness ; and her 



prudence was equal to either. Except to be 
kind or useful, she never left home; attended 
no fairs, or revels, or Mayings; went no 
where but to church ; and seldom made a 
nearer approach to rustic revelry than by stand- 
ing at her own garden-gate on a Sunday 
evening, with her little sister in her fland, to 
look at the lads and lasses on the green. In 
short, our village beauty had fairly reached 
her twentieth year without a sweetheart, with- 
out the slightest suspicion of her having ever 
written a love-letter on her own account; 
when, all on a sudden, appearances changed. 
She was missing at the " accustomed gate ;" 
and one had seen a young man go into Dame 
Wilson's; and another had descried a trim 
elastic figure walking, not unaccompanied, 
down the shady lane. Matters were quite 
clear. Hannah had gotten a lover; and, 
when poor little Susan, who deserted by her 
sister, ventured to peep rather nearer to tlie 
gay group, was laughingly questioned on the 
subject, the hesitating No, and the half Yes, 
of the smiling child, were equally conclu- 
sive. 

Since the new marriage act,* we, who be- 
long to country magistrates, have gained a 
priority over the rest of the parish in matri- 
monial news. We (tlie privileged) see on a 
work-day the names which the sabbath an- 
nounces to the generality. Many a blushing 
awkward pair hath our little lame clerk (a 
sorry Cupid) ushered in between dark and 
light to stammer and hacker, to bow and 
curtsey, to sign or make a mark, as it pleases 
Heaven. One Saturday, at the usual hour, 
the limping clerk made his appearance ; and, 
walking through our little hall, I saw a fine 
athletic young man, the very image of health 
and vigour, mental and bodily, holding the 
hand of a young woman, who, with her head 
half buried in a geranium in the window, was 
turning bashfully away, listening, and yet not 
seeming to listen, to his tender whispers. 
The shrinking grace of that bending figure 
was not to be mistaken. " Hannah !" and 
she walked aside witli me, and a rapid series 
of questions and answers conveyed the story 
of the courtship. " William was," said Han- 
nah, " a journeyman hatter in B. He had 
walked over one Sunday evening to see the 
cricketing, and then he came again. Her 
mother liked him. Every body liked her 
William — and she had promised — she was 
going — was it wrong]" — "Oh no! — and 
where are you to live V — " William has got 
a room in B. He works for Mr. Smith, the 
rich hatter in the market-place, and Mr. Smith 
speaks of him — oh, so well ! But William 
will not tell me where our room is. I suppose 
in some narrow street or lane, which he is 
afraid I shall not like, as our common is so 



* It is almost unnecessary lo observe that this litlle 
story was written dnrinfi the short life ol' that whirn- 
eical_ experimeni in legislation. 



HANNAH. 



13 



pleasant. He little thinks — any where." 
She stopped suddenly ; but her blush and her 
clasped hands finished the sentence, " any 
where with him!" — "And when is the happy 
day ■? " — "On Monday fortnight, Madam," 
said the bridegroom elect, advancing with the 
little clerk to summon Hannah to the parlour, 
"the earliest day possible." He drew her 
arm through his, and we parted. 

The Monday fortnight was a glorious morn- 
ing; one of those rare November days when 
the sky and the air are soft and bright as in 
April. " What a beautiful day for Hannah !" 
was the first exclamation of the breakfast ta- 
ble. " Did she tell you where they should 
dinel" — "No, Ma'am; I forgot to ask." — 
" I can tell you," said the master of the house, 
with somewhat of good-humoured importance 
in his air, somewhat of the look of a man 
who, having kept a secret as long as it was 
necessary, is not sorry to get rid of the bur- 
then. — "I can tell you : in London." — " In 
London!" — "Yes. Your little favourite has 
been in high luck. She has married the only 
son of one of the beat and richest men in B., 
Mr. Smith, the great hatter. It is quite a 
romance," continued he : " William Smith 
walked over one Sunday evening to see a 
match at cricket. He saw our pretty Hannah, 
and forgot to look at the cricketers. After 
having gazed his fill, he approached to address 
her, and the little damsel was off like a bird. 
William did not like her the less for that, and 
thought of her the more. He came again and 
again ; and at last contrived to tame this wild 
dove, and even to get the entree of the cot- 
tage. Hearing Hannah talk, is not the way 
to fall out of love with her. So William, at 
last finding his case serious, laid the matter 
before his father, and requested his consent to 
the marriage. Mr. Smith was at first a little 
startled ; but William is an only son, and an 
excellent son ; and, after talking w^ith me, and 
looking at Hannah, (I believe her sweet face 
was the more eloquent advocate of the two,) 
he relented ; and having a spice of his son's 
romance, finding that he had not mentioned 
his situation in life, he made a point of its 
being kept secret till the wedding-day. We 
have managed the business of settlements ; 
and William, having discovered that his fiiir 
biide has some curiosity to see London (a cu- 
riosity, by the by, which I suspect she owes 
to you or poor Lucy), intends taking her 
thither for a fortnight. He will then bring 
h«r home to one of the best houses in B., a 
fine garden, fine furniture, fine clotlies, fine 
servants, and more money than she will know 
what to do with. Really the surprise of Lord 
E.'s farmer's daugiiter, when, thinking she 
hrid married his steward, he brought her to 
Burleigh, and installed her as its mistress, 
could hardly have been greater. I hope the 
shock will not kill Hannali though, as is said 
to have been the case with that poor lady." — 



" Oh no ! Hannah loves her husband too 

well. Any where with him !" 

And I was right. Hannah has survived 
the shock. She is returned to B., and I have 
been to call on her. I never saw any thing 
so delicate and bride-like as she looked in her 
white gown and her lace mob, in a room light 
and simple, and tasteful and elegant, with 
nothing fine except some beautiful green- 
house plants. Her reception was a charming 
mixture of sweetness and modesty, a little 
more respectful than usual, and far more 
shamefaced! Poor thing! her cheeks must 
have pained her ! But this was the only dif- 
ference. In every thing else she is still the 
same Hannah, and has lost none of her old 
habits of kindness and gratitude. She was 
making a handsome matronly cap, evidently 
for her mother ; and spoke, even with tears, 
of her new father's goodness to her and to 
Susan. She would fetch the cake and wine 
herself, and would gather, in spite of all re- 
monstrance, some of her choicest flowers as 
a parting nosegay. She did, indeed, just hint 
at her troubles with visiters and servants — 
how strange and sad it was ! seemed dis- 
tressed at ringing the bell, and visibly shrank 
from the sound of a double knock. But, in 
spite of these calamities, Hannah is a happy 
woman. The double rap was her husband's, 
and the glow on her cheek, and the smile of 
her lips and eyes when he appeared, spoke 
more plainly than ever, "Any where with 
him ! " 



WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. 



January 23d. — At noon to-day, I and my 
white greyhound, May-flower, set out for a 
walk into a very beautiful world, — a sort of 
silent fairy land, — a creatiort of that match- 
less magician the hoar-frost. There had been 
just snow enough to cover the earth and all 
its colours with one sheet of pure and uniform 
white, and just time enough since the snow 
had fallen to allow the hedges to be freed of 
their fleecy load, and clothed with a delicate 
coating of rime. The atmosphere was deli- 
ciously calm ; soft, even mild, in spite of the 
thermometer; no perceptible air, but a still- 
ness that might almost be felt; the sky, rather 
grey than blue, throwing out in bold relief the 
snow-covered roofs of our village, and the 
rimy trees that rise above them, and the sun 
shining dimly as through a veil, giving a pale 
fair light, like the moon, only brighter. There 
was a silence, too, that might become the 
moon, as we stood at our little gate looking 
up the quiet street; a sabbath-like pause of 
work and play, rare on a work-da}' ; nothing 
was audible but the pleasant hum of frost, 
that low monotonous sound, which is perhaps 



14 



OUR VILLAGE. 



the nearest approach that life and nature can 
make to absolute silence. The very wagons, 
as they come down the hill along the beaten 
track of crisp yellowish frost-dust, glide 
along like shadows ; even May's bounding 
footsteps, at her height of glee and of speed, 
fall like snow upon snow. 

But we shall have noise enough presently : 
May has stopped at Lizzy's door: and Lizzy, 
as she sate on the window-sill, with her 
bright rosy face laughing through the case- 
ment, has seen her and disappeared. She is 
coming. No ! The key is turning in the door, 
and sounds of evil omen issue through the 
key-hole — sturdy ' let-me-outs,' and ' I will 
gos,' mixed with shrill cries on May and on 
me from Lizzy, piercing through a low con- 
tinuous harangue, of which the j)rominent 
parts are apologies, chilblains, sliding, broken 
bones, loUypops, rods, and gingerbread, from 
Lizzy's careful mother. ' Don't scratch the 
door. May ! Don't roar so, my Lizzy ! We'll 
call for you, as we come back,' — 'I'll go 
now ! Let me out ! I will go !' are the last 
words of Miss Lizzy. Mem. — Not to spoil 
that child — if I can help it. But I do think 
her mother might have let the poor little soul 
walk with us to-day. Nothing worse for chil- 
dren than coddling. Nothing better for chil- 
blains than exercise. Besides, I don't believe 
she has any — and as to breaking her bones in 
sliding, I don't suppose there's a slide on the 
common. These murmuring cogitations have 
brought us up the hill, and half-way across 
the light and airy common, with its bright 
expanse of snow and its clusters of cottages, 
whose turf fires send such wreaths of smoke 
sailing up the air, and diffuse such aromatic 
fragrance around. And now comes the de- 
lightful sound of childish voices, ringing with 
glee and merriment almost from beneath our 
feet. Ah, Lizzy, your mother was right ! 
They are shouting from that deep irregular 
pool, all glass now, where, on two long, 
smooth, liny slides, half a dozen ragged 
urchins are slipping along in tottering tri- 
umph. Half a dozen steps bring us to the 
bank right above them. May can hardly re- 
sist the temptation of joining her friends, for 
most of the varlets are of her acquaintance, 
especially the rogue who leads the slide — he 
with the brimless hat, whose bronzed com- 
plexion and white flaxen hair, reversing the 
usual lights and shadows of the human coun- 
tenance, give so strange and foreign a look to 
his flat and comic features. This hobgoblin. 
Jack Kapley by name, is May's great crony ; 
and she stands on the brink of the steep irre- 
gular descent, her black eyes fixed full upon 
him, as if she intended him the favour of 
jumping on his head. She does: she is down 
and upon him; but Jack liapley is not easily 
to be kno(;ked off his feet, lie saw her 
coming, and in the moment of her leap sprang 
dexterously off the slide on the rough ice, 



steadying himself by the shoulder of the next 
in the file, which unlucky follower, thus un- 
expectedly checked in his career, fell plurnp 
backwards, knocking down the rest of the 
line like a nest of card-houses. There is no 
harm done ; but there they lie roaring, kick- 
ing, sprawling, in every attitude of comic dis- 
tress, whilst Jack Rapley and May-flower, 
sole authors of this calamity, stand apart from 
the throng, fondling, and coquetting, and com- 
plimenting each other, and very visibly laugh- 
ing. May in her black eyes, Jack in his wide 
close-shut mouth, and his whole monkey-face, 
at their comrades' mischances. I think, Miss 
May, you may as well come up again, and 
leave Master Rapley to fight your battles. 
He'll get out of the scrape. He is a rustic 
wit — a sort of Robin Goodfellow — the sau- 
ciest, idlest, cleverest, best-natured boy in the 
parish ; always foremost in mischief, and al- 
ways ready to do a good turn. The sages of 
our village predict sad things of Jack Rapley, 
so that 1 am sometimes a little ashamed to 
confess, before wise people, that I have a 
lurking predilection for him, (in common with 
other naughty ones), and that I like to hear 
him talk to May almost as well as she does. 
' Come, May !' and up she springs as light as 
a bird. The road is gay now ; carts and post- 
chaises, and girls in red cloaks, and, afar off, 
looking almost like a toy, the coach. It m§ets 
us fast and soon. How much happier the 
walkers look than the riders — especially the 
frost-bitten gentleman, and the shivering lady 
with the invisible face, sole passengers of 
that commodious machine ! Hooded, veiled, 
and bonneted as she is, one sees from her atti- 
tude how miserable she would look uncovered. 

Another pond, and another noise of chil- 
dren. More sliding "? Oh ! no. This is a 
sport of higher pretension. Our good neigh- 
bour, the lieutenant, skating, and his own 
pretty little boys, and two or three other four- 
year-old elves, standing on the brink in an ecs- 
tasy of joy and wonder! Oh! what happy 
spectators! And what a happy performer! 
They admiring, he admired, with an ardour 
and sincerity never excited by all the quad- 
rilles and the spread-eagles of the Seine and 
the Serpentine. He really skates well though, 
and 1 am glad I came this way ; for, with all 
the father's feelings sitting gaily at his heart, 
it must still gratify the pride of skill to have 
one spectator at that solitary pond w)io has 
seen skating before. 

Now we have reached the trees, — the beau- 
tiful trees ! never so beautiful as to-day. 
Imagine the effect of a straight and regular 
double avenue of oaks, nearly a mile long 
arcliing over head, and closing into perspec- 
tive like the roof and columns of a cathedral, 
every tree and branch encrusted with the 
bright and delicate congelation of hoar-frost, 
white and pure as snow, delicate and defined 
as carved ivory. How beautiful it is, how 



MODERN ANTIQUES. 



15 



uniform, how »various, how fillinjr, how sa- 
tiatino^ to the eye and to the mind — above al], 
how melancholy ! There is a thrilling awful- 
ness, an intense feeling of simple power in 
that naked and colourless beauty, wiiich falls 
on the heart like the thought of death — death 
pure, and glorious, and smiling, — but still 
death. Sculpture has always the same effect 
on my imagination, and painting never. Co- 
lour is life. — We are now at the end of this 
magnificent avenue, and at the top of a steep 
eminence commanding a wide view over four 
counties — a landscape of snow. A deep lane 
leads abruptly down the hill ; a mere narrow 
cart-track, sinking between high banks clothed 
with fern and furze and low broom, crowned 
with luxuriant hedgerows, and fiimous for 
their summer smell of thyme. How lovely 
these banks are now — the tall weeds and the 
gorse fixed and stiffened in the hoar frost, 
which fringes round the bright prickly holly, 
the pendent foliage of the bramble, and the 
deep orange leaves of the pollard oaks ! Oh, 
this is rime in its loveliest form ! And there 
is still a berry here and there on the holly, 
" blushing in its natural coral" through the 
delicate tracery, still a stray hip or haw for 
the birds who abound here always. The poor 
birds, how tame they are, how sadly tame ! 
There is the beautiful and rare crested wren, 
"that shadow of a bird," as White of Sel- 
borne calls it, perched in the middle of the 
hedge, nestling as it were amongst the cold 
bare boughs, seeking, poor pretty thing, for 
the warmth it will not find. And there, far- 
ther on, just under the bank, by the slender 
runlet, which still trickles between its trans- 
parent fantastic margin of thin ice, as if it 
were a thing of life, — there, with a swift, 
scudding motion, flits, in short low flights, the 
gorgeous kingfisher, its magnificent plumafje 
of scarlet and blue flashingr in the sun, like 
the glories of some tropical bird. He is come 
for water to this little sprimr liy the hill side, 
— water which even his long bill and slender 
head can hardly reach, so nearly do the fan- 
tastic forms of those garland-like icy margins 
meet over the tiny stream beneath. It is rarely 
that one sees the shy beauty so close or so 
long; and it is pleasant to see him in the 
grace a'.d beauty of his natural liberty, the 
only way to look at a bird. We used, before 
we lived in a street, to fix a little board out- 
side the ])arlour-window, and cover it with 
bread-crun\s in the hard weather. It was 
quite delightful to see the pretty things come 
and feed, to conquer their shyness, and do 
away their mistrust. First came the more 
social tribes, " the robin red-breast and the 
wren," cautiously, suspiciously, picking up a 
crum on the wing, with the little keen bright 
eye fixed on the window; then they would 
stop for two pecks; then stay till they were 
satisfied. The shj^er birds, tamed by their 
example, came next ; and at last one saucy 



fellow of a blackbird — a sad glutton, he would 
clear the board in two minutes, — used to tap 
his yellow bill against the window for moTe. 
How we loved the fearless confidence of that 
fine, frank-hearted creature ! And surely he 
loved us. I wonder the practice is not more 
general. — "May! May! naughty May!" 
She has frightened away the kingfisher; and 
now, in her coaxing penitence, she is covering 
me with snow. " Come, pretty May ! it is 
time to go home !" 

THAW. 

January 28th. — We have had rain, and 
snow, and frost, and rain again ; four days of 
absolute confinement. Now it is a thaw and 
a flood ; but our light gravelly soil, and coun- 
try boots, and country hardihood, will carry 
us through. What a dripping, comfortless 
day it is! just like the last days of Novem- 
ber: no sun, no sky, grey or blue; one low, 
overhanging, dark, dismal cloud, like London 
smoke :" Mayflower is out coursing too, and 
Lizzy gone to school. Never mind. Up the 
hill again ! Walk we must. Oh what a wa- 
tery world to look back upon ! Thames, Ken- 
net, Loddon — all overflowed ; our famous town, 
inland once, turned into a sort of Venice; C. 
park converted into an island ; and the long 
range of meadows from B. to W. one huge 
unnatural lake, with trees growing out of it! 
Oh what a watery world ! — I will look at it 
no'longer. I will walk on. The road is alive 
again. "Noise is reborn. Wagons creak, horses 
pTash, carts rattle, and pattens paddle through 
the dirt with more than their usual clink. The 
common has its old fine tints of green and 
brown, and its old variety of inhabitants, — 
horses, cows, sheep, pigs, and donkeys. The 
ponds are unfrozen, except where some mel- 
ancholy piece of melting ice floats sullenly 
upon the water; and cackling geese and gab- 
bling ducks have replaced the lieutenant and 
.Tack Kapley. The avenue is chill and dark, 
the hedges are dripping, the lanes knee-deep, 
and all ''nature is in -a' state of "dissolution 
and thaw." 



MODERN ANTIQUES. 

Early in the present century there lived in 
the ancient town of B. two complete and re- 
markable specimens of the ladies of eighty 
years ago — ladies cased inwardly and out- 
wardly in Addison and whalebone. How 
they had been preserved in this entireness, 
amidst the collision and ridicule of a country 
town, seemed as puzzling a question as the 
preservation of bees in amber, or mummies in 
pyramids, or any other riddle that serves to 
amuse the naturalist or the antiquarian. But 
so it was. They were old maids and sisters, 
and so alike in their difference from all other 



Itf 



OUR VILLAGE. 



women, that they may he hest descrihed to- 
Gfether; any little non-resemblance may be 
noted afterwards; it was no more than nature, 
prodiiral of variety, would make in two leaves 
from the same oak-tree. 

Both, then, were as short as women well 
eould be without being; entitled to the name 
of dwarf, or carried about to fairs for a show; 
— both were made considerably shorter by the 
highest of all hig-h heels, and the tallest of all 
tall caps, each of which artificial elevations 
was as ostentatiously conspicuous as the leg's 
and cover of a jiipkin, and served equally to 
add to the squatness of the real machine : both 
were lean, wrinkled, withered, and old ; both 
enveloped their aged persons in the richest 
silks, displayed over large hoops, and stays 
the tightest and stiffest that ever pinched in a 
beauty of George the Second's reign. The 
gown was of that make formerly, I believe, 
called a sacque, and of a pattern so enormous, 
that one flower with its stalk and leaves, 
would nearly cover the three quarters of a 
yard in length, of which the tail might, at a 
moderate computation, consist. Over this they 
wore a gorgeously figured apron, whose flour- 
ishing white embroidery vied in size with the 
plants on the robe ; a snowy muslin necker- 
chief, rigidly pinned down : and over that a 
black lace tippet of the same shape, parting 
at the middle, to display a grey breast-knot. 
The riband of which this last decoration was 
composed, was generally of the same hue with 
that which adorned the towering lappeted cap, 
a sort of poppy colour, which they called 
Pompadour. The sleeves were cut off below 
the elbows with triple ruffles of portentous 
length. Brown leather mittens, with ])eaks 
turned back, and lined with blue satin, and 
a variety of tall rings in an odd, out-of-f\ishion 
variety of enamelling, and figures of hair, 
completed the decoration of their hands and 
arms. The carriage of these useful members 
was at least equally singular ; thej^ had adapt- 
ed themselves in a very remarkable manner 
to the little taper wasp-like point in which the 
waist ended, to which the elbows, ruffle and 
all, adhered as closely as if they had been 
glued, whilst the ringed and mittened hands, 
when not employed in knitting, were crossed 
saltier-wise, in front of the apron. The other 
termination of their figure Avas adorned with 
black stuff shoes, very peaked, with points 
upwards, and massive silver buckles. Their 
walking costume was, in winter, a black silk 
cloak, lined with rabbit-skins, with holes for 
the arms; in summer, another tippet and a 
calash, — no bonnet could hold the turreted 
cap. Their motion out of doors was inde- 
scribable; it mf)St nearly resembled sailing. 
They seemed influenced hy the wind in a way 
incidental to no moving thing, except a ship 
or a shuttlecock; and, indeed, one boisterous 
blowing night, aI)ont the equinox, when stand- 
ing OQ some high stone steps, waiting for a 



carriage to take her home from a party, the 
wind did catch out of them, and, but for the 
intervention of a tall footman, who seized her 
as one would seize a fly-away umbrella, and 
held her down by main force, the poor little 
lady would have been carried up like an air- 
balloon. Her feelings must have been pretty 
much similar to those of Gulliver in Brobdig- 
nag, when flown away with by the eagle. 
Half a minute later, and she was gone. 

So far they were exact counterparts. The 
chief variation lay in the face. Amidst the 
general hue of age and wrinkles, you could 
just distinguish that Mrs. Theodosia had been 
brown, and Mrs. Frances fair. There was a 
yellow shine here and there amongst the white 
hairs, curiously rolled over a cushion high 
above the forehead, that told of Fanny's golden 
locks ; whilst the purely grey rouleau of Mrs. 
Theodosia showed its mixture of black and 
white still plainer. Mrs. Frances, too, had 
the blue eye, with a laughing light, which so 
often retains its flash to extreme age; whilst 
Mrs. Theodosia's orbs, bright no longer, had 
once been hazel. Mrs. Theodosia's aquiline 
nose, and long sociable chin, evinced that dis- 
position to meet which is commonly known 
by the name of a pair of nut-crackers ; Mrs. 
Frances' features, on the other hand, were 
rather terse and sharp. Still there was in 
spite of these material differences, that }ook 
of kindred, that inexplicable and indefinable 
family likeness, which is so frequently found 
in sisters; greatly increased in the present 
case by a similarity in the voice that was 
quite startling. Both tongues were quick and 
clear, and high and rattling, to a degree that 
seemed rather to belong to machinery than to 
human articulation; and when welcomes and 
how-d'ye dos were pouring both at once on 
either side, a stranger was apt to gaze in lu- 
dicrous perplexity, as if beset by a ventrilo- 
quist, or haunted by strange echoes. When 
the immediate cackle subsided, they were 
easily distinguished. Mrs. Theodosia w'as 
good, and kind, and hospitable, and social; 
Mrs. Frances was all that, and was besides 
shrewd, and clever, and literary, to a degree 
not very common in her da}', though not ap- 
proaching to the pitch of a blue-stocking lady 
of the present. Accident was partly the 
cause of this unusual love of letters. They 
had known Richardson ; had been admitted 
amongst his flower-garden of young, ladies ; 
and still talked familiarly of Miss Highmore, 
Miss Fielding, Miss Collier, and Miss'Mulso, 
— they had never learned to call her Mrs. 
Chapone. Latterly the taste had been re- 
newed and quickened, by their having the 
honour of a distant relationship to one of the 
most aminble and unfortunate of modern poets. 
So Mrs. Frances studi(xl novels and poetry, 
in addition to her sister's sermons and cookery 
books; though (as she used to boast) without 
doing a stitch the less knitting, or playmg a 



MODERN ANTIQUES, 



17 



Zl 



pool the fewer in the course of the year. 
Their usual occupations were those of other 
useful old ladies ; superintending the endowed 
girls' school of the town with a vigilance and 
a jealousy of abuses that might have done 
honour to Mr. Hume ; taking an active part 
in the more private charities, donations of 
flannel petticoats, or the loan of baby-things ; 
visiting in a quiet way ; and going to church 
whenever the churcli-door was open. 

Their abode was a dwelling ancient and 
respectable, like themselves, that looked as 
if it had never undergone the slightest varia- 
tion, inside or out, since they had been born 
in it. The rooms were many, low, and small ; 
full of little windows with little panes, and 
chimneys stuck perversely in the corners. 
The furniture was exactly to correspond ; 
little patches of carpets in the middle of the 
slippery, dry-rubbed floors; tables and chairs 
of mahogany, black with age, but exceedingly 
neat and bright ; and Japan cabinets and old 
China, which Mr. Beckford might have en- 
vied — treasures which had either never gone 
out of fashion, or had come in again. The gar- 
den was beautiful, and beautifully placed ; a 
series of terraces descending to rich and finely 
timbered meadows, through which the slow 
magnificent Thames rolled under the chalky 
hills of the pretty village of C. It was 
bounded on one side by the remains of an old 
friary, the end wall of a chapel with a Gothic 
window of open tracery in high preservation, 
as rich as point lace. It was full too of old- 
fashioned durable flowers, jessamine, honey- 
suckle, and the high-scented fraxinella ; I 
never saw that delicious plant in such pro- 
fusion. The garden walks were almost as 
smooth as the floors, thanks to the two assi- 
duous serving maidens (nothing like a man- 
servant ever entered this maidenly abode) who 
attended it. One, the under damsel, was a 
stout strapping country wench, changed from 
time to time as it happened ; the other was 
as much a fixture as her mistresses. She had 
lived with them for forty years, and, except 
being twice as big and twice as tall, might 
have passed for another sister. She wore their 
gowns, (the two just made her one,) caps, 
ruflles, and aprons; talked with their voices 
and their phrases; followed them to church, 
and school, and market ; scolded the school- 
mistress ; heard the children their catechism ; 
cut out flannel petticoats, and knit stockings 
to give away. Never was so complete an 
instance of assimilation ! She had even be- 
come like them in face. 

Having a brother who resided at a beautiful 
seat in the neighbourhood, and being to all 
intents and purposes of the patrician order, 
their visiters were very select, and rather 
more from the country than the town. Six 
formed the general number, — one table — a 
rubber or a pool — seldom more. As the only 
child of a very favourite friend, I used, during 



the holidays, to be admitted as a supernume- 
rary ; at first out of compliment to mamma ; 
latterly I stood on my own merits. I was 
found to be a quiet little girl ; an excellent 
hander of muflins and cakes ; a connoisseur 
in green tea; an amateur of quadrille — the 
most entertaining of all games to a looker- 
on ; and, lastly and chiefly, a great lover and 
admirer of certain books, which filled two 
little shelves at cross-corners with the chim- 
ney — namely, that volume of Cowper's Poems 
which contained John Gilpin, and the whole 
seven volumes of Sir Charles Grandison. 
With what delight I used to take down those 
dear books ! It was an old edition ; perhaps 
that very first edition which, as Mrs. Barbauld 
says, the fine ladies used to hold up to one 
another at Ranelagh, — and adorned Vvith prints 
not certainly of the highest merit as works of 
art, but which served exceedingly to realise 
the story, and to make us, as it were, person- 
ally acquainted with the characters. The 
costume was pretty much that of my worthy 
hostesses, especially that of the two Miss 
Selbys ; there was even in Miss Nancy's face a 
certain likeness to Mrs. Frances. I remember I 
used to wonder whether she carried her elbows 
in the same way. How I read and believed, 
and believed and read ; and liked lady G. 
though I thought her naughty ; and gave all 
my wishes to Harriet, though I thought her 
silly ; and loved Emily with my whole heart ! 
Clementina I did not quite understand ; nor 
(I a'm half afraid to say so) do I now; and 
Sir Clrarles I positively disliked. He was 
the only thing in the book that I disbelieved. 
Those bowings seemed incre^iible. At last, 
however, I extended my faith even to him; 
partly influenced by the irresistibility of the 
author, partly by the appearance of a real 
living beau, who in the matter of bowing 
might almost have competed with Sir Charles 
himself. This beau was no other than the 
town member, who, with his brother, was, 
when in the country, the constant attendant 
at these chosen parties. 

Our member was a man of seventy, or 
thereabout, but wonderfully young-looking, 
and well-preserved. It was said, indeed, that 
no fading belle was better versed in cosmetic 
secrets, or more arduously devoted to the 
duties of the toilet. Fresh, upright, unwrin- 
kled, pearly-teethed, and point-device in his 
accoutrements, he might have passed for fifty, 
— and doubtless often did pass for such when 
apart from his old-looking younger brother, 
who, tall, lanky, shambling, long-visaged, 
and loosely dressed, gave a very vivid idea 
of Don Quixote when stripped of his armour. 
Never was so consummate a courtier as our 
member ! Of good family and small fortune, 
he had early in life been seized with the de- 
sire of representing the town in which he 
resided ; and canvassing, sheer canvassing, 
without eloquence, without talent, without 



2* 



C 



18 



OUR VILLAGE. 



bribery, had brought him in and kept him in. 
There his ambition stopped. To be a mem- 
ber of parliament was with him not the means 
but the end of advancement. For forty years 
he represented an independent borough, and, 
though regularly voting with every successive 
ministry, was, at the end of his career, as 
poor as when he began. He never sold him- 
self, or stood suspected of selling himself — 
perhaps he might sometimes give himself 
away. But that he could not help. It was 
almost impossible for him to say No to any 
body, — quite so to a minister, or a constituent, 
or a constituent's wife or daughter. So he 
passed bowing and smiling through the world, 
the most disinterested of courtiers, the most 
subservient of upright men, with little other 
annoyance than a septennial alarm — for some- 
times an opposition was threatened, and some- 
times it came ; but then he went through a 
double course of smirks and hand-shakings, 
and all was well again. The great grievance 
of his life must have been the limitation in 
the number of franks. His apologies, when 
he happened to be full, were such as a man 
would make for a great fault ; his lamenta- 
tions, such as might become a great misfor- 
tune. Of course there was something ludi- 
crous in his courtliness, but it was not con- 
temptible ; it only wanted to be obviously dis- 
interested to become respectable. The ex- 
pression might be exaggerated ; but the feel- 
ing was real. He was always ready to show 
kindness, to the utmost of his power, to any 
human being. He would have been just as 
civil and supple if he had not been M. P. It 
was his vocation. He could not help it. 

This excellent person was an old bachelor; 
and there was a rumour, some forty or fifty 
years old, that in the days of their bloom, 
there had been a little love affair, an attach- 
ment, some even said an engagement, how 
broken none could tell, between him and Mrs. 
Frances. Certain it is, that there were symp- 
toms of flirtation still. His courtesy, always 
gallant to every female, had something more 
real and more tender towards " Fanny," as he 
was wont to call her; and Fanny, on her side, 
was as conscious as heart could desire. She 
blushed and bridled ; fidgeted with her mit- 
tens or her apron; flirted a fan nearly as tall 
as herself, and held her head on one side with 
that peculiar air which I have noted in the 
shyer birds, and ladies in love. She manceu- 
vred to get him next her at the tea-table ; 
liked to be his partner at whist; loved to talk 
of him in his absence; knew to an hour the 
time of his return; and did not dislike a little 
gentle raillery on the subject — even 1 — But, 
traitress to my sex, how can I jest with such 
feelings ? Rather let me sigh over the world 
of woe, that in fifty years of hopeless con- 
stancy must have passed through that maiden 
heart! The timid hope; the sickening sus- 
pense; the slow, slow fear; the bitter disap- 



pointment; the powerless anger; the relent- 
ing; the forgiveness; and then again, that in- 
terest, kinder, truer, more unchanging than 
friendship, that lingering woman's love — Oh 
how can I jest over such feelings ! They are 
passed away — for she is gone, and he — bat 
they clung by her to the last, and ceased only 
in death. 



A GREAT FARM-HOUSE. 

These are bad times for farmers. I am 
sorry for it. Independently of all questions 
of policy, as a mere matter of taste and of old 
association, it w^as a fine thing to witness the 
hearty hospitality, and to think of the social 
happiness of a great farm-house. No situa- 
tion in life seemed so richly privileged ; none 
had so much power for good and so little for 
evil ; it seemed a place where pride could not 
live, and poverty could not enter. These 
thoughts pressed on my mind the other day, 
in passing the green sheltered lane, overhung 
with trees like an avenue, that leads to the 
great farm at M., where ten or twelve years 
ago, I used to spend so many pleasant days. 
I could not help advancing a few paces up the 
lane, and then turning to lean over the gate, 
seemingly gazing on the rich undulating val- 
ley, crowned with woody hills, which, as I 
stood under the dark and shady arch, lay 
bathed in the sunshine before me, but really 
absorbed in thoughts of other times, in recol- 
lections of the old delights of that delightful 
place, and of the admirable qualities of its 
owners. How often I had opened that gate, 
and how gaily — certain of meeting a smiling 
welcome — and what a picture of comfort it 
was ! 

Passing up the lane, we used first to en- 
counter a thick solid suburb of ricks, of all 
sorts, shapes, and dimensions. Then came 
the farm, like a town ; a magnificent series 
of buildings, stables, cart-houses, cow-houses, 
granaries and barns, that might hold half the 
corn of the parish, placed at angles towards 
each other, and mixed with smaller habita- 
tions for pigs, dogs, and poultry. They 
formed, together with the old substantial farm- 
house, a sort of amphitheatre, looking over a 
beautiful meadow, which swe[)t greenly and 
abruptly down into fertile enclosures, richly 
set with hedge-row timber, oak, and ash, and 
elm. Both the meadow and the farm-yard 
swarmed with inhabitants of the earth and of 
the air; horses, oxen, cows, calves, heifers, 
sheep, and pigs; beautiful greyhounds, all 
manner of poultry, a tame goat, and a pet 
donkey. 

The master of this land of plenty was well 
fitted to preside over it; a thick, stout man, 
of middle height, and middle age, with a 



A GREAT FARM-HOUSE. 



19 



healthy, ruddy, square face, all alive with in- 
telligence and good-humour. There was a 
lurking jest in his eye, and a smile about the 
corners of his firmly-closed lips, that gave 
assurance of good-fellowship. His voice was 
loud enough to have hailed a ship at sea, 
without the assistance of a speaking-trumpet, 
wonderfully rich and round in its tones, and 
harmonizing admirably with his bluff, jovial 
visage. He wore his dark shining hair combed 
straight over his forehead, and had a trick, 
when particularly merry, of stroking it down 
with his hand. The moment his right hand 
approached his head, out flew a jest. 

Besides his own great farm, the business 
of which seemed to go on like machinery, al- 
ways regular, prosperous, and unfailing — be- 
sides this and two or three constant steward- 
ships, and a perpetual succession of arbitra- 
tions, in which, such was the influence of his 
acuteness, his temper, and his sturdy justice, 
that he was often named by both parties, and 
left to decide alone, — in addition to these oc- 
cupations, he was a sort of standing overseer 
and churchwarden ; he ruled his own hamlet 
like a despotic monarch, and took a prime 
minister's share in the government of the 
large parish to which it was attached ; and 
one of the gentlemen, whose estates he ma- 
naged, being the independent member for an 
independent borough, he had every now and 
then a contested election on his shoulders. 
Even that did not discompose him. He had 
always leisure to receive his friends at home, 
or to visit them abroad ; to take journeys to 
London, or make excursions to the sea-side ; 
was as punctual in pleasure as in business, 
and thought being happy and making happy 
as much the purpose of his life as getting 
rich. His great amusement was coursing. 
He kept several brace of capital greyhounds, 
so high-blooded, that I remember when five 
of them were confined in five different ken- 
nels on account of their ferocity. The greatest 
of living painters once called a greyhound, 
" the line of beauty in perpetual motion." 
Our friend's large dogs were a fine illustra- 
tion of this remark. His old dog. Hector, for 
instance, for which he refused a hundred gui- 
neas, — what a superb dog was Hector ! — a 
model of grace and symmetry, necked and 
crested like an Arabian, and bearing himself 
with a stateliness and gallantry that showed 
some " conscience of his worth." He was 
the largest dog I ever saw ; but so finely pro- 
portioned, that the most determined fault- 
finder could call him neither too long nor too 
' heavy. There was not an inch too much of 
him. His colour was the purest white, en- 
I tirely unspotted, except that his head was 
I very regularly and richly marked with black. 
Hector was certainly a perfect beauty. But 
jthe little bitches, on which his master piqued 
himself still more, were not, in my poor judg- 
1 ment, so admirable. They were pretty little 



round, graceful things, sleek and glossy, and 
for the most part milk-white, with the small- 
est heads, and the most dove-like eyes that 
vvere ever seen. There was a peculiar sort 
of innocent beauty about them, like that of a 
roly-poly child. They were as gentle as 
lambs too : all the evil spirit of the family 
evaporated in the gentlemen. But, to my 
thinking, these pretty creatures were fitter for 
the parlour than the field. They were strong, 
certainly, excellently loined, cat-footed, and 
chested like a war-horse ; but there was a 
want of length about them — a want of room, 
as the coursers say; something a little, a very 
little inclining to the clumsy ; a dumpiness, a 
pointer-look. They went off like an arrow 
from the bow ; for the first hundred yards no- 
thing could stand against them ; then they 
began to flag, to find their weight too much 
for their speed, and to lose ground from the 
shortness of the stroke. Up-hill, however, 
they were capital. There their compactness 
told. They turned with the hare, and lost 
neither wind nor way in the sharpest ascent. 
I shall never forget one single-handed course 
of our good friend's favourite little bitch 
Helen, on W. hill. All the coursers were in 
the valley below, looking up to the hill-side 
as on a moving picture. I suppose she turned 
the hare twenty times on a piece of green- 
sward not much bigger than an acre, and as 
steep as the roof of a house. It was an old 
hare, a famous hare, one that had baffled half 
the dogs in the county ; but she killed him ; 
and then, though almost as large as herself, 
took it up in her mouth, brought it to her mas- 
ter, and laid it down at his feet. Oh how 
pleased he was ! and what a pleasure it was 
to see his triumph ! He did not always find 
W. hill so fortunate. It is a high steep hill, 
of a conical shape, encircled by a mountain 
road winding up to the summit like a cork- 
screw, — a deep road dug out of the chalk, 
and fenced by high mounds on either side. 
The hares always make for this hollow way, 
as it is called, because it is too wide for a 
leap, and the dogs lose m.uch time in mount- 
ing and descending the sharp acclivities. Very 
eager dogs, however, will sometimes dare the 
leap, and two of our good friend's favourite 
greyhounds perished in the attem.pt in two 
following years. They were found dead in 
the hollow way. After this he took a dislike 
to distant coursing meetings, and sported 
chiefly on his own beautiful farm. 

His wife was like her husband, with a dif- 
ference, as they say in heraldry. Like him 
in looks, only thinner and paler; like him in 
voice and phrase, only not so loud ; like him 
in merriment and good-humour; like him in 
her talent of welcoming and making happv, 
and being kind ; like him in cherishing an 
abundance of pets, and in getting through with 
marvellous facility an astounding quantity of 
business and pleasure. Perhaps the quality 



20 



OUR VILLAGE. 



in which they resembled each other most 
completely, was the happy ease and serenity 
of behaviour, so seldom found amongst peo- 
ple of the middle rank, who have usually a 
best manner and a worst, and whose best 
(that is, the studied, the company manner) is 
so very much the worst. She was frankness 
itself; entirely free from prickly defiance, or 
bristling self-love. She never took offence or 
gave it; never thought of herself or of what 
others would think of her ; had never been 
afflicted with the besetting sins of her station, 
a dread of the vulgar, or an aspiration after 
the genteel. Those " words of fear" had 
never disturbed her delightful heartiness. 

Her pets were her cows, her poultry, her 
bees, and her flowers ; chiefly her poultry, 
almost as numerous as the bees, and as various 
as the flowers. The farm-yard swarmed with 
peacocks, turkeys, geese, tame and wild-ducks, 
fowls, guinea-hens, and pigeons; besides a 
brood or two of favourite bantams in the green 
court before the door, with a little ridiculous 
strutter of a cock at their head, who imitated 
the magnificent demeanour of the great Tom 
of the barn-yard, just as Tom in his turn 
copied the fierce bearing of that warlike and 
terrible biped the he-turkey. I am the least 
in the world afraid of a turkey-cock, and used 
to steer clear of the turkery as often as I 
could. Commend me to the peaceable vanity 
of that jewel of a bird the peacock, sweeping 
his gorgeous tail along the grass, or dropping 
it gracefully from some low-boughed tree, 
whilst he turns round his crested head with 
the air of a birth-day bel'e, to see who ad- 
mires him. What a glorious creature it is ! 
How thoroughly content with himself and 
with all the world ! 

Next to her poultry our good farmer's Avife 
loved her flower-garden ; and indeed it was 
of the very first water, the only thing about 
the place that was fine. She was a real genu- 
ine florist; valued pinks, tulips, and auriculas, 
for certain qualities of shape and colour, with 
which beauty had nothing to do; preferred 
black ranunculuses, and gave into all those 
obliquities of a tripled refined taste by which 
the professed florist contrives to keep pace 
with the vagaries of the bibliomaniac. Of 
all odd fashions, that of dark, gloomy, dingy 
flowers, appears to me the oddest. Your true 
connomeur now, shall prefer a deep puce hol- 
lyhock, to the gay pink blossoms which clus- 
ter around that splendid plant like a pyramid 
of roses. So did she. The nomenclature of 
her garden was more distressing still. One 
is never thoroughly sociable with flowers till 
they are naturalized as it were, christened, 
provided with decent, homely, well-wearing 
English names. Now her plants had all sorts 
of heathenish appellations, which, — no offence 
to her learning, — always sounded wrong. I 
liked the bees' garden best ; the plot of ground 
immediately round their hives, filled with 



common flowers for their use, and literally 
" redolent of sweets." Bees are insects of 
great taste in every way, and seem often to 
select for beauty as much as for flavour. They 
have a better eye for colour than the florist. 
The butterfly is also a dilettante. Rover though 
he be, he generally prefers the blossoms that 
become him best. What a pretty picture it 
is, in a sunshiny autumn day, to see a bright 
spotted butterfly, made up of gold and purple 
and splendid brown, swinging on the rich 
flower of the china aster ! 

To come back to our farm. Within doors 
every thing went as well as without. There 
were no fine misses sitting before the piano, 
and mixing the alloy of their new-fangled 
tinsel with the old sterling metal ; nothing 
but an only son excellently brought up, a fair 
slim youth, whose extraordinary and somewhat 
pensive elegance of mind and manner was 
thrown into fine relief by his father's loud 
hilarity, and harmonized delightfully with 
the smiling kindness of his mother. His 
Sponsors and Thomsons, too, looked well 
amongst the hyacinths and geraniums that 
filled the windows of the little snug room 
in which they usually sate ; a sort of after- 
thought, built at an angle from the house, 
and looking into the farm-yard. It was closely 
packed with favourite arm-chairs, favourite 
sofas, favourite tables, and a side-board deco- 
rated with the prize-cups and collars of the 
greyhounds, and generally loaded with sub- 
stantial work-baskets, jars of flowers, great 
pyramids of home-made cakes, and sparkling 
bottles of gooseberry-wine, famous all over 
the country. The walls were covered with 
portraits of half a dozen greyhounds, a brace 
of spaniels, as large as life, an old pony, and 
the master and mistress of the house in half- 
length. »She as unlike as possible, prim, 
mincing, delicate, in lace and satin ; he so 
staringly and ridiculously like, that when the 
picture fixed its good-humoured eyes upon 
you as you entered the room, you were almost 
tempted to say — howd'j'^edo? — Alas! the 
portraits are now gone, and the originals. 
Death and distance have despoiled that plea- 
sant home. The garden has lost its smiling 
mistress ; the greyhounds their kind master ; 
and new people, new manners, and new cares, 
have taken possession of the old abode of 
peace and plenty — the great farm-house. 



LUCY. 

About a twelvemonth ago we had the mis- 
fortune to lose a very faithful and favourite 
female servant ; one who has spoiled us for 
all others. Nobody can expect to meet with 
two Lucies. We all loved Lucy — poor Lucy ! 
She did not die — she only married ; but we 
were so sorry to part with her, that her wed- 



LUCY. 



21 



ding, which was kept at our house, was almost 
as tragical as a funeral ; and from pure regret 
and affection we sum up her merits, and be- 
moan our loss, just as if she had really de- 
parted this life. 

Lucy's praise is a most fertile theme : she 
united the pleasant and amusing qualities of 
a French scaibrette, with the solid excellence 
of an English woman of the old school, and 
was good by contraries. In the first place, 
she was exceedingly agreeable to look at ; 
remarkably pretty. She lived in our family 
eleven 5rears ; but, having come to us very 
young, was still under thirty, just in full 
bloom, and a very brilliant bloom it was. 
Her figure was rather tall, and ratlier large, 
with delicate hands and feet, and a remarkable 
ease and vigour in her motions : I never saw 
any woman walk so fast or so well. Her 
face was round and dimpled, with sparkling 
grey eyes, black eye-brows and eye-lashes, a 
profusion of dark hair, very red lips, very 
white teeth, and a complexion that entirely 
took away the look of vulgarity which the 
breadth and flatness of her face might other- 
wise have given. Such a complexion, so 
pure, so finely grained, so healthily fair, with 
such a sweet rosiness, brightening and vary- 
ing like her dancing eyes whenever she spoke 
or smiled ! When silent, she was almost 
pale ; but, to confess the truth, she was not 
often silent. Lucy liked talking, and every 
body liked to hear her talk. There is always 
great freshness and originality in an unedu- 
cated and quick-witted person, who surprises 
one continually by unsuspected knowledge or 
amusing ignorance ; and Lucy had a real 
talent for conversation. Her light and pleasant 
temper, her cleverness, her universal kindness, 
and the admirable address, or rather the ex- 
cellent feeling, with which she contrived to 
unite the most perfect respect with the most 
cordial and affectionate interest, gave a singular 
charm to her prattle. No confidence or indul- 
gence — and she was well tried with both — 
ever made her forget herself for a moment. 
All our friends used to loiter at the door or in 
the hall to speak to Lucy, and the}^ miss her, 
and ask for her, as if she were really one of 
the family. — She was not less liked by her 
equals. Her constant simplicity and right- 
mindedness kept her always in her place with 
them as with us; and her gaiety and good 
humour made her a most welcome visiter in 
every shop and cottage round. She had 
another qualification for village society — she 
was an incomparable gossip, had a rare genius 
for picking up news, and great liberality in its 
diffusion. Birtlis, deaths, marriages, casualties, 
quarrels, battles, scandal — nothing came amiss 
to her. She could have furnished a weekly 
paper from her own stores of facts, without 
once resorting for assistance to the courts of 
law or the two houses of parliament. She 
was a very charitable reporter too ; threw her 



own sunshine into the shady places, and would 
hope and doubt as long as either was possible. 
Her fertility of intelligence was wonderful ; 
and so early ! Her news had always the bloom 
on it ; there was no being beforehand with 
Lucy. It was a little mortifying when one 
came prepared with something very recent 
and surprising, something that should have 
made her start with astonishment, to find her 
fully acquainted with the story, and able to 
furnish you with twenty particulars that you 
never heard of. But this evil had its peculiar 
compensation. By Lucy's aid 1 passed with 
every body, but Lucy herself, for a woman of 
o-reat information, an excellent authority, an 
undoubted reference in all matters of gossipry. 
Now I lag miserably behind the time ; I 
never hear of a death till after the funeral, nor 
of a wedding till I read it in the papers ; and, 
when people talk of reports and rumours, they 
undo me. I should be obliged to run away 
from the tea-tables, if I had not taken the 
resolution to look wise and say nothing, and 
live on my old reputation. Indeed, even now 
Lucy's fund is not entirely exhausted ; things 
have not quite done happening. I know 
nothing new; but my knowledge of by-gone 
passages is absolute ; I can prophesy past 
events like a gipsy. 

Scattered amongst her great merits Lucy 
had a few small faults, as all persons should 
have. She had occasionally an aptness to 
take offence where none was intended, and 
then the v/hole house bore audible testimony 
to her displeasure : she used to scour through 
half-a-dozen doors in a minute for the mere 
purpose of banging them after her. She had 
rather more fears than were quite convenient 
of ghosts and witches, and thunder, and ear- 
wigs, and various other real and unreal sights 
and sounds, and thought nothing of rousing 
half the family in the middle of the night at 
the first symptom of a thunder-storm or an 
apparition. She had a terrible genius for 
music, and a tremendously powerful shrill 
high voice. Oh! her door-clapping was no- 
thing to her singing! it rang through one's 
head like the screams of a peacock. Lastly, 
she was a sad flirt; she had about twenty 
lovers whilst she lived with us, probably 
more, but upwards of twenty she acknow- 
ledged. Her master, who watched with great 
amusement this uninterrupted and intricate 
succession of favourites, had the habit of call- 
ing her by the nanre of the reigning beau — 
Mrs. Charles, Mrs. .John, Mrs. Robert ; so that 
she has answered in her time to as many mas- 
culine appellations as would serve to supply 
a large family with a " commodity of good 
names." Once he departed from this cus- 
tom, and called her " Jenny Dennison " On 
herinquiring the reason, we showed her "Old 
Mortality," and asked if she could not guess, i 
" Dear me," said she, " why Jenny Dennison j 
had only two !" Amongst Lucy's twenty 



22 



OUR VILLAGE 



were three one-eyed lovers, like the three 
one-eyed calendars in the " Arabian Nights." 
They were much about the same period, near- 
ly contemporaries, and one of them had nearly 
carried off the fair Helen. If he had had two 
eyes, his success would have been certain. 
She said yes and no, and yes again ; he was 
a very nice younij man — but that one eye — 
that unlucky one eye ! — and the being rallied 
on her three calendars. There was no get- 
ting over that one eye : she said no, once 
more, and stood firm. And yet the pendulum 
might have contiinied to vibrate many times 
longer, had it not been fixed by the athletic 
charms of a gigantic London tailor, a superb 
man, really ; black-haired, black-eyed, six feet 
high, and large in proportion. He came to 
improve the country fashions, and fixed his 
shop-board in a cottage so near us that his 
garden was only divided from our lawn by a 
plantation full of acacias and honey-suckles, 
where " the air smelt wooingly." It followed 
of course that he should make love to Lucy, 
and that Lucy should listen. All was speed- 
ily settled ; as soon as he should be established 
in a good business, which, from his incom- 
parable talent at cutting out, nobody could 
doubt, they were to be married. But they 
had not calculated on the perversity of coun- 
try taste ; he was too good a workman ; his 
suits fitted over well; his employers missed 
certain accustomed awkwardnesses and re- 
dundancies which passed for beauties; be- 
sides, the stiffness and tightness which dis- 
tinguished the new coat of the ancien regime, 
were wanting in the make of this daring inno- 
vator. The shears of our Bond-street cutter 
were as powerful as the wooden sword of 
Harlequin; he turned his clowns into gentle- 
men, and their brother clod-hoppers laughed 
at them, and they were ashamed. So the 
poor tailor lost his customers and his credit ; 
and just as he had obtained Lucy's consent to 
the marriage, he walked off one fair morning, 
and was never heard of more. Lucy's ab- 
sorbing feeling on this catastrophe was aston- 
ishment, pure unmixed astonishment! One 
would have thought that she considered fickle- 
ness as a female privilege, and had never heard 
of a man deserting a woman in her life. For 
three days she could only wonder; then came 
great indignation, and a little, a very little 
grief, which showed itself not so much in her 
words, which were chiefly such disclaimers 
as " I don't care ! very lucky I happy escape !" 
and so on, as in her goings and doings, her 
aversion to the poor acacia grove, and even 
to the sight and smell of honeysuckles, her 
total loss of memory, and above all, in the 
distaste she showed to new conquests. She 
paid her faithless suitor the compliment of re- 
maining loverless for three weary months ; 
and when she relented a little, she admitted 
no fresh adorer, nothing but an old hanger- 
on ; one not quite discarded during the tailor's 



reign; one who had dangled after her during 
the long courtship of the three calendars; one 
who was the handiest and most complaisant 
of wooers, always ready to fill up an interval, 
like a book, which can be laid aside when 
company comes in, and resumed a month af- 
terwards at the very page and line where the 
reader left off. I think it was an affair of I 
amusement and convenience on both sides, j 
Lucy never intended to marry this commodi- | 
ous stopper of love gaps; and he, though he 
courted her for ten mortal years, never made 
a direct offer, till after the banns were pub- 
lished between her and her present husband : 
then, indeed, he said he was sorry — he had 
hoped — was it too late] and so forth. Ah! 
his sorrow was nothing to ours, and, when it 
came to the point, nothing to Lucy's. She 
cried every day for a fortnight, and had not 
her successor in oflice, the new housemaid, 
arrived, I do really believe that this lover 
would have shared the fate of the many suc- 
cessors to the unfortunate tailor. 

I hope that her choice has been fortunate ; 
it is certainly very different from what we all 
expected. The happy man had been a neigh- 
bour, (not on the side of the acacia-trees,) and 
on his removal to a greater distance the mar- 
riage took place. Poor dear Lucy ! her spouse 
is the greatest possible contrast to herself; 
ten years younger at the very least ; well- 
looking, but with no expression good or bad 
— I don't think he could smile, if he would — 
assuredly he never tries ; well made, but as 
stiff as a poker; I dare say he never ran three 
yards in his life ; perfectly steady, sober, 
honest, and industrious; but so young, so 
grave, so dull ! one of your " demure boys," 
as Fallstaff calls them, " that never come to 
proof." You might guess a mile off that he 
was a schoolmaster, from the swelling pom- 
posity of gait, the solemn decorum of manner, 
the affectation of age and wisdom, which con- 
trast so oddly with his young unmeaning face. 
The moment he speaks, you are certain. No- 
body but a village pedagogue ever did or ever 
could talk like Mr. Brown, — ever displayed 
such elaborate politeness, such a study of 
phrases, such choice words and long words, 
and fine words and hard words ! He speaks 
by the book, — the spelling book, and is civil 
after the fashion of the Polite Letter- Writer. 
He is so entirely without -tact, that he does 
not in the least understand the impression 
produced by his wife's delightful manners, 
and interrupts her perpetually to speechify 
and apologise, and explain and amend. He 
is fond of her, nevertheless, in his own cold, 
slow way, and proud of her, and grateful to 
her friends, and a very good kind of young 
man altogether; only that I cannot quite for- 
give him for taking Lucy away in the first 
place, and making her a school-mistress la 
the second. She a school-mistress, a keeper 
of silence, a maintainor of discipline, a scold- 



LUCY. 



23 



er, a pumsher ! Ah ! she would rather be 
scolded herself; it would be a far lighter pun- 
ishment. Lucy likes her vocation as little as 
I do. She has not the natural love of chil- 
dren, which would reconcile her to the evils 
they cause ; and she has a real passion for 
cleanliness, a fiery spirit of dispatch, which 
cannot endure the dust and litter created by 
the little troop on the one hand, or their tor- 
menting slowness and stupidity on the other. 
She was the quickest and neatest of work- 
women, piqued herself on completing a shirt 
or a gown sooner and better than seemed pos- 
sible, and was scandalized at finding such 
talents degraded to the ignoble occupations 
of tacking a quarter of a yard of hemming for 
one, pinning half a seam for another, picking 
out the crooked stitching of a third, and work- 
ing over the weak irregular burst-out button- 
hole of a fourth. When she first went to 

S , she was strongly tempted to do all the 

work herself. "The children would have 
liked it," said she, "and really I don't think 
the mothers would have objected ; they care 
for nothing but marking. Tliere are seven 
girls now in the school working samplers to 
be framed. Such a waste of silk, and time, 
and trouble! I said to Mrs. Smith, and Mrs. 
Smith said to me" — Then she recounted the 
whole battle of the samplers, and her defeat; 
and then she sent for one which, in spite of 
her declaration that her girls never finished 
any thing, was quite completed (probably 
with a good deal of her assistance), and of 
which, notwithstanding her rational objection 
to its uselessness, Lucy was not a little proud. 
She held it up with great delight, pointed out 
all the beauties, selected her own favourite 
parts, especially a certain square rose-bud, 
and the landscape at the bottom ; and finally 
pinned it against the wall, to show the effect 
it would have when framed. Really, that 
sampler was a superb thing in its way. First 
came a plain pink border; then a green bor- 
der, zig-zag ; then a crimson, wavy ; then a 
brown, of a different and more complicated 
zig-zag; then the alphabet, great and small, 
in every colour of the rainbow, followed by a 
row of figures, flanked on one side by a flower, 
name unknown, tulip, poppy, lily, — something 
orange or scarlet, or orange-scarlet; on the 
other by the famous rose-bud ; the divers sen- 
tences, religious and moral; — Lucy was quite 
provoked with me for not being able to read 
them : I dare say she thought in her heart that 
I was as stupid as any of her scholars; but 
never was MS, so illegible, not even my own, 
as the print work of that sampler — then, last 
and finest, the landscape, in all its glory. It 
occupied the whole narrow line at the bottom, 
and was composed with great regularity. In 
the centre was a house of a bright scarlet, 
with yellow windows, a green door, and a 
blue roof: on one side, a man with a dog; on 
the other, a woman with a cat — this is Lucy's 



information ; I should never have guessed that 
there was any difference, except in colour, be- 
tween the man and the woman, the dog and 
the cat ; they were in form, height, and size, 
alike to a thread ; the man grey, the woman 
pink, his attendant white, and her's black. 
Next to these figures, on either side, rose two 
fir-trees from two red flower-pots, nice little 
round bushes of a bright green intermixed 
with brown stitches, which Lucy explained, 
not to me. — "Don't you see the fir-cones, 
Sir"? Don't you remember how fond she used 
to be of picking them up in her little basket 
at the dear old place 1 Poor thing, I thought 
of her all the time that I was working them ! 

Don't you like the fir-cones'!" After this, 

I looked at the landscape almost as lovingly 
as Lucy herself. 

With all her dislike to keeping school, the 
dear Lucy seems happy. In addition to the 
merciful spirit of conformity, which shapes 
the mind to the situation, whatever that may 
be, she has many sources of vanity and com- 
fort — her house above all. It is a very re- 
spectable dwelling, finely placed on the edge 
of a large common, close to a high-road, with 
a pretty flower-court before it, shaded by four 
horse-chestnuts cut into arches, a sashed win- 
dow on either side of the door, and on the 
door a brass knocker, which being securely 
nailed down, serves as a quiet peaceable han- 
dle for all goers, instead of the importunate 
and noisy use for which it was designed. 
Jutting out at one end of the court is a small 
stable ; retiring back at the other, a large 
school-room ; and behind, a yard for childrftn, 
pigs, and poultry, a garden, and an arbour. 
The inside is full of comfort; miraculously 
clean and orderly for a village school, and 
with a little touch of very allowable finery in 
the gay window-curtains, the cupboard full 
of pretty china, the handsome chairs, the 
bright mahogany table, the shining tea-urn, 
and brilliant tea-tray, that decorate the par- 
lour. What a pleasure it is to see Lucy pre- 
siding in that parlour, in all the glory of her 
honest affection and her warm hospitality, 
making tea for the three guests whom she 
loves best in the world, vaunting with courte- 
ous pride her home-made bread and her fresh 
butter, yet thinking nothing good enough for 
the occasion ; smiling and glowing, and look- 
ing the very image of beautiful happiness. — 
Such a moment almost consoles us for losing 
her. 

Lucy's pleasure is In her house; mine is in 
its situation. The common on which it stands 
is one of a series of heathy hills, or rather a 
high table-land, pierced in one part by a 
ravine of marshy ground,' filled with alder 
bushes growing larger and larger as the val- 
ley widens, and at last mixing with the fine 

old oaks of the forest of P . Nothing 

can be more delightful than to sit on the steep 
brow of the hill, araonorst the I'rasfrant heath- 



24 



OUR VILLAGE. 



flowers, the blue-bells, and the wild thyme, 
and look upon the sea of trees spreading out 
beneath us ; the sluggish water just peeping 
from amid the alders, giving brightly back the 
bright blue sky; and, farther down, herds of 
rough ponies, and of small stunted cows, the 
wealth of the poor, coming up from the forest. 
I have sometimes seen two hundred of these 
cows together, each belonging to a different 
person, and distinguishing and obeying the 
call of its milker. All the boundaries of this 
heath are beautiful. On one side is the hang- 
ing coppice, where the lily of the valley grows 
so plentifully amongst broken ridges and fox- 
earths, and the roots of pollard-trees. On an- 
other are the immense fir plantations of Mr. 
B., whose balmy odour hangs heavily in the 
air, or comes sailing on the breeze like smoke 
across the landscape. Farther on, beyond the 
pretty parsonage-house, with its short avenue, 
its fish-ponds, and the magnificent poplars 
which form a landmark for many miles round, 
rise the rock-like walls of the old city of 
S , one of the most perfect Roman re- 
mains now existing in England. The wall 
can be traced all round, rising sometimes to a 
height of twenty feet, over a deep narrow 
slip of meadovv^ land, once the ditch, and still 
full of aquatic flowers. The ground within 
rises level with the top of the wall, which is 
of grey stone, crowned with the finest forest 
trees, whose roots seem interlaced with the 
old masonry, and covered with wreaths of 
ivy, brambles, and a hundred other trailing 
plants. Close by one of the openings, which 
m^k the site of the gates, is a graduated ter- 
race, called by antiquaries the Amphitheatre, 
which commands a rich and extensive view, 
and is backed by the village church and an 
old farm-house, — the sole buildings in that 
once populous city, whose streets are now 
traced only by the blighted and withered ap- 
pearance of the ripening corn. Roman coins 
and urns are often ploughed up there, and it 
is a favourite haunt of the lovers of " hoar 
antiquity," But the beauty of the place is in- 
dependent of its noble associations. The very 
heart expands in the deep verdure and perfect 
loneliness of that narrow winding valley, 
fenced on one side by steep coppices or its 
own tall irregular hedge, on the other by the 
venerable crag-like wall, whose proud coronet 
of trees, its jutting ivy, its huge twisted 
thorns, its briery festoons, and the deep caves 
where the rabbits burrow, make the old bul- 
wark seem no work of man, but a majestic 
piece of nature. As a picture it is exquisite. 
Nothing can be finer than the mixture of those 
varied greens so crisp and life-like, with the 
crumbling grey stone; nothing more perfectly 
in harmony with the solemn beauty of the 
place, than the deep cooings of the wood- 
pigeons, who abound in the 'walls. I know 
no pleasure so intense, so soothing, so apt to 
bring sweet tears into the eyes, or to awaken 



thoughts that " lie too deep for tears," as a 
walk round the old city on a fine summer 
evening. A ride to S was always de- 
lightful to me, even before it became the re- 
sidence of Lucy ; it is now my prime festival. 



WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. 

THE FIRST PRIMROSE. 

March 6th. — Fine March weather: bois- 
terous, blustering, much wind and squalls of 
rain ; and yet the sky, where the clouds are 
swe])t away, deliciously blue, with snatches 
of sunshine, bright, and clear, and healthful, 
and the roads, in spite of the slight g ntering 
showers, crisply dry. Altogether, the day is 
tempting, very tempting. It will not do for 
the dear common, that windmill of a walk; 
but the close sheltered lines at the bottom of 
the hill, which keep out just enough of the 
stormy air, and let in all the sun, will be de- 
lightful. Past our old house, and round by 
the winding lanes, and the work-house, and 
across the lea, and so into the turnpike-road 
again, — that is our route for to-day. Forth 
we set, May-flower and I, rejoicing in the sun- 
shine, and still more in the wind, which gives 
such an intense feeling of existence, and co- 
operating with brisk motion sets our blood 
and our spirits in a glow. For mere physical 
pleasure there is nothing perhaps equal to the 
enjoyment of being drawn, in a liglit carriage, 
against such a wind as this, by a blood horse 
at his height of speed. Walking comes next 
to it; but walking is not quite so luxurious or 
so spiritual, not quite so much what one fan- 
cies of flying, or being carried above the 
clouds in a balloon. 

Nevertheless, a walk is a good thing; espe- 
cially under this southern hedgerow, where 
nature is just beginning to live again : the 
perriwinkles, with their starry blue flowers, 
and their shining myrtle-like leaves, garland- 
ing the bushes ; woodbines and elder trees, 
pushing out their small swelling buds; and 
grasses and mosses springing forth in every 
variety of brown and green. Here we are at 
the corner where four lanes meet, or rather 
M'here a passable road of stones and gravel 
crosses an impassable one of beautiful but 
treacherous turf, and where the small white 
farm-house, scarcely larger than a cottage, and 
the well-stocked rick-yard behind, tell of com- 
fort and order, but leave all unguessed the 
great riches of the master. How he became 
so rich is almost a puzzle ; for though the farm 
be his own, it is not large; and, though pru- 
dent and frugal on ordinary occasions, farmer 
Barnard is no miser. His horses, dogs, and 
pigs, are the best kept in the parish, — May 
herself, although her beauty be injured by her 



WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. 



25 



fatness, half envies the plight of his bitch 
Fly; his wife's crowns and shawls cost as 
much again as any shawls or gowns in the 
village : his dinner parties (to be sure they 
are not frequent) display twice the ordinary 
quantity of good things — two couples of ducks, 
two dishes of green peas, two turkey poults, 
two gammons of bacon, two plum-puddings; 
moreover, he keeps a single-horse chaise, and 
has built and endowed a Methodist chapel. 
Yet is he the richest man in these parts. Every 
thing prospers with him. Money drifts about 
him like snow. He looks like a rich man. 
There is a sturdy squareness of face and 
figure; a good-humoured obstinacy; a civil 
importance. He never boasts of his wealth, 
or gives himself undue airs ; but nobody can 
meet him at market or vestry without finding 
out immediately that he is the richest man 
there. They have no child to all this money; 
but there is an adopted nephew, a fine spirited 
lad, who may, perhaps, some day or other, 
play the part of a fountain to the reservoir. 

Now turn up the wide road till we com.e to 
the open common, with its park-like trees, its 
beautiful stream, wandering and twisting 
along, and its rural bridge. Here we turn 
again, past that other white farm-honse, half 
hidden by the magnificent elms which stand 
before it. Ah! riches dwell not there; but 
there is found the next best thing — an indus- 
trious and light-hearted poverty. Twenty 
years ago Rachel Hilton was the prettiest and 
merriest lass in the country. Her father, an 
old game-keeper, had retired to a village ale- 
house, where his good beer, his social humour, 
and his black-eyed daughter, brought much 
custom. She had lovers b}^ the score ; but 
Joseph White, the dashing and lively son of 
an opulent farmer, carried off the fair Rachel. 
They married and settled here, and here they 
live still, as merrily as ever, with fourteen 
children of all ages and sizes, from nineteen 
years to nineteen months, working harder than 
any people in the parish, and enjoying them- 
selves more. I would match them for labour 
and laughter against any family in England. 
She is a blithe, jolly dame, whose beauty has 
amplified into comeliness : he is tall, and thin, 
and bony, with sinews like whipcord, a strong 
lively voice, a sharp, weather-beaten face, and 
eyes and lips that smile and brighten when he 
speaks into a most contagious hilarity. They 
are very poor, and I often wish them richer ; 
but I don't know — perhaps it might put them 
out. 

Quite close to farmer White's is a little 
ruinous cottage, white-washed once, and now 
in a sad state of betweenity, where dangling 
stockings and shirts swelled by the wind, dry- 
ing in a neglected garden, give signal of a 
washerwoman. There dwells, at present in a 
state of single blessedness, Betty Adams, the 
wife of our sometimes gardener. I never saw 
any one who so much reminded me in person 

3 D 



of that lady whom every body knows. Mistress 
Meg Merrilies ; — as tall, as grizzled, as stately, 
as dark, as gipsy-looking, bonneted and gowned 
like her prototype, and almost as oracular. 
Here the resemblance ceases. Mrs. Adams 
is a perfectly honest, industrious, pains-taking 
person, who earns a good deal of money by 
washing and charing, and spends it in other 
luxuries than tidiness, — in green tea, and gin, 
and snutf. Her husband lives in a great fam- 
ily ten miles off. He is a capital gardener — 
or rather he would be so, if he were not too 
ambitious. He undertakes all things, and 
finishes none. But a smooth tongue, a know- 
ing look, and a great capacity of labour, carry 
him through. Let him but like his ale and 
his master, and he will do work enough for 
four. Give him his own way, and his full 
quantum, and nothing comes amiss to him. 

Ah, May is bounding forward ! Her silly 
heart leaps at the sight of the old place — and 
so, in good truth, does mine. What a pretty 
place it was, — or rather, how pretty I thought 
it I I suppose 1 should have thought any 
place so where I had spent eighteen happy 
years. But it was really pretty. A large, 
heavy, white house, in the simplest style, 
surrounded by fine oaks and elms, and tall 
massy plantations shaded down into a beautiful 
lawn, by wild overgrown shrubs, 'bowery 
acacias, ragged sweet-briars, promontories of 
dogwood, and Portugal laurel, and bays over- 
hung by laburnum and bird-cherry; a long 
piece of water letting light into the picture, 
and looking just like a natural stream, the 
banks as rude and wild as the shrubbary, in- 
terspersed with broom, and furze, and bramble, 
and pollard oaks covered with ivy and honey- 
suckle ; the whole enclosed by an old mossy 
park paling, and terminating in a series of 
rich meadows, richly planted. This is an 
exact description of the home which, three 
years ago, it nearly broke my heart to leave. 
What a tearing up by the roots it was ! I 
have pitied cabbage plants and celery, and 
all transplantable things, ever since ; though, 
in common with them and with other vege- 
tables, the first agony of the transportation 
being over, I have taken such firm and tena- 
cious hold of mj' new soil, that I would not 
for the world be pulled up again, even to be 
restored to the old beloved ground ; not even 
if its beauty were undiminished, which is by 
no means the case ; for in those three years 
it has thrice changed masters, and every suc- 
cessive possessor has brought the curse of 
improvement upon the place : so that between 
filling up the water to cure dampness, cutting 
down trees to let in prospects, planting to 
keep them out, shutting up windows to darken 
the inside of the house, (by which means one 
end looks precisely as an eight of spades 
would do that should have the misfortune 
to lose one of his corner pips,) and building 
colonnades to lighten the out, added to a gen- 



26 



OUR VILLAGE. 



eral clearance of pollards, and brambles, and 
ivy, and honeysuckles, and park palings, and 
irreo-ular shrubs, the poor place is so trans- 
mogrified, that if it had its old lookinor-glass, 
the water, back again, it would not know its 
own face. And yet I love to haunt round 
about it : so does May. Her particular at- 
traction is a certain broken bank full of rabbit 
burrows, into which she insinuates her long 
pliant head and neck, and tears her pretty feet 
by vain scratchings : mine is a warm sunny 
hedgerow, in the same remote field, famous 
for early flowers. Never was a spot more 
variously flowery : primroses yellow, lilac 
white, violets of either hue, cowslips, oxlips, 
arums, orchises, wild hyacinths, ground ivy, 
pansies, strawberries, heart's-ease, formed a 
small part of the Flora of that wild hedge- 
row. How profusely they covered the sunny 
open slope under the weeping birch, " the 
lady of the woods," — and how often have I 
started to see the early innocent brown snake, 
who loved the spot as well as I did, winding 
along the young blossoms, or rustling among 
the fallen leaves ! There are primrose leaves 
already, and short green buds, but no flowers ; 
not even in that furze cradle so full of roots, 
where they used to blow as in a basket. No, 
my May, no rabbits ! no primroses ! We may 
as well get over the <rate into the woody 
winding lane, which will bring us home again. 
Here we are, making the best of our way 
between the old elms that arch so solemnly 
over head, dark and sheltered even now. They 
say that a spirit haunts this deep pool — a 
white ,lady without a head. I cannot say that 
I have seen her, often as I have paced this 
lane at deep midnight, to hear the nightingales, 
and look at the glow-worms ; — but there, better 
and rarer than a thousand ghosts, dearer even 
than nightingales and glow-worms, there is a 
primrose, the first of the year ; a tuft of prim- 
roses, sjjringing in yonder sheltered nook, 
from the mossy roots of an old willow, and 
living again in the clear bright pool. Oii, 
how beautiful they are — three fully blown, 
and two bursting buds ! how glad I am I 
came this way ! They are not to be reached. 
Even .Tack Rapley's love of the difficult and 
the unattainable would fail him here : May 
herself could not stand on that steep bank. 
So much the better. Who would wish to 
disturb them 1 There they live in their inno^ 
cent and their fragrant beauty, sheltered from 
the storms, and rejoicin'i- in the sunshine, and 
looking as if they could feel their happiness. 
Who would disturb them ] Oh, how glad I 
am I came this way home ! 



BR AM LEY MAYING. 

Mr. Geoffrey Crayon has, in his delight- 
ful but somewhat fanciful writings, brought 



into general view many old sports and cus- 
toms, some of which, indeed, still linger about 
the remote counties, familiar as local peculi- 
arities to their inhabitants, whilst the greater 
part lie buried in books of the Elizabethan 
age, known only to the curious in English 
literature. One rural custom which would 
have enchanted him, and which prevails in 
the north of Hampshire, he has not noticed, 
and probably does not know. Did any of my 
readers ever hear of a Maying 1 Let not any 
notions of chimney-sweeps soil the imagina- 
tion of the gay Londoner ! A country Maying 
is altogether a different aff^iir from the street 
exhibitions which mix so much pity with our 
mirth, and do the heart good, perhajis, but not 
by gladdening it. A country Maying is a 
meeting of the lads and lasses of two or three 
parishes, who assemble in certain erections 
of green boughs, called May-houses, to dance 
and — but I am going to tell all about it in due 
order, and must not forestall my description. 

Last year we went to Bramley Maying. 
There had been two or three such merry- 
makings before in that inaccessible neighbour- 
hood, where the distance of large towns, the 
absence of great houses, and the consequent 
want of all decent roads, together with a 
country of peculiar wildness and beauty, com- 
bine to produce a sort of modern Arcadia. 
We had intended to assist at a Maying in the 
forest of Pamber, thinking that the deep glades 
of that fine woodland scenery would be more 
congenial to the spirit of old English merri- 
ment, as it breathed more of Robin Hood and 
Maid Marian than a mere village green — to 
say nothing of its being of the two more ac- 
cessible by four-footed and two-wheeled con- 
veyances. But the Pamber day had been 
suff"ered to pass, and Brambley was the last 
Maying of the season. So to Bramley we 
went. 

As we had a considerable distance to go, 
we set out about noon, intending to return to 
dinner at six. Never was a day more con- 
genial to a happy purpose ! It was a day made 
for country weddings and dances on the green 
— a day of dazzling light, of ardent sunshine 
falling on hedge-rows and meadows fresh 
with spring showers. You might almost see 
the grass grow and the leaves expand under 
the influence of that vivifying warmth ; and 
we passed through the well-known and beau- 
tiful scenery of W. Park, and the pretty vil- 
lage of M., with a feeling of new admiration, 
as if we had never before felt their charms; 
so gloriously did the trees in their young 
leaves, the grass springing beneath them, the 
patches of golden broom and deeper furze, the 
cottages covered with roses, the blooming 
orchards, and the light snowy sprays of the 
cherry-trees tossing their fair blossoms across 
the deep-blue sky, pour upon the eye the full 
magic of colour. On we passed gaily and 
happily as far as we knew our way — perhaps 



BRAMLEY MAYING. 



27 



a little favtlier, for the place of our destination 
was new to both of us, when we had the luck, 
good or bad, to meet with a director in the 
person of the butcher of M. My companion 
is known to most people within a circuit of 
ten miles ; so we had ready attention and 
most civil guidance from the man of beef and 
mutton — a prodigious person, almost as big 
as a prize ox, as rosy and jovial-looking as 
FalstatF himself, — who was standing in the 
road with a slender shrewd-looking boy, apt 
and ready enough to have passed for the page. 
He soon gave us the proper, customary, and 
unintelligible directions as to lanes and turn- 
ings — first to the right, then to the left, then 
round farmer Jennings' close, then across the 
Holy Brook, then to the right again — till at 
last, seeing us completely bewildered, he of- 
fered to send the boy, who was going our 
way for half a mile to carry out a shoulder 
of veal, to attend us to that distance as a 
guide ; an otfer gratefully accepted by all par- 
ties, especially the lad, whom we relieved of 
his burthen and took up behind, where he 
swang in an odd but apparently satisfactory 
posture, between running and riding. While 
he continued with us, we fell into no mistakes; 
but at last he and the shoulder of veal reached 
their place of destination ; and after listening 
to a repetition, or perhaps a variation, of the 
turns right and left which were to conduct us 
to Bramley-green, we and our little guide 
parted. 

On we went, twisting and turning through 
a labyrinth of lanes, getting deeper and deeper 
every moment, till at last, after many doubt- 
ings, we became fairly convinced that we had 
lost our way. Not a soul was in the fields ; 
not a passenger in the road ; not a cottage by 
the road-side : so on we went — I am afraid to 
say how far, (for when people have lost their 
way, they are not the most accurate mea- 
surers of distance) — till we came suddenly 
on a small farm-house, and saw at once that 
the road we had trodden led to that farm, and 
thither onlj^. The solitary farm-house had 
one solitary inmate, a smiling middle-aged 
woman, who came to us and offered her ser- 
vices with the most alert civility : — "All her 
boys and girls were gone to the Maying," she 
said, "and she remained to keep house." — 
" The Maying ! We are near Bramley, then ?" 
— " Only two miles the nearest way across 
the fields — were we going] — she would see 
to the horse — we would soon be there, only 
over that style and then across that field, and 
then turn to the right, and then take the next 
turning — no! the next but one to the left." — 
Right and left again for two miles over those 
deserted fields! — Right and left! we shud-! 
dered at the words. " Is there no carriage- ! 
road; — where are we]" — '-'At Silchester, 
close to the walls, only half a mile from the, 
church." — " vVt Silchester!" and in ten min- 
utes we had said a thankful farewell to our I 



kind informant, had retraced our steps a little, 
had turned up another lane, and found our- 
selves at the foot of that commanding spot 
which antiquaries call the Amphitheatre, close 
under the walls of the Roman city, and in full 
view of an old acquaintance, the schoolmaster 
of Silchester, who happened to be there in his 
full glory, playing the part of Cicerone to a 
party of ladies, and explaining far more than 
he knows, or than any one knows, of streets, 
and gates, and sites of temples, which, by the 
by, the worthy pedagogue usually calls parish 
churches, I never was so glad to see him in 
my life, — never thought he could have spoken 
with so much sense and eloquence as were 
comprised in the two words, " straight for- 
ward," by which he answered our inquiry as 
to the road to Bramley. 

And forward we went by a way beautiful 
beyond description : a road bounded on one 
side by every variety of meadow, and corn- 
field, and rich woodland ; on the other, by the 
rock-like walls of the old city, crowning an 
abrupt magnificent bank of turf, broken by 
fragments, crags as it were, detached from 
the ruin, and young trees, principally ash, 
with silver stems standing out in picturesque 
relief from the green slope, and itself crowned 
with every sort of vegetation, from the rich 
festoons of briar and ivy, which garlanded its 
side, to the venerable oaks and beeches which 
nodded on its summit. I never saw any thing 
so fine in my life. To be sure, we nearly 
broke our necks. Even I, who, having been 
overset astonishingly often, without any harm 
happening, have acquired, from frequency of 
escape, the confidence of escaping, and the 
habit of not caring for that particular danger, 
which is, I suppose, what in a man, and in 
battle, would be called courage, — even I was 
glad enough to get out, and do all I could to- 
wards wriggling the gig round the rock-like 
stones, or sometimes helping to lift the wheel 
over the smaller impediments. We escaped 
that danger, and left the venerable walls be- 
hind us. — But I am losing my way here, too; 
I must loiter on the road no longer. Our 
other delays, of a broken bridge — a bog — an- 
other wrong turning — and a meeting with a 
loaded wagon, in a lane too narrow to pass — 
all this must remain untold. 

At last we reached a large farm-house at 
Bramley ; another mile remained to the Green, 
but that was impassable. Nobody thinks of 
riding at Bramley. The late lady of the ma- 
nor, when at rare and uncertain intervals she 
resided for a few weeks at her house of B. R., 
used, in visiting her only neighbour, to drive 
her coach and four through her farmer's 
ploughed fields. We must walk : but the ap- 
pearance of gay crowds of rustics, all passing 
along one path, gave assurance that this time 
we should not lose our way. Oh, what a 
prett}^ path it was ! along one sunny sloping 
field, up and down, dotted with trees like a 



28 



OUR VILLAGE. 



park; then across a deep shady lane, with 
cows loitering and cropping grass from the 
banks ; then up a long narrow meadow, in the 
very pride and vigour of its greenness, richly 
bordered by hedgerow timber, and terminating 
in the church-yard, and a little country church. 

Bramley church is well worth seeing. It 
contains that rare thing, a monument fine in 
itself, and finer in its situation. We had 
heard of it, and in spite of the many delays 
we had experienced, could not resist the 
temptation of sending one of the loiterers, 
who seemed to stand in the church-yard as a 
sort of out-guard to the Maying, to the vicar's 
house for the key. Prepared as we had been 
to see something unusual, we were very much 
struck. The church is small, simple, decay- 
ing, almost ruinous ; but, as you turn from 
the entrance into the centre aisle, and advance 
up to the altar, your eye falls on a lofty re- 
cess, branching out like a chapel on one side, 
and seen through a Gothic arch. It is almost 
paved with monumental brasses of the proud 
family of B., who have possessed the sur- 
rounding property from the time of the Con- 
queror ; and in the centre of the large open 
space stands a large monument, surrounded 
by steps, on which reclines a figure of a dying 
man, with a beautiful woman leaning over 
him, full of a lovely look of anxiety and ten- 
derness. The figures are very fine ; but that 
which makes the grace and glory of this 
remarkable piece of sculpture, is its being 
backed by an immense Gothic window, nearly 
the whole size of the recess, entirely com- 
posed of old stained glass. I do not know 
the story which the artist, in the series of pic- 
tures, intended to represent ; but there they 
are, the gorgeous, glorious colours — red, and 
purples, and greens, glowing like an anemone 
bed in the sunshine, or like one of the win- 
dows made of amethysts and rubies in the 
Arabian Tales, and throwing out the monu- 
mental figures with an effect almost magical. 
The parish clerk was at the Maying, and we 
had only an unlettered rustic to conduct us, 
so that I do not even know the name of the 
sculptor — he must have a strange mingled 
feeling if ever he saw his work in its present 
home — delight that it looks so well, and re- 
gret that there is no one to look at it. That 
monument alone was worth losing our way for. 

But cross two fields more, and up a quiet 
lane, and we are at the Maying, announced 
afar off by the merry sound of music, and the 
merrier clatter of childish voices. Here we 
are at the green ; a little turfy spot, where 
three roads meet, close shut in by hedgerows, 
wdth a pretty white cottage, and its long slip 
of a garden at one angle, I had no expecta- 
tion of scenery so compact, so like a glade in 
a forest; it is quite a cabinet picture, with 
green trees for the frame. In the midst grows 
a superb horse-chesnut, in the full glory of its 
flowery pyramids, and from the trunk of the 



chestnut the Mayhouses commence. They are 
covered alleys built of green boughs, decorat- 
ed with garlands and great bunches of flowers, 
the gayest that blow — lilacs, Guelder-roses, 
pionies, tulips, stocks — hanging down like 
chandeliers among the dancers; for of dancers, 
gay dark-eyed young girls in straw bonnets 
and white gowns, and their lovers in their 
Sunday attire, the May-houses were full. The 
girls had mostly the look of extreme youth, 
and danced well and quietly like ladies — too 
much so ; I should have been glad to see less 
elegance and more enjoyment: and their part- 
ners, though not altogether so graceful, were 
as decorous and as indifferent as real gentle- 
men. It was quite like a ball-room, as pretty 
and almost as dull. Outside was the fun. It 
is the outside, the upper gallery of the world, 
that has that good thing. There were children 
laughing, eating, trying to cheat, and being 
cheated, round an ancient and practised vender 
of oranges and gingerbread ; and on the other 
side of the tree lay a merry group of old m«n, 
in coats almost as old as themselves, and 
young ones in no coats at all, excluded from 
the dance by the disgrace of a smock-frock. 
Who would have thought of etiquette finding 
its way into the Mayhouses ! That group 
would have suited Teniers ; it smoked and 
drank a little, but it laughed a great deal 
more. There were a few decent matronly 
looking women, too, sitting in a cluster; and 
young mothers strolling about with infants in 
their arms ; and ragged boys peeping through 
the boughs at the dancers ; and tbe bright sun 
shining gloriously on all this innocent happi- 
ness. Oh what a pretty sight it was ! — worth 
losing our way for — worth losing our dinner 
— ;-both which happened; whilst a party of 
friends, who were to have joined us, were far 
more unlucky; for they not only lost their 
way and their dinner, but rambled all day 
about the country, and never reached Bramley 
Maying. 



COUSIN MARY. 

About four years ago, passing a few days 
with the highly educated daughters of some 
friends in this neighbourhood, I found domes- 
ticated in the family a young lady, whom I 
shall call as they called her. Cousin. Mary. 
She was about eighteen, not beautiful perhaps, 
but lovely certainly to the fullest extent of 
that loveliest word — as fresh as a rose ; as 
fair as a lily; with lips like winter berries ; 
dimpled, smiling lips; and eyes of which no- 
body could tell the colour, they danced so in- 
cessantly in their own gay light. Iler figure 
was tall, round, and slender; exquisitely well 
proportioned it must have been, for in all at- 
titudes, (and in her innocent gaiety, she was 
scarcely ever two minutes in the same) she 



COUSIN MARY. 



29 



was grace itself. She was, in short, the very 
picture of youth, health, and happiness. No 
one could see her without beinor prepossessed 
in her favour. I took a fancy to her the mo- 
ment she entered the room ; and it increased 
every hour in spite of, or rather perhaps for, 
certain deficiencies, which caused poor Cousin 
Mary to be held exceedingly cheap by her ac- 
complished relatives. 

She was the youngest daughter of an officer 
of rank, dead long ago ; and his sickly widow 
having lost by death, or that other death, 
marriage, all her children but this, could not, 
from very fondness, resolve to part with her 
darling for the purpose of acquiring the com- 
monest instruction. She talked of it, indeed, 
now and then, but she only talked ; so that, 
in this age of universal education, Mary C. at 
eighteen exhibited the extraordinary pheno- 
menon of a young woman of high family, 
whose acquirements were limited to reading, 
writing, needle-work, and the first rules of 
arithmetic. The effect of this let-alone system, 
combined with a careful seclusion from all im- 
proper society, and a perfect liberty in her 
country rambles, acting upon a mind of great 
power and activity, was the very reverse of 
what might have been predicted. It had pro- 
duced not merely a delightful freshness and 
originality of manner and character, a piquant 
ignorance of those things of which one is tired 
to death, but knowledge, positive, accurate, 
and various knowledge. She was, to be sure, 
wholly unaccomplished ; knew nothing of qua- 
drilles, though her every motion was dancing: 
nor a note of music, though she used to war- 
ble, like a bird, sweet snatches of old songs, 
as she skipped up and down the house; nor 
of painting, except as her taste had been form- 
ed by a minute acquaintance with nature into 
an intense feeling of art. She had that real 
extra sense, an eye for colour, too, as well as 
an ear for music. Not one in twenty — not 
one in a hundred of our sketching and copying 
ladies could love and appreciate a picture 
where there was colour and mind, a picture 
by Claude, or by our English Claudes, Wil- 
son and Hofiland, as she could — for she loved 
landscape best, because she understood it best 
— it was a portrait of which she knew the 
original. Then her needle was in her hands 
almost a pencil. I never knew such an 
embroideress — she would sit "printing her 
thoughts on lawn," till the delicate creation 
vied with the snowy tracery, the fantastic 
carving of hoar frost, the richness of Gothic 
architecture, or of that which so much re- 
sembles it, the luxuriant fancy of old point 
lace. That was her only accomplishment, and 
a rare artist she was — muslin and net were 
her canvass. She had no French either, not 
a word ; no Italian ; but then her English was 
racy, unhackneyed, pro])er to the thought to a 
degree tlvat only original thinking could give. 
She had not much reading, except of the Bible 

3* 



and Shakspeare, and Richardson's novels, in 
which she was learned ; but then her powers 
of observation were sharpened and quickened, 
in a very unusual degree, by the leisure and 
opportunity afforded for their developement, at' 
a time of life when they are most acute. She 
had nothing to distract her mind. Her atten- 
tion was always awake and alive. She was 
an excellent and curious naturalist, merely be- 
cause she had gone into the fields with her 
eyes open ; and knew all the details of rural 
management, domestic or agricultural, as well 
as the peculiar habits and modes of thinking 
of the peasantry, simply because she had lived 
in the country, and made use of her ears. 
Then she was fanciful, recollective, new ; 
drew her images from the real objects, not 
from their shadows in books. In short, to 
listen to her, and the young ladies her com- 
panions, who, accomplished to the height, had 
trodden the education-mill till they all moved 
in one step, had lost sense in sound, and ideas 
in words, was enough to make us turn masters 
and governesses out of doors, and leave our 
daughters and grand-daughters to Mrs. C.'s 
system of non-instruction. I should have 
liked to meet with another specimen, just to 
ascertain whether the peculiar charm and ad- 
vantage arose from the quick and active mind 
of this fair Ignorant, or was really the natural 
and inevitable result of the training ; but, 
alas ! to find more than one unaccomplished 
young lady, in this accomplished age, is not 
to be hoped for. So I admired and envied ; 
and her fair kinswoman pitied and scorned, 
and tried to teach ; and Mary, never made for 
a learner, and as full of animal spirits as a 
school-boy in the holidays, sang, and laughed, 
and skipped about from morning till night. 

It must be confessed, as a counter-balance 
to her other perfections, that the dear Cousin 
Mary was, as far as great natural modesty 
and an occasional touch of shyness would let 
her, the least in the world of a romp ! She 
loved to toss about children, to jump over 
stiles, to scramble through hedges, to climb 
trees; and some of her knowledge of plants 
and birds may certainly have arisen from her 
delight in these boyish amusements. And 
which of us has not found that the strongest, 
the healthiest, and most flourishing acquire- 
ment has arisen from pleasure or accident, has 
been in a manner self-sown, like an oak of the 
forest ■? Oh she was a sad romp ; as skittish 
as a wild colt, as uncertain as a butterfly, as 
uncatchable as a swallow ! But her great 
personal beauty, the charm, grace, and light- 
ness of her movements, and above all, her 
evident innocence of heart, were bribes of in- 
dulgence which no one could withstand. I 
never heard her bl'am.ed by any human being. 
The perfect unrestraint of her attitudes, and 
the exquisite symmetry of her form, would 
have rendered her an invaluable study for a 
painter. Her daily doings would have formed 



30 



OUR VILLAGE. 



a series of pictures. I have seen her scudding 
through a shallow rivulet, with her petticoats 
caught up just a little above the ankle, like a 
young Diana, and a bounding, skimming, en- 
joying motion, as if native to the element, 
which might have become a Naiad. I have 
seen her on the topmost round of a ladder, 
with one foot on the roof of a house, flinging 
down the grapes that no one else had nerve 
enough to reach, laughing, and garlanded, and 
crowned with vine leaves, like a Bacchante. 
But the prettiest combination of circumstances 
under which I ever saw her, was driving a 
donkey cart up a hill one sunny windy day, 
in September. It was a gay party of young 
women, some walking, some in open carriages 
of different descriptions, bent to see a cele- 
brated prospect from a hill called the Ridges. 
The ascent was by a steep narrow lane, cut 
deeply between sand-banks, crowned with 
high feathery hedges. The road and its pic- 
turesque banks lay bathed in the golden sun- 
shine, whilst the autumnal sky, intensely 
blue, appeared at the top as through an arch. 
The hill was so sleep that we had all dis- 
mounted, and left our ditferent vehicles in 
charge of the servants below ; but Mary, to 
whom, as incomparably the best charioteer, 
the conduct of a certain nondescript machine, 
a sort of donkey curricle, had fallen, deter- 
mined to drive a delicate little girl, who was 
afraid of the walk, to the top of the eminence. 
She jumped out for the purpose, and we fol- 
lowed, watching and admiring her as she won 
her way up the hill : now tugging at the don- 
keys in front with her bright face towards 
them and us, and springing along backwards 
— now pushing the chaise from behind — now 
running by the side of her steeds, patting and 
caressing them — now soothing the half fright- 
ened child — now laughing, nodding, and shak- 
ing her little whip at us — darting about like 
some winged creature — till at last she stopped 
at the top of the ascent, and stood for a mo- 
ment on the summit, her straw bonnet blown 
back, and held on only by the strings ; her 
brown hair playing on the wind in long natu- 
ral ringlets ; her complexion becoming every 
moment more splendid from exertion, redder 
and whiter; her eyes and her smile brighten- 
ing and dimpling; her figrure in its simple 
white gown, strongly relieved by the deep 
blue sky, and her whole form seeming to di- 
late before our eyes. There she stood under 
the arch formed by two meeting elms, a Hebe, 
a Psyche, a perfect goddess of youth and joy. 
The Ridges are very fine things altogether, 
especially the part to which we were bound, 
a turfy, breezy spot, sinking down abruptly 
like a rock into a wild foreground of heath 
and forest, with a magnificent command of 
distant objects; — but we saw nothing that 
day like the figure on the top of the hill. 

After this 1 lost sight of her for a long time. 
— She was called suddenly home by the dan- 



gerous illness of her mother, who, after lan- 
gviishing for some months, died ; and Mary 
went to live with a sister much older than 
herself, and richly married in a manufacturing 
town, where she languished in smoke, con- 
finement, dependence, and display, (for her 
sister was a match-making lady, a manoeu- 
vrer) for about a twelvemonth. She then left 
her house and went into Wales — as a gov- 
erness ! Imagine the astonishment caused by 
this intelligence amongst us all ; for I myself, 
though admiring the untaught damsel almost 
as much as I loved her, should certainly never 
have dreamed of her as a teacher. However, 
she remained in the rich baronet's family 
where she had commericed her employment. 
They liked her apparently, — there she was; 
and again nothing was heard of her for many 
months, until, happening to call on the friends 
at whose house I had originally met her, I 
espied her fair blooming face, a rose amongst 
roses, at the drawing-room window, — and in- 
stantly with the speed of light was met and 
embraced by her at the hall-door. 

There was not the slightest perceptible dif- 
ference in her deportment. She still bounded 
like a fawn, and laughed and clapped her 
hands like an infant. She was not a day 
older, or graver, or wiser, since we parted. 
Her post of tutoress had at least done her no 
harm, whatever might have been the case with 
her pupils. The more I looked at her, the 
more I wondered ; and after our mutual ex- 
pressions of pleasure had a little subsided, I 
could not resist the temptation of saying, — 
" So you are really a governess !" — "Yes." 

— "And you continue in the same family]" 

— "Yes." — "And you like your post?" — 
" O yes, yes !" — " But my dear Mary, what 
could induce you to go]" — "Why, they 
wanted a governess, so I went." — " But what 
could induce them to keep you!" The per- 
fect gravity and earnestness with which this 
question was put, set her laughing, and the 
laugh was echoed back from a group at the 
end of the room, which I had not before no- 
ticed — an elegant man in the prime of life 
showing a portfolio of rare prints to a fine girl 
of twelve, and a rosy boy of seven, evidently 
his children. "Why did they keep me] 
Ask them," replied Mary, turning towards 
them with an arch smile. " We kept her to 
teach her ourselves," said the young lady. — 
" We kept her to play cricket with us," said 
her brother. " We kept her to marry," said 
the gentleman, advancing gaily to shake hands 
with me. " She was a bad governess, per- 
haps; but she is an excellent wife — that is 
her true vocation." And so it is. She is, 
indeed, an excellent wife; and assuredly a 
most fortunate one. I never saw happiness 
so sparkling or so glowing ; never saw such 
devotion to a bride, or such fondness for a 
step-mother, as Sir W. S. and his lovely chil- 
dren show to the sweet Cousin Mary. 



WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. 



31 



WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. 

VIOLETING. 

March 27th. — It is a dull grey morning, 
with a dewy feeling in the air; fresh, but not 
windjr; cool, but not cold ; — the very day for 
I a person newly arrived from the heat, the jriare, 
the noise, and the fever of London, to plunge 
into the remotest labyrinths of the country, 
and reirain the repose of mind, the calmness 
of heart, which has been lost in that great 
Babel. I must go violeting — it is a necessity 
— and I must go alone : the sound of a voice, 
even my Lizzy's, the touch of IMayflower's 
head, even the bounding of her elastic foot, 
would disturb the serenity of feeling which I 
am trying to recover. I shall go quite alone, 
with my little basket twisted like a bee-hive, 
which I love so well, because she gave it to 
me, and kept sacred to violets and to those 
whom I love ; and I shall get out of the high 
road the moment I can. I would not meet any 
one just now, even of those whom I best like 
to meet. 

Ha ! — Is not that group — a gentleman on a 
blood horse, a lady keeping pace with him so 
gracefully and easily — see how prettily her 
veil waves in the wind, created by her own 
rapid motion ! — and that gay, gallant boy, on 
the gallant white Arabian, curveting at their 
side, but ready to spring before them every 
instant — is not that chivalrous-looking party, 
Mr. and Mrs. M. and dear B. ] No ! the se"r- 
vant is in a different livery. It is some of the 
ducal family, and one of their j'oung Etonians. 
I may go on. I shall meet no one now ; for 
I have fairly left the road, and am crossing the 
lea by one of those wandering paths amidst 
the gorse and the heath and the low broom, 
which the sheep and lambs have made — a 
path turfy, elastic, thymy, and sweet even at 
this season. 

We have the good fortune to live in an unen- 
closed parish, and may thank tiie wise cbsti- 
nacjf of two or three sturdy farmers, and the 
lucky unpopularity of a ranting madcap lord 
of the manor, for preserving the delicious green 
patches, the islets of wilderness amidst culti- 
vation, which form perhaps the peculiar beauty 
of English scenery. The common that I am 
passing now — the lea, as it is called — is one 
of the loveliest of these favoured spots. It is 
a little sheltered scene, retiring, as it were, 
from the village ; sunk amidst higher lands, 
hills would be almost too grand a word : edged 
on one side by one gay high-road, and inter- 
sected by another; and surrounded by a most 
picturesque confusion of meadows, cottages, 
farms, and orchards ; with a great pond in one 
corner, unusually bright and clear, giving a 
delightful cheerfulness and daylight to the 
picture. The swallows haunt that pond ; so 
do the children. There is a merry group round 



it now ; I have seldom seen it without one. 
Children love water, clear, bright, sparkling 
water ; it excites and feeds their curiosity ; it 
is motion and life. 

The path that I am treading leads to a less 
lively spot, to that large heavy building on one 
side of the common, whose solid wings, jutting 
out far be3'ond the main body, occupy three 
sides of a square, and give a cold shadowy 
look to the court. On one side is a gloomy 
garden, with an old man digging in it, laid out 
in straight dark beds of vegetables, potatoes, 
cabbages, onions, beans ; all earthy and mouldy 
as a newly dug grave. Not a flower or a flow- 
ering shrub : not a rose-tree, or a currant-bush ! 
Nothing but for sober melancholy use. Oh 
how different from the long irregular slips of 
the cottage-gardens, with their gay bunches 
of polyanthuses and crocuses, their wall-flow- 
ers, sending sweet odours through the narrow 
casement, and their gooseberry-trees, bursting 
into a brilliancy of leaf, whose vivid greenness 
has the effect of a blossom on the eye ! Oh 
how different! On the other side of this 
gloomy abode is a meadow of that intense 
emerald hue, which denotes the presence of 
stagnant water, surrounded by willows atreo-- 
ular distances, and like the garden, separated 
from the common by a wide, moat-like ditch. 
That is the parish work-house. All about it 
is solid, substantial, useful ; — but so dreary ! 
so cold !- so dark ! There are children in the 
court, and .yet all is silent. I always hurry 
past that place as if it were a prison. Restraint, 
sickness, age, extreme poverty, misery, which 
I have no power to remove or alleviate, — these 
are the ideas, the feelings, which the sight of 
those walls excites ; yet, perhaps, if not cer- 
tainly, they contain less of that extreme deso- 
lation than the morbid fancy is apt to paint. 
There will be found order, cleanliness, food, 
clothing, warmth, refuge for the homeless, 
medicine and attendance for the sick, rest and 
sufficiency for old age, and sympathy, the true 
and active sympathy which the poor show to 
the poor, for the unhappy. There may be 
worse places than a parish work-house — and 
yet I hurry past it. The feeling, the prejudice 
will not be controlled. 

The end of the dreary garden edges off into 
a close-sheltered lane, wandering and winding, 
like a rivulet, in gentle " sinuosities," (to use 
a word once applied by Mr. Wilberforce to the 
Thames at Henley) amidst green meadows, 
all alive with cattle, sheep, and beautiful lambs, 
in the very spring and pride of their tottering 
prettiness : or fields of arable land, more lively 
still with troops of stooping bean-setters, wo- 
men and children, in all varieties of costume 
and colour ; and ploughs and harrows, with 
their whistling boys and steady carters, going 
through, with a slow and plodding industry,' 
the main business of this busy season. What 
work bean-setting is? What"a reverse of the 
position assigned to man to distinguish him 



32 



OUR VILLAGE. 



from the beasts of the field ! Only think of 
stooping for six, eight, ten hours a day drilling- 
holes in the earth with a little stick, and then 
dropping in the beans one by one. They are 
paid according to the quantity they plant; and 
some of the poor women used to be accused 
of clumping them — that is to say, of dropping 
more than one bean into a hole. It seems to 
me, considering the temptation, that not to 
clump is to be at the very pinnacle of human 
virtue. 

Another turn in the lane, and we come to 
the house standing amongst the high elms — 
the old farm-house, which always, I don't 
know why, carries back my imagination to 
Shakspeare's days. It is a long, low, irregular 
building, with one room at an angle from the 
house, covered with iv}"^, fine white-veined 
ivy ; the first floor of the main building pro- 
jecting and supported by oaken beams, and 
one of the windows below, with its old case- | 
ment and long narrow panes, forming the half 
of a shallow hexagon. A porch with seats in 
it, surmounted by a pinnacle, pointed roofs, 
and clustered chimneys, complete the picture. 
Alas ! it is little else but a picture ! The very 
w*alls are crumbling to decay under a careless 
landlord and a ruined tenant. 

Now a few yards farther, and I reach the 
bank. Ah ! I smell them already — their ex- 
quisite perfume steams and lingers in this 
moist heavy air. — Through this little gate, 
and along the green south bank of this green 
wheat field, and they burst upon me, the love- 
ly violets, in tenfold loveliness ! — The ground 
is covered with them, white and purple, en- 
amelling the short dewy giass, looking but 
the more vividly coloured under the dull, 
leaden sky. There they lie by hundreds, bj'' 
thousands. In former years I have been used 
to watch them from the tiny green bud, till 
one or two stole into bloom. Ttiey never 
came on me before in such a sudden and 
luxuriant glory of simple beauty, — and I do 
really owe one pure and genuine pleasure to 
feverish London ! How beautiful they are 
placed too, on this sloping bank, with the 
palm branches waving over them, full of early 
bees, and mixing their honeyed scent with the 
more delicate violet odour ! How transparent 
and smooth and lusty are the branches, full 
of sap and life ! And there, just by the old 
mossy root, is a superb tuft of primroses, with 
a yellow butterfly hovering over them, like a 
flower floating on the air. What happiness to 
sit on this turfy knoll, and fill my basket with 
the blossoms ! What a renewal of heart and 
mind ! To inhabit such a scene of peace and 
sweetness is again to be fearless, gay and 
gentle as a child. Then it is that thought be 
comes poetry, and feeliag religion. — Then it 
is that we are happy and good. Oh that my 
whole life could pass so, floating on blissful 
and innocent sensation, enjoying in peace and 
gratitude the common blessings of Nature, 



thankful above all for the simple habits, the 
healthful temperament, which render them so 
dear! Alas! who may dare expect a life of 
such happiness'? — But I can at least snatch 
and prolong the fleeting pleasure, can fill my 
basket with pure flowers, and my heart with 
pure thoughts; can gladden my little home 
with their sweetness; can divide my treasures 
with one, a dear one, who cannot seek them; 
can see them when I shut my eyes ; and 
dream of them when I fall asleep. 



THE TALKING LADY. 

Ben Jonson has a play called The Silent 
W^oman, who turns out, as might be expected, 
to be no woman at all — nothing, as Master 
Slender said, but "a great lubberly boy;" 
thereby, as I apprehend, discourteously jire- 
suming that a silent woman is a non-entity. 
If the learned dramatist, thus happily pre- 
pared and pre-disposed, had happened to fall 
in with such a specimen of female loquacity 
as I have just parted with, he might perhaps 
have given us a pendant to his picture in the 
Talking Lady, Pity but he had ! lie would 
have done her justice, which I could not at 
any 'time, least of all now: I am too much 
stunned ; too much like one escaped from a 
belfry on a coronation day. I am just resting 
from the fatigue of four days' hard listening; 
four snowy, sleety, rain)"- days — days of every 
variety of falling weather, all of them too bad 
to admit the possibility that any pettinoated 
thing, were she as hardy as a Scotch fir, 
should stir out,— four days chained by " sad 
civility" to that fire-side, once so quiet, and 
again — cheering thought ! again I trust to be 
so, when the echo of that visiter's incessant 
tongue shall have died away. 

The visiter in question is a very excellent 
and respectable elderly lady, upright in mind 
and body, with a figure that does honour to 
her dancing-master, a face exceedingly well 
preserved, wrinkled and freckled, but still fair, 
and an air of gentility over her whole person, 
which is not the least aff'ected by her out-of- 
fashion garb. She could never be taken for 
any thing but a woman of family, and perhaps 
she could as little pass for any other than an 
old maid. She took us in her w^ay frojn Lon- 
don to the west of England: and being, as 
she wrote, " not quite well, not equal to much 
company, prayed tliat no other guest might be 
admitted, so that she might have the pleasure 
of our conversation ail to herself," — {Ours! 
as if it were possible for any of us to slide in 
a word edgewise!) — "and especially enjoy 
the gratification of talking over old times with 
the master of the house, her countryman." 
Such was the promise of her letter, and to the 
letter it has been kept. All the news and 



THE TALKING LADY. 



33 



scandal of a large county forty years ago, and 
a hundred years before, and ever since, all the 
marriages, deaths, births, elopements, law- 
suits, and casualties of her own times, her 
father's, grandfather's, great-grandfather's, ne- 
})hew's, and grand-nephew's, has she detailed 
with a minuteness, an accuracy, a prodigality 
of learning, a profuseness of proper names, a 
pedantry of locality, which would excite the 
envy of a county historian, a king-at-arms, or 
even a Scotch novelist. Her knowledge is 
astonishing; but the most astonishing part of 
all is how she came by that knowledge. It 
should seem, to listen to her, as if, at some 
time of her life, she must have listened her- 
self; and yet her countryman declares, that in 
the forty years he has known her, no such 
event has occurred ; and she knows new news 
too ! It must be intuition. 

The manner of her speech has little re- 
markable. It is rather old-fashion6d and pro- 
vincial, but perfectly lady-like, low and gen- 
tle, and not seeming so fast as it is ; like the 
great pedestrians she clears her ground easily, 
and never seems to use any exertion ; yet, " I 
would my horse had the speed of her tongue, 
and so good a continuer." She will talk you 
sixteen hours a day for twenty days together, 
and not deduct one poor five minutes for halts 
and baiting time. Talking, sheer talking, is 
meat and drink and sleep to her. She likes 
nothing else. Eating is a sad interruption. 
For the tea-table she has some toleration ; but 
dinner, with its clatter of plates and jingle of 
knives and forks, dinner is her abhorrence. 
Nor are the other common pursuits of life 
more in her favour. Walking exhausts the 
breath that might be better emplo)'ed. Danc- 
ing is a noisy diversion, and singing is worse ; 
she cannot endure any music, except the long, 
grand, dull concerto, which nobody thinks of 
listening to. Reading and chess she classes 
together as silent barbarisms, unworthy of a 
social and civilized people. Cards, too, have 
their faults; there is a rivalry, a mute elo- 
quence in those four aces, that leads away the 
attention; besides, partners will sometimes 
scold ; so she never plays at cards ; and upon 
the strength of this abstinence had very nearly 
passed for serious, till it was discovered that 
she could not abide a long sermon. She al- 
ways looks out for the shortest preacher, and 
never went to above one Bible meeting in her 
life. " Such speeches !" quoth she, " I thought 
the men never meant to have done. People 
have great need of patience." Plays, of 
course, she abhors ; and operas, and mobs, 
•and all things that will be heard, especially 
children ; though for babies, particularly when 
asleep, for dogs and pictures, and such silent 
intelligences as serve to talk of and talk to, 
she has a considerable partialirty ; and an 
agreeable and gracious flattery to the mammas 
and other owners of these pretty dumb things 
is a very usual introduction to her miscelia- 

E 



neous harangues. The matter of these ora- 
tions is inconceivably various. Perhaps the 
local and genealogical anecdotes, the sort of 
supplement to the history of *****shire, may 
be her strongest point; but she shines almost 
as much in medicine and -housewifery. Her 
medical dissertations savour a little of that 
particular branch of the science called quack- 
ery. She has a specific against almost every 
disease to which the human frame is liable; 
and is terribly prosy and unmerciful in her 
symptoms. Her cures kill. In house-keep- 
ing, her notions resemble those of other verbal 
managers; full of economy and retrenchment, 
with a leaning towards reform, though she 
loves so well to declaim on the abuses in the 
cook's department, that I am not sure that she 
would very heartily thank any radical who 
should sweep them quite away. For the rest, 
her system sounds very finely in theory, but 
rather fails in practice. Her recipes would 
be capital, only that some way or other they 
do not eat well ; her preserves seldom keep ; 
and her sweet wines are sure to turn sour. 
These are certainly her favourite toj)ics ; but 
any one will do. Allude to some anecdote of 
the neighbourhood, and she forthwith treats 
you with as many parallel passages as are to 
be found in an air with variations. Take up 
a new publication, and she is equally at home 
there ; for though she knows little of books, 
she has, in the course of an up-and-down life, 
met with a good many authors, and teazes 
and provokes you by telling of them precisely 
what you do not care to hear, the maiden 
names of their wives, and the Christian names 
of their daughters, and into what families their 
sisters and cousins married, and in what 
towns they have lived, what streets, and what 
numbers. Boswell himself never drew up^ 
the table of Dr. Johnson's Fleet-street courts 
with greater care, than she made out to me 
the successive residences of P. P., Esq., au- 
thor of a tract on the French Revolution, and 
a pamphlet on the Poor Laws. The very 
weather is not a safe subject. Her memory 
is a perpetual register of hard frosts, and long 
droughts, and high winds, and terrible storms, 
with all the evils that followed in their train, 
and all the personal events connected with 
them, so that if you happen to remark that 
clouds are come up, and you fear it may rain, 
she replies, " Ay, it is just such a morning as 
three and thirty years ago, when my poor cou- 
sin was married — you remember my cousin 
Barbara — she married so and so, the son of 
so and so ;" and then comes the whole pedi- 
gree of the bridegroom ; the amount of the 
settlements, and the reading and signing them 
over night; a description of the wedding- 
dresses, in the style of Sir Charles Grand ison, 
and how much the bride's gown cost per j'ard ; 
the names, residences, and a short subsequent 
history of the bridemaids and men, the gen- 
tleman who gave the bride away, and the 



34 



OUR VILLAGE. 



clergyman who performed the ceremony, with 
a learned antiquarian digression relative to 
the church ; then the setting out in procession ; 
the marriage; the kissing; the crying; the 
breakfasting; the drawing the cake through 
the ring; and finally, the hridal excursion, 
which brings us back again at an hour's end 
to the starting-post, the weather, and the whole 
story of the sopping, the drying, the clothes- 
spoiling, the cold-catching, and all the small 
evils of a summer shower. By this time it 
rains, and she sits down to a pathetic see- 
saw of conjectures on the chance of Mrs. 
Smith's having set ont for her daily walk, 
or the possibility that Dr. Brown may liave 
ventured to visit his patients in his gig, and 
the certainty that Lady Green's new house- 
maid would come from London on the outside 
of the coach. 

With all this intolerable prosing, she is 
actually reckoned a pleasant woman ! Her 
acquaintance in the great manufacturing town 
where she usuall}' resides is very large, which 
may partly account for the misnomer. Her 
conversation is of a sort to bear dividing. 
Besides, there is, in all large societies, an 
instinctive sympathy which directs each in- 
dividual to the companion most congenial to 
his humour. Doubtless, her associates deserve 
the old French compliment, ^^ lis ont tons un 
grand talent pour It silence.''^ Parcelled out 
amongst some seventy or eighty, there may 
even be some savour in her talk. It is the 
iete-d-fete that kills, or the small fire-side cir- 
cle of three or four, where only one can speak, 
and all the rest must se°m to listen — seem ! 
did I say*! — must listen in good earnest. 
Hotspur's expedient in a similar situation of 
crying " Hem ! Go to," and marking; not a 
word, will not do here ; compared to her, 
Owen Glendower was no conjurer. She has 
the e}'^e of a hawk, and detects a wandering 
glance, an incipient yawn, the slightest move- 
ment of impatience. The very needle must 
be quiet. If a pair of scissors do but wag, 
she is affronted, draws herself up, breaks off 
in the middle of a story, of a sentence, of a 
word, and the unlucky culprit must, for civil- 
ity's sake, summon a more than Spartan for- 
titude, and beg the torturer to resume her 
torments — " That, that is the unkindest cut of 
all !" I wonder, if she had happened to have 
married, how many husbands she would have 
talked to death. It is certain that none of 
her relations are longlived after she comes to 
reside with them. Father, mother, uncle, 
sister, brother, two nephews, and one niece, 
all those have successively passed away, 
though a healthy race, and with no visible dis- 
order — except — t)ut we must not be unchari- 
table. They might have died, though she 
had been born dumb : — " It is an accident that 
happens every day." Since the disease of 
iier last nephew, she attempted to form an 
establishment with a widow lady, for the sake, 



as they both said, of the comfort of society. 
But — strange miscalculation ! she was a talker 
too ! They parted in a week. 

And we have also parted. I am just re- 
turning from escorting her to the coach, which 
is to convey her two hundred miles westward ; 
and I have still the murmur of her adieux 
resounding in my ears, like the indistinct hum 
of the air on a frosty night. It was curious 
to see how, almost simultaneously, these 
mournful adieux shaded into cheerful saluta- 
tions of her new comrades, the passengers in 
the mail. Poor souls ! Little does the civil 
young lad who made way for her, or the fat 
lady, his mamma, who with pains and incon- 
venience made room for her, or the grumpy 
gentleman in the opposite corner, who after 
some dispute, was at length won to admit her 
dressing box, — little do they suspect what is 
to befall them. Two hundred miles I and she 
never sleeps in a carriage! Well, patience 
be with them, and comfort and peace ! A 
pleasant journey to them ! And to her all 
happiness I She is a most kind and excellent 
person, one for whom I would do any thing in 
my poor power — ay, even were it to listen to 
her another four days. 



ELLEN. 

A VERY small gift may sometimes cause 
great pleasure. I have just received a present 
which has delighted me more than any thing 
ever bestowed on me by friends or fortune. 
It is — but my readers shall guess what it is; 
and, that they may be enabled to do so, I must 
tell them a story. 

Charlotte and Ellen Page were the twin 
daughters of the rector of N., a small town 
in Dorsetshire. They were his only children, 
having lost their mother shortly after their 
birth ; and, as their father was highly con- 
nected, and still more highly accomplished, 
and possessed good church preferment with a 
considerable private fortune, they were reared 
and educated in the most liberal and expensive 
style. Whilst mere infants they had been 
uncommonly beautiful, and as remarkably 
alike as occasionally happens with twin sisters, 
distinguished only by some ornament of dress. 
Their very nurse, as she used to boast, could 
hardly tell her pretty "couplets" apart, so 
exactly alike were the soft blue eyesi the rosy 
cheeks, the cherry lips, and the curly light 
hair. Change the turquoise necklace for the 
coral, and nurse herself would not know Char- 
lotte from Ellen. This pretty puzzle, this 
inconvenience, of whic^h mammas and aunts 
and grandmammas love to complain, did not 
last long. Either from a concealed fall, or 
fVom original delicacy of habit, the little Ellen 
faded and drooped almost into deformity. 
There was no visible defect in her shape, ex- 



ELLEN. 



35 



cept a sliofht and almost imperceptible lame- 
ness when in quick motion ; but there was 
the marked and peculiar look in the features, 
the languor and debility, and above all, the 
distressing- consciousness attendant upon im- 
perfect formation ; and, at the age of twenty 
j^ears, the contrast between the sisters was 
even more striking than the likeness had been 
at two. 

Charlotte was a fine, robust, noble-looking 
girl, rather above the middle height ; her eyes 
and complexion sparkled and glowed with 
life and health, her rosy lips seemed made for 
smiles, and her glossy brown hair played in 
natural ringlets round her dimpled fiice. Her 
manner was a happy mixture of the playful 
and the gentle; frank, innocent, and fearless, 
she relied with a sweet confidence on every 
body's kindness, was ready to be pleased, 
and secure of pleasing. Her artlessness and 
naivete had great success in society, especially 
as they were united with the most perfect 
good-breeding, and considerable quickness and 
talent. Her musical powers were of the most 
delightful kind ; she sang exquisitely, joining, 
to great taste and science, a life, and freedom, 
and buoyancy, quite unusual in that artificial 
personage, a young lady. Her clear and ring- 
ing notes had tlie effect of a milk-maid's song, 
as if a mere ebullition of animal spirits ; there 
was no resisting tlie contagion of Charlotte's 
glee. She was a general favourite, and above 
all a favourite at home, — the apple of her 
father's eye, the pride and ornament of his 
house, and the delight and comfort of his life. 
The two children had been so much alike, 
and born so nearly together, that the pre- 
cedence in age had never been definitely set- 
tled ; but that point seemed very early to 
decide itself. Unintentionally, as it were, 
Charlotte took the lead, gave invitations, re- 
ceived visiters, sate at the head of the table, 
became in fact and in name Miss Page, while 
her sister continued Miss Ellen. 

Poor Ellen ! she was short, and thin, and 
sickly, and pale, with no personal charm but 
the tender expression of her blue eyes and the 
timid sweetness of her countenance. The 
resemblance to her sister had vanished alto- 
gether, except when very rarely some strong 
emotion of pleasure, a word of praise, or a 
look of kindness from her father, would bring 
a smile and a blush at once into her face, and 
lighten it up like a sunbeam. Then, for a 
passing moment, she was like Charlotte, and 
even prettier, — there was so much of mind, 
of soul, in the transitory beauty. In manner 
she was unchangeably gentle and distressingly 
shy, shy even to awkwardness. Shame and 
fear clung to her like her shadow. In com- 
pany she could neither sing, nor play, nor 
speak, without trembling, especially when her 
father was present. Her awe of him was 
inexpressible. Mr. Page was a man of con- 
siderable talent and acquirement, of polished 



and elegant manners, and great conversational 
power, — quick, ready, and sarcastic. He 
never condescended to scold ; but there was 
something very formidable in the keen s'lance, 
and the cutting jest, to which poor Ellen's 
want of presence of mind frequently exposed 
her, — something from which she shrank into 
the very earth. He was a good man too, and 
a kind father — at least he meant to be so, — 
attentive to her health and comfort, strictly 
impartial in favours and presents, in pocket- 
money and amusements, making no difference 
between the twins, except that which he could 
not help, the difference in his love. But, to 
an apprehensive temper and an affectionate 
heart, that was every thing; and whilst Char- 
lotte flourished and blossomed like a rose in 
the sunshine, Ellen sickened and withered 
like the same plant in the shade. 

Mr. Page lost much enjoyment by this un- 
fortimate partiality ; for he had taste enough 
to have particularly valued the high endow- 
ments which formed the delight of the few 
friends to whom his dauohter was intimately 
known. To them not only her varied and ac- 
curate acquirements, but her singular richness 
of mind, her grace and propriety of expression 
and fertility of idea, joined to the most perfect 
ignorance of her own superiority, rendered her 
an object of as much admiration as interest. 
In poetry, especially, her justness of taste and 
quickness of feeling were almost unrivalled. 
She was no poetess herself, never, I believe, 
even ventured to compose a sonnet; and her 
enjoyment of high literature was certainly the 
keener for that wise abstinence from a vain 
competition. Her admiration was really worth 
having. The tears would come into her eyes, 
the book would fall from her hand, and she 
w^ould sit lost in ecstasy over some noble pas- 
sage, till praise, worthy of the theme, would 
burst in unconscious eloquence from her lips. 

But the real charm of Ellen Page lay in the 
softness of her heart and the generosity of her 
character: no human being was ever so free 
from selfishness, in all its varied and clinging 
forms. She literally forgot herself in her pure 
and ardent sympathy with all whom she loved, 
or all to whom she could be useful. There 
were no limits to her indulgence, no bounds 
to her candour. Shy and timid as she was, 
she forgot her fears to plead for the innocent, 
or the penitent, or even the guilty. She was 
the excnser-general of the neighbourhood, 
turned every speech and action the sunny side 
without, and often in her good-natured acute- 
ness hit on the real principle of action, when 
the cunning and the worldly-wise and the 
cynical, and such as look only for bad mo- 
tives, had failed. vShe had, too, that rare 
quality, a genuine sympathy not only with 
the sorrowful, (there is a pride in that feeling, 
a superiority, — we have all plenty of that,) 
but with the happy. She could smile with 
those who smiled, as well as weep with those 



36 



OUR VILLAGE 



who wept, and rpjoice in a success to which 
she had not contrihiitod, protected from every 
touch of envy, no less hy her nohle spirit than 
hy her pure humility: she never thought of 
herself. 

So constituted, it mny ho imagined that she 
was, to all who really knew her, an object of 
intense admiration and love. Servants, chil- 
dren, poor people, all adored Miss Ellen. She 
had other friends in her own rank of life, who 
had fdund heroiit — many; hut her chief friend, 
her principal admirer, she who loved her with 
the most entire affection, and looked up to her 
with the most devoted respect, was her sister. 
Never was the strontr and lovely tie of twin- 
sisterhood more closely knit than in these two 
charming younsr women. Ellen looked on hf?r 
favoured sister with a pure and unjealous de- 
light that made its own happiness, a spirit of 
candour and of justice that never permitted her 
to cast a shade of hlame on the sweet ohiect 
of her father's partiality: she never indeed 
blamed him ; it seemed to her so natural that 
every one should prefer her sister. Charlotte, 
on the other hand, used all her influence for 
Ellen, protected and defended her, and was 
half tempted to murmur at an affection which 
she would have valued more if shared equally 
with that dear friend. Thus they lived in 
peace and harmony; Charlotte's bolder tem- 
per and higher spirits leading and guiding in 
all common points, whilst on the more im- 
portant she implicitly yielded to Ellen's judg- 
ment. But, when they had reached their 
twenty-first year, a great evil threatened one 
of the sisters, arising (strange to say) from the 
other's happiness. Charlotte, the reiirning 
belle of an extensive and affluent neigrhbour- 
hood, had had almost as many suitors as 
Penelope; but, light-hearted, happy at home, 
constantly busy and gny, she had taken no 
thouofht of love, and always struck me as a 
very likely subject for an old maid; yet her 
time came at last. A young man, the very 
reverse of herself, pale, thoughtful, gentleman- 
like, and melancholy, wooed and won our fair 
Euphrosyne. He was the second son of a 
noble house, and bred to the church ; and it 
was agreed between the fathers, that, as soon 
as he should be ordained, (for he still wanted 
some months of the necessary age,) and set- 
tled in a fimily living held for him by a friend, 
the young couple should be married. 

Li the mean while Mr. Page, who had re- 
cently succeeded to some property in Ireland, 
found it necessary to go thither for a short 
time; and, unwilling to take his daughters 
with him, as his estate lay in the disturbed 
districts, he indulged us with their company 
during his absence. They came to us in the 
bursting spring-time, on the very same day 
with the nightingale; the country was new 
to them, and they were delighted with the 
scenery and with our cottage life. We, on 
our part, were enchanted with our young 



guests. Charlotte was certainly the most 
amiable of enamoured damsels, for love with 
her was but a more sparkling and smiling 
form of happiness ; — all that there was of care 
and fear in this attachment fell to Ellen's lot; 
but even she, though sighing at the thought 
of parting, could not be very miserable whilst 
her sister was so happy. 

A few days after their arrival, we happened 
to dine with our accomplished neighbours, 
Colonel Falkner and his sister. Our young 
friends of course accompanied us; and a simi- 
larity of age. of liveliness, and of musical 
talent, speedily recommended Charlotte and 
Miss Falkner to each other. They became 
immediately intimate, and were soon almost 
inseparable. Ellen at first hung hack. "The 
house was too gay, too full of shifting com- 
pany, of titles, and of strange faces. Miss 
Falkner was very kind ; but she took too much 
notice of her, introduced her to lords and la- 
dies, talked of her drawings, and pressed her 
to sing: — she would rather, if I pleased, stay 
with me, and walk in the coppice, or sit in 
the arbour, and one misrht read Spenser, while 
the other worked — that would be best of all. 
Mio-ht she stay ■?" — " Oh surely ! But Colo- 
nel Falkner, Ellen. I thought you would have 
liked him?" — " Yes !"^" That jres sounds 
exceedingly like «o," — " Why, is he not al- 
most too clever, too elegant, too grand a man ] 
Too mannered, as it were ! Too much like 
what one fancies of a prince — of George the 
Fourth, for instance — too high and too con- 
descending? These are strange faults," con- 
tinued she, laughing — "and it is a curious 
injustice that I should dislike a man merely 
because he is so graceful, that he makes me 
feel doubly awkward — so tall, that I am in 
his presence a conscious dwarf — so alive and 
eloquent in conversation, that I feel more than 
ever puzzled and unready. But so it is. To 
say the truth, I am more afraid of him than 
of any human being in the world, except one. 
I may stay with you — may I not; and read 
of Una and of Britomart — that prettiest scene 
where her old nurse soothes her to sleep 1 I 
may stay?" And for two or three mornings 
she did stay with me ; but Charlotte's influ- 
ence and Miss Falkner's kindness speedily 
drew her to Holly-grove, at first shyly and 
reluctantly, yet soon with an evident though 
quiet enjoyment; and we, sure that our young 
visiters could gain nothing hut good in such 
society, were pleased that they should so vary 
the humble home-scene. 

Colonel Falkner was a man in the very 
prime of life, of that happy age which unites 
the grace and spirit of youth with the firmness 
and vigour of manhood. The heir of a large 
fortune, he had served in the peninsular war, 
fought in Spain and France, and at Wati>rloo, 
and, quitting the army at the peace, had loi- 
tered about Germany and Italy and Greece, 
and only returned on the death of his father, 



ELLEN. 



37 



two or three years back, to reside on the 
family estate, where he had won " jjolden 
opinions from all sorts of people." He was, 
as Ellen trnly described him, tall and ofrace- 
ful, and well-bred almost to a fault; remind- 
ino- her of that heau-ideal of courtly eleg'ance, 
Georjre the Fourth, and me, (])ray, reader, do 
not tell !) me, a little, a very little, the least 
in the world, of Sir Charles Grandison. He 
certainly did excel rather too much in the 
mere forms of politeness, in cloakin^is and 
bowing-s, and bandino^s down stairs; but then 
he was, like both his prototypes, thorouorhly 
imbued with its finer essence — considerate, 
attentive, kind, in the most comprehensive 
sense of that comprehensive word. I have 
certainly known men of deeper learninpr and 
more original g^enius, but never any one whose 
powers were better adapted to conversation, 
who could blend more happily the most va- 
ried and extensive knowledfje with the most 
playful wit and the most interesting^ .and ami- 
able character. Fascinating was the word 
that seemed made for him. His conversation 
was entirely free from trickery and display — 
the charm was (or seemed to be) perfectly 
natural: he was an excellent listener; and 
when he was speakinor to any eminent person 
— orator, artist, or poet, — I have sometimes 
seen a slifrht hesitation, a momentary diffi- 
dence, as attractive as it was unexpected. It 
was this astonishing evidence of fellow-feel- 
ingr, joined to the g^entleness of his tone, the 
sweetness of his smile, and his studied avoid- 
ance of all particular notice or attention, that 
first reconciled Ellen to Colonel Falkner. His 
sister, too, a charming young woman, as like 
him as Viola to Sebastian, began to under- 
stand the sensitive properties of this shrinking 
and delicate flower, which, left to itself, repaid 
their kind neglect by unfolding in a manner 
that surprised and delighted us all. Before 
the spring had glided into summer, Ellen was 
as much at home at Holly-grove as with us; 
talked and laughed and played and sang as 
freely as Charlotte. She would indeed break 
off if visibly listened to, either when speak- 
ing or singing; but still the ice was broken; 
that rich, low, mellow voice, unrivalled in 
pathos and sweetness, might be heard every 
evening, even by the Colonel, with little more 
precaution, not to disturb her by praise or no- 
tice, than would be used with her fellow-war- 
bler the nightingale. 

She was happj^ at Holly-grove, and we 
were delighted ; but so shifting and various 
are human feelings and wishes, that, as the 
summer wore on, before the hay-making was 
over in its beautiful park, whilst the bees 
were still in its lime-trees, and the golden 
beetle lurked in its white rose, I began to 
lament that she had ever seen Holly-grove, 
or known its master. It was clear to me, that 
unintentionally on his part, unwittingly on 
hers, her heart was gone, — and, considering 



the merit of the unconscious possessor, pro- 
bably gone for ever. She had all the pretty 
marks of love at that happy moment when the 
name and nature of the ))assion are alike un- 
suspected by the victim. To her there was 
but one object in the whole world, and that 
one was Colonel Falkner: she jived only in 
his presence; hung on his words; was rest- 
less she knew not why in his absence; adopted 
his tastes and opinions, which differed from 
hers as those of clever men so frequently do 
from those of clever women ; read the books 
he praised, and praised them too, deserting 
our old idols, Spenser and Fletcher, for his 
favourites, Dryden and Pope ; sang the songs 
he loved as she walked about the house ; drew 
his features instead of Milton's in a portrait 
which she was copying for me of our great 
poet, — and finally wrote his name on the mar- 
gin. She moved as in a dream — a dream as 
innocent as it was delicious! — but oh, the 
sad, sad waking! It made my heart ache to 
think of the misery to which that fine and 
sensitive mind seemed to be reserved. Ellen 
was formed for constancy and suffering — it 
was her first love, and it would be her last. 
I had no hope that her affection was returned. 
Young men, talk as they may of mental at- 
tractions, are commonly the slaves of p'l^rsonal 
chariTis. Colonel Falkner, especially, was 
a professed admirer of beauty, I had even 
sometiines fancied that he was caught by 
Charlotte's, and had therefore taken an op- 
portunity to communicate her engagement to 
his sister. Certainly he paid our fair and 
blooming guest extraordinary attention ! anj' 
thing of gallantry or compliment was always 
addressed to her, and so for the most part was 
his gay and captivating conversation ; whilst 
his manner to Ellen, though exquisitely soft 
and kind, seemed rather that of an affectionate 
brother. I had no hopes. 

Affairs were in this posture when I was at 
once grieved and relieved by the unexpected 
recall of our young visiters. Their father had 
completed his business in Ireland, and was 
eager to return to his dear home, and his dear 
children ; Charlotte's lover, too, was ordained, 
and was impatient to possess his promised 
treasure. The intended bridegroom was to 
arrive the same evening to escort the fair sis- 
ters, and the journej' was to take place the 
next day. Imagine the revulsion of feeling 
produced by a short note, a bit of folded paj)er 
— the natural and redoubled ecstasy of Char- 
lotte, the mingled emotions of Ellen. She 
wept bitterly : at first she called it joy — joy 
that she should again see her dear father; 
then it was grief to lose her Charlotte ; grief 
to part from me ; but, when she threw herself 
in a farewell embrace on the neck of Miss 
Falkner, whose brother happened to be absent 
for a few days on business, the truth appeared 
to burst upon her at once, in a gush of agony 
that seemed likely to break her heart. Miss 



38 



OUR VILLAGE, 



Falkner was deeply affeoteJ ; becrcred her to 
write to her often, very often ; loaded her with 
the ^ifts of little price, the valueless tokens 
which affection holds so dear, and stole one 
of her fair ring-lets in return. "This is the 
curl which William used to admire," said 
she : " have you no messaore for poor Wil- 
liam]" — Poor Ellen ! her blushes spoke, and 
the tears that dropped from her downcast 
eyes; but she had no utterance. Charlotte, 
however, came to her relief with a profusion 
of thanks and compliments ; and Ellen, weep- 
ing with a voice that would not be controlled, 
at last left Holly-orrove. 

The next day we too lo5t our dear young 
friends. Oh what a sad day it was! how 
much we missed Charlotte's bright smile and 
Ellen's sweet complacency ! We walked 
about desolate and forlorn, with the painful 
sense of want and insufficiency, and of that 
vacancy in our home, and at our board, which 
the departure of a cherished guest is sure to 
occasion. To lament the absence of Char- 
lotte, the dear Charlotte, the happiest of the 
happy, was pure selfishness ; but of the aching 
heart of Ellen, my dear Ellen, I could not 
bear to think — and yet I could think of no- 
thing else, could call up no other image than 
her pale and trembling form, weeping and 
sobbing as I had seen her at Holly-grove ; she 
haunted even my dreams. 

Early the ensuing morning I was called 
down to the colonel, and found him in the 
garden. He apologized for his unseasonable 
intrusion ; talked of the weather, then of the 
loss which our society had sustained ; blushed 
and hesitated ; had again recourse to the wea- 
ther ; and at last by a mighty effort, after two 
or three sentences begun and unfinished, con- 
trived, with an embarrassment more graceful 
and becoming than all his polished readiness, 
to ask me to furnish him with a letter to Mr. 
Pace. " You must have seen," said he, co- 
louring and smiling, " that I was captivated 
by your beautiful friend ; and I hope — I could 
have wished to have spoken first to herself, to 
have made an interest — but still if her affec- 
tions are disengaged — tell me, you who must 
know, you who are always my friend, have I 
any chance? Is she disengaged 1" " Alas ! 
I have sometimes feared this; but I tho\ight 
you had heard — your sister at least was 
aware" — "Of what] It was but this very 
morning — aware of what ]" "Of Charlotte's 
engagement." "Charlotte! It is of Ellen, 
not her sister, that I speak and think ! Of 
Ellen, the pure, the delicate, the divine! 
That whitest and sweetest of flowers ; the 
jasmine, the myrtle, th^ tuberose among wo- 
men," continued he, elucidating his similes 
by gathering a sprig of each plant, as he 
paced quickly up and down the garden walk 
— "Ellen, the fairest and the best; your 
darling and mine! Will you give me a letter 
to her father] And will you wish me suc- 



cess?" "Willi! Oh ! how sincerely ! My 
dear colonel, I beg a thousand pardons for un- 
dervaluing your taste — for suspecting you of 
preferring a damask rose to a blossomed myr- 
tle; I should have known you better." And 
then we talked of Ellen, dear Ellen, — talked 
and praised till even the lover's heart was sa- 
tisfied. I am convinced that he went away 
that morning, persuaded that I was one of 
the cleverest women, and the best judges of 
character that ever lived. 

And now my story is over. What need to 
say, that the letter was written with the 
warmest zeal, and received with the most 
cordial graciousness — or that Ellen, though 
shedding sweet tears, bore the shock of joy 
better than the shock of grief, — or that the 
twin sisters were married on the same day, at 
the same altar, each to the man of her heart, 
and each with every prospect of more than 
common felicity 1 What need to say this ] 
Or having said this, why should I tell what 
was the gift that so enchanted me 1 I will 
not tell: — my readers shall decide according 
to their several fancies between silver favours 
or bridal gloves, or the magical wedding cake 
drawn nine times through the ring. 



W^ALKS IN THE COUNTRY, 

THE COWSLIP-BALL. 

May IGih. — There are moments in life, 
when, without any visible or immediate cause, 
the spirits sink and fall, as it were, under the 
mere pressure of existence : moments of un- 
accountable depression, when one is weary 
of one's very thoughts, haunted by images 
that will not depart — images many and vari- 
ous, but all painful ; friends lost, or changed, 
or dead ; hopes disappointed even in their ac- 
complishment; fruitless regrets, powerless 
wishes, doubt and fear and self-distrust, and 
self-disapprobation. They who have known 
these feelings, (and who is there so happy as 
not to have known some of them?) will un- 
derstand why Alfieri became powerless, and 
Froissart dull ; and why even needle-work, 
that most effectual sedative, that grand soother 
and composer of woman's distress, fails to 
comfort me to-day. I will go out into the air 
this cool pleasant afternoon, and try what that 
will do. I fancy that exercise, or exertion of 
any kind, is the true specific for nervousness. 
" Fling but a stone, the giant dies." I will 
go to the meadows, the beautiful meadows ! 
and I, will have my materials of happiness, 
Lizzy and May, and a basket for flowers, and 
we will make a cowslip-ball. " Did you ever 
see a cowslip-ball, my Lizzy 1" — "No." — 
" Come away, then ! make haste ! run, 
Lizzy !" 

And on we go fast, fast ! down the road, 



WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. 



39 



across the lea, past the workhouse, along by 
the great pond, till we slide into the deep nar- 
row lane, whose hedges seem to meet over 
the water, and win our way to the little farm-, 
house at the end, "Through the farm-yard, 
Lizzy ; over the gate ; never mind the cows ; 
they fire quiet enono-h." — " I don't mind 'em," 
said Miss Lizzy, boldly and truly, and with a 
proud affronted air, displeased at being thought 
to mind any thing, and sliowing by her atti- 
tude and manner some design of proving her 
courage by an attack on the largest of the 
herd, in the shape of a pull by the tail. " I 
don't mind 'em." — " I know you don't, Lizzy; 
but let them alone, and don't chase the turkey- 
cock. Come to me, my dear !" and, for a 
wonder, Lizzy came. 

In the mean time my other pet, Mayflower, 
had also gotten into a scrape. She had driven 
about a hufjp unwieldy sow, till the animal's 
grunting had disturbed the repose of a still 
more enormous Newfoundland dog, the guar- 
dian of the yard. Out he sallied growling 
from the depth of his kennel, erecting his tail, 
and shaking his long chain. May's attention 
was instantly diverted from the sow to this 
new playmate, friend or foe, she cared not 
which : and he of the kennel, seeing his 
charge unhurt and out of danger, was at lei- 
sure to observe the charms of his fair enemy, 
as she frolicked round him, always beyond 
the reach of his chain, yet always with the 
natural instinctive coquetry of her sex, alluring 
him to the pursuit which she knew to be vain. 
I never saw a prettier flirtation. At last the 
noble animal, wearied out, retired to the in- 
most recesses of his habitation, and would not 
even approach her when she stood right be- 
fore the entrance. "You are properly served. 
May. Come along, Lizzy. Across this wheat- 
field, and now over the gate. Stop! let me 
lift you down. No jumping, no breaking of 
necks, Lizzy!" And here we are in the mea- 
dows, and out of the world. Robinson Cru- 
soe, in his lonely island, had scarcely a more 
complete, or a more beautiful solitude. 

These meadows consist of a double row of 
small enclosures of rich grass-land, a mile or 
two in length, sloping down from high arable 
grounds on either side, to a little nameless 
brook that winds between them, with a course 
which in its infinite variety, clearness, and 
rapidity, seems to emulate the bold rivers of 
the north, of whom, far more than of our lazy 
southern streams, our rivulet presents a mi- 
niature likeness. Never was water more ex- 
quisitely tricksv : — now darting over the brigfht 
pebbles, sparkling and flashing in the light 
with a bubbling music, as sweet and wild as 
the song of the woodlark ; now stretching 
quietly along, giving back the rich tufts of the 
golden marsh-marygolds which grow on its 
margin ; now svv'eeping round a fine reach of 
green ffrass, rising steepljr into a high mound, 
a mimic promontory, whilst the other side 



sinks softly away, like some tiny bay, and 
the water flows between, so clear, so wide, so 
shallow, that Lizzy, longing for adventure, is 
sure she could cross unwettcd ; now dashing 
through two sand-banks, a torrent deep and 
narrow, which May clears at a bound ; now 
sleeping half-hidden beneath the alders and 
hawthorns and wild roses, with which the 
banks are so profusely and variously fringed, 
whilst flags,* lilies, and other aquatic plants, 
almost cover the surface of the stream. In 
good truth it is a beautiful brook, and one that 
Walton himself might have sitten by and 
loved, for trout are there; we see them as they 
dart up the stream, and hear and start at the 
sudden plunge when they spring to the sur- 
face for the summer flies. Izaac Walton 
would have loved our brook and our quiet 
meadows ; they breathe the very spirit of his 
own peacefulness, a soothing quietude that 
sinks into the soul. There is no path through 
them, not one; we might wander a whole 
spring day, and not see a trace of human habi- 
tation. They belong to a number of small 
proprietors, who allow each other access 
through their respective grounds, from pure 
kindness and neighbourly feeling, a privilege 
never abused ; and the fields on the other side 
of the v/ater are reached by a rough plank, or 
a tree thrown across, or some such homely 
bridge. We ourselves possess one of the 
most beautiful ; so that the strange pleasure 
of property, that instinct which makes Lizzy 
delight in her broken doll, and May in the 
bare bone which she has pilfered from the 
kennel of her recreant admirer of Newfound- 
land, is added to the other charms of this en- 
chanting scenery; a strange pleasure it is, 
when one so poor as I can feel it ! Perhaps it 
is felt most by the poor, with the rich it may 
be less intense — too much diflTused and spread 
out, becoming thin by expansion, like leaf- 
gold ; the little of the poor may be not only 
more precious, but more pleasant to them : 
certain that bit of grassy and blossomy earth, 
with its green knolls and tufted bushes, its 
old pollards wreathed with ivy, and its bright 
and babbling waters, is very dear to me. But 

* Walking along these meadows one bright sunny 
afternoon, a year or two back, and rather later in the 
seabion, I had an opportimity of observing; a curious 
circumstance in natural history. Standinc; close to 
the edge of the stream, I remarked a singular appear- 
ance on a large tuft of flags. ]t looked like bunches 
c-f flowers, the leaves oi which seemed dark, yet 
transparent, intermingled with brilliant tubes of bright 
blue or shining green. On examining this pheno- 
menon more closely, it turned out to be several 
clusters of dragon-flies, just emerged from their de- 
formed crysalis state, and still torpid atid motionless 
from the wetness of their filmy wina;9 Haif an hour 
later we returned to the spot, and they were gone. 
We had seen them at the very moment when beauty 
was complete, and animation dormant. I have since 
found nearly a similar account of this curious process 
in Mr. Biugley's very entertaining work, called "Ani- 
mal Biography." 



40 



OUR VILLAGE 



I must always have loved these meadows, so 
fresh, and cool, and delicious to the eye and 
to the tread, full of cowslips, and of all vernal 
flowers : Shakspeare's Song of Spring bursts 
irrepressibly from our lips as we step on them ; 

"When daisies pied, and violets bine, 
And lady-smofks all silver white, 
And ciickoo-biids of yellow hue. 

Do paint ihe meadows with delight, 
The cuckoo then on every tree — " 

" Cuckoo ! cuckoo !" cried Lixzy, breaking 
in with her clear childish voice; and imme- 
diately, as if at her call, the real bird, from a 
neighbouring tree (for these meadows are 
dotted with timber like a park), began to echo 
my lovely little girl, "cuckoo! cuckoo!" I 
have a prejudice very unpastoral and unpo- 
etical (but I cannot help it, I have many such), 
against this " harbinger of spring." His note 
is so monotonous, so melancholy; and then 
the boys mimic him; one hears "cuckoo! 
cuckoo!" in dirty streets, amongst smoky 
houses, and the bird is hated for faults not 
his own. But prejudices of taste, likings and 
dislikings, are not always vanquishable by 
reason ; so, to escape the serenade from the 
tree, which promised to be of considerable 
duration, (when once that eternal song begins, 
on it goes ticking like a clock) — to escape 
that noise I determined to excite another, and 
challenged Lizzy to a cowslip-gathering; a 
trial of skill and speed, to see which should 
soonest fill her basket. My stratagem suc- 
ceeded completely. What scrambling, what 
shouting, what glee from Lizzy ! twenty 
cuckoos might have sung unheard whilst she 
was pulling her own flowers, and stealing 
mine, and laughing, screaming, and talking- 
through all. 

At last the baskets were filled, and Lizzy 
declared victor : and down we sate, on the 
brink of the stream, under a spreading haw- 
thorn, just disclosing its own pearly buds, 
and surrounded with the rich and enamelled 
flowers of the wild hyacinth, blue and white, 
to make our cowslip-ball. Every one knows 
the process; to nip off the tuft of flowerets 
just below the top of the stalk, and hang each 
cluster nicely balanced across a riband, till 
you have a long string like a garland ; then to 
press them closely together, and tie them 
tightly up. We went on very prosperously, 
considering, as people say of a young lady's 
drawing, or a Frenchman's English, or a wo- 
man's tragedy, or of the poor little dwarf who 
works without fingers, or the ingenious sailor 
who writes with his toes, or generally of any 
performance which is accomplished by means 
seemingly inade{|u;ite to its |)rodiiction. To 
be sure, we mcit with a few accidents. First, 
Lizzy spoiled nearly all her cowslips by 
snapping them off too short; so there was a 
iresh gathering; in the next place, May over- 
set my full basket, and sent the blossoms 



floating, like so many fairy favours, down the 
brook ; then when we were going on pretty 
steadily, just as we had made a superb wreath, 
and were thinking of tying it together, Lizzy, 
who held the riband, caught a glimpse of a 
gorgeous butterfly, all brown and red and pur- 
ple, and skipping off to pursue the new ob- 
ject, let go her hold ; so all our treasures 
were abroad again. At last, however, by dint 
of taking a branch of alder as a substitute for 
Lizzy, and hanging the basket in a pollard- 
ash, out of sight of May, the cowslip-ball 
was finished. What a concentration of fra- 
grance and beauty it was ! golden and sweet 
to satiety ! rich to sight, and touch, and 
smell I Lizzy was enchanted, and ran off 
with her prize, hiding amongst the trees in 
the very coyness of ecstasy, as if any human 
eye, even mine, would be a restraint on her 
innocent raptures. 

In the mean while I sate listening, not to 
my enemy the cuckoo, but to a whole concert 
of nightingales, scarcely interrupted by any 
meaner bird, answering and vying with each 
other in those short delicious strains which 
are to the ear as roses to the eye ; those 
snatches of lovely sound which come across 
us as airs from heaven. Pleasant thoughts, 
delightful associations, awoke as I listened ; 
and almost unconsciously I repeated to my- 
self the beautiful story of the Lnfist and the 
Nightingale, from Ford's Lover's Melancholy. 
— Here it is. Is there in English poetry any 
thing finer? 

" Passing; from Italy to Greece, the tales 

Which poets of an elder time have feign'd 

To glorify their Tempe, bred in me 

Desire of visiting Paradise. 

To Thessaly I came, and living private. 

Without acquaintance of more sweet companions 

Than the old inmates to my love, my thoughts, 

I day by day frequented silent groves 

And solitary walks. One morning early 

This accident encountered me : I heard 

The sweetest and most ravishing contention 

That art and nature ever were at slriie ui. 

A sound of music touch'd mine ears, or rather 

Indeed entranced my soul ; as 1 stole nearer, 

Invited hy the melody, I saw 

This yoiUh, this fiiir-fiiced youth, upon his lute 

Wiih strains of strange variety and harmony 

Proclaiming, as it seem'd, so hold a challenge 

To the clear choristers of the woods, the birds, 

That as they flocU'd about him, all stood silent. 

Wondering at what they heard. 1 wonder'd too. 

A nightingale. 

Nature's bi^si-skill'd musician, undertakes 

The challenge ; and for every several strain. 

The well-shaped youth could touch, she sang him 

down. 
He could not run divisions with more art 
TTpon his (]uaking instrument than she. 
The nighlnigale, did with her various notes 
Reply to. 

Some time thus spent, the young man grew at last 
Into a pretty anger, that a bird. 
Whom art had never taught clefs, moods, or notes. 
Should vie with him for mastery, whose shidy 
Had busied many hours to perfect practice. 
To end the controversy, in a rapture 
Upon his instrument he plays so swiftly, 



A COUNTRY CRICKET-MATCH. 



41 



So many volunlaries, and so quick, 

That there was curiosity and running 

Concord ui discord, hnes of differing method 

Meeting in one lull centre of delight. 

The bird (ordain'd to be 

Music's first martyr) strove to imitate 

These several sounds: which when her warbling 

throat 
Fail'd in, fi)r grief down dropt she on his lute. 
And brake her heart. It was the quaintest sadness 
To see the conqueror upon her hearse 
To weep a funeral elegy of tears. 
He look'd upon the trophies of his art. 
Then sigh'd, then wiped his eyes ; then sigh'd and 

cried, 
'Alas! poor creature, I will soon revenge 
This cruelty upon the author of it. 
Hencef()rth this lute, guilty of innocent blood, 
Shall never more betray a harmless peace 
To an untimely end :' and in that sorrow, 
As he was pashing it against a tree, 
I suddenly stept in." 

When I had finished the recitation of this 
exquisite passage, the sky, which had heen 
all the afternoon dull and heavy, beoran to look 
more and more threatening; darker clouds, 
like wreaths of black smoke, flew across the 
tiead leaden tint; a cooler, damper air blew 
over the meadows, and a few large heavy 
drops plashed in the water. " We shall have 
a storm. Lizzy ! May! where are ye? Quick, 
quick, my Lizzy ! run, run ! faster faster !" 

And off we ran ; Lizzy not at all displeased 
at the thoughts of a wetting, to which indeed 
she is almost as familiar as a duck ; May, on 
the other hand, peering up at the weather, and 
shaking her pretty ears with manifest distnay. 
Of all animals, next to a cat, a greyhound 
dreads rain. She might have escaped it; her 
light feet would have borne her home long he- 
fore the shower; but May is too faithful for 
that, too true a comrade, understands too well 
the laws of good fellowship ; so she waited 
for us. She did, to be sure, gallop on before, 
and then stop and look back, and beckon, as 
it were, with some scorn in her black eyes at 
the slowness of our progress. We in the 
mean while got on as fast as we could, 
encouraging and reproaching each other. — 
" Faster, my Lizzy ! Oh what a bad runner!" 
— " Faster, faster ! Oh what a bad runner," 
echoed iny saucebox. " You are so fat, Liz- 
zy, you make no way !" — " Ah ! who else is 
fati" retorted the darling. Certainly her 
mother is right; I do spoil that child. 

By this time we were thoroughly soaked, 
all three. It was a pelting shower, that 
drove through our thin summer clothing and 
pqor May's short glossy coat in a moment. 
And then, when we were wet to the skin, the 
sun caine out, actually the sun, as if to laugh 
at our plight; and then, more provoking still, 
when the sun was shining, and the shower 
over, canme a inaid and a boy to look after us, 
loaded with cloaks and umbrellas enough to 
fence us against a whole day's rain. Never 



had the misfortune to lose a shoe in the mud, 
which we left the boy to look after. 

Here we are at home — dripping; but glow- 
ing and laughing, and bearing our calamity 
most manfully. May, a dog of excellent sense, 
went instantly to bed in the stable, and is at 
this moment over head and ears in straw; 
Lizzy is gone to bed too, coaxed into that 
wise measure by a promise of tea and toast, 
and of not ffoing home till to-morrow, and the 
story of Little Red Riding-Hood ; and I am 
enjoying the luxury of dry clothing by a good 
fire. Really getting wet through now and 
then is no bad thing, finery apart; for one 
should not like spoiling a new pelisse or a 
handsome pluine ; but when there is nothing 
in question but a white gown and a straw 
bonnet, as was the case to-day, it is rather 
pleasant than not. The little chill refreshes, 
and our enioyment of the subsequent warmth 
and dryness is positive and absolute. Besides, 
the stimulus and exertion do good to the mind 
as well as body ! How melancholy I was all 
the morning! how cheerful I am now! No- 
thing like a shower-bath — a real shower-bath, 
such" as Lizzy and May and 1 have undergone, 
to cure low spirits. Try it, my dear readers, 
if ever ye be nervous — I will answer for its 
success. 



A COUNTRY CRICKET-MATCH. 

I DOUBT if there he any scene in the world 
more animating or delightful than a cricket- 
match : — I do not mean a set match at Lord's 
Ground for money, hard money, between a 
certain number of gentlemen and players, as 
they are called — people who make a trade of 
that noble sport, and degrade it into an affair 
of bettings, and hedgings, and cheatings, it 
may be, like boxing or horse-racing; nor do 
I mean a pretty fete in a gentleman's park, 
where one club of cricketing dandies encounter 
another such club, and where they show off 
in graceful costume to a gay marquee of ad- 
miring belles, who condescend so to purchase 
admiration, and while away a long summer 
morning in partaking cold collations, convers- 
ing occasionally, and seeming to understand 
the game ; — the whole being conducted ac- 
cording to ball-rooin etiquette, so as to be ex- 
ceedingly elegant and exceedingly dull. No! 
the cricket that I mean is a real solid old- 
fashioned match between neighbouring parish- 
es, where each attacks the other for honour 
and a supper, glory and half-a-crown a man. 
If there be any gentlemen amongst them, it is 
well — if not, it is so much the better. Your 
gentleman cricketer is in general rather an 
anoinalous character. Elderly gentlemen are 
obviously good for nothing; and young beaux 



mind! on we go, faster and faster; Lizzy are, for the most part, hainpered and tram- 
obliged to be most ignobly carried, having I melled by dress and habit; the stiff cravat, 



42 



OUR VILLAGE. 



the pinclied-in waist, the dandy-walk — oh 
they will never do for cricket! Now, our 
country lads, accustomed to the flail or the 
hannnier (your blacksmiths are capital hitters,) 
have the free use of their arms ; they know 
how to move their shoulders ; and they can 
move their feet too — they can run ; then they 
are so much better made, so much more athle- 
tic, and yet so much lissomer — to use a 
Hampshire phrase, which deserves at least to 
be good English. Here and there, indeed, 
one meets with an old Etonian, who retains 
his boyish love for that game which formed 
so considerable a branch of his education ; 
some even preserve their boyish proficiency, 
but in general it wears away like the Greek, 
quite as certainly, and almost as fast; a few 
years of Oxford, or Cambridge, or the con- 
tinent, are sufficient to annihilate both the 
power and the inclination. No! a village 
match is the thing, — where our highest officer 
— our conductor (to borrow a musical term) is 
but a little fiirmer's second son ; where a day- 
labourer is our bowler, and a blacksmith our 
long-stop ; where the spectators consist of the 
retired cricketers, the veterans of the green, 
the careful mothers, the girls, and all the boys 
of two parishes, together with a few amateurs, 
little above them in rank, and not at all in pre- 
tension ; where laughing and shouting, and 
the very ecstasy of merriment and good hu- 
mour, prevail : such a match, in short, as I at- 
tended yesterday, at the expense of getting 
twice wet through, and as I would attend to- 
morrow, at the certainly of having that duck- 
ing doubled. 

For the last three weeks our village has 
been in a state of great excitement, occasioned 
by a challenge from our north-western neigh- 
bours, the men of B., to contend with us at 
cricket. Now we have not been much in the 
habit of playing matches. Three or four years 
ago, indeed, we encountered the men of S., our 
neighbours south-by-east, with a sort of doubt- 
ful success, beating them on our own ground, 
whilst they in the second match returned the 
compliment on theirs. This discouraged us. 
Then an utmatural coalition between a high- 
church curate and an evangelical gentleman- 
farmer drove our lads from the Sunday-evening 
practice, which, as it did not begin before both 
services were concluded, and as it tended to 
keep the young men from the ale-house, our 
magistrates had winked at, if not encouraged. 
The sport therefore had languished until the 
present season, when under another change of 
circumstances the spirit began to revive. Half 
a dozen fine active lads, of influence amongst 
their comrades, grew into men and yearned for 
cricket: an enterjjrising publican gave a set 
of ribands: his rival, mine host of the Rose, 
an out-doer by profession, gave two ; and the 
clergyman and his lay-ally, both well-disposed 
and good-natured men, gratified by the sub- 
mission to their authority, and finding, per- 



haps, that no great good resulted from the sub- 
stitution of public houses for out-of door di- 
versions, relaxed. Li short the practice recom- 
menced, and the hill was again alive with men 
and boys, and innocent merriment; but farther 
than the riband matches amongst ourselves 
nobody dreamed of going, till this challenge 
— we were modest, and doubted our own 
strength. The B. people, on the other hand, 
must have been braggers born, a whole parish 
of gasconaders. Never was such boasting! 
such crowing! such ostentatious display of 
practice ! such mutual compliments from man 
to man — bowler to batter, batter to bowler! 
It was a wonder they did not challenge all 
Encrland. It must be confessed that we were 
a little astounded ; yet we firmly resolved not 
to decline the combat; and one of the most 
spirited of the new growth, William Grey by 
name, took up the glove in a style of manly 
courtesy, that would have done honour to a 
knight in the days of chivalry. — " We were 
not professed players," he said ; '• being little 
better than school-boys, and scarcely older : 
but, since they had done us the honour ''W 
challenge us, we would try our strength. It 
would be no discredit to be beaten by such a 
field." 

Having accepted the wager of battle, our 
champion began forthwith to collect his forces. 
William Grey is himself one of the finest 
youths that one shall see, — tall, active, slender, 
and yet strong, with a piercing eye full of 
sagacity, and a smile full of good humour, — 
a farmer's son by station, and used to hard 
work as farmers' sons are now, liked by every 
body, and admitted to bean excellent cricketer. 
He immediately set forth to muster his men, 
remembering with great complacency that 
Samuel Long, a bowler comme il y en a pen, 
the very man who had knocked down nine 
wickets, had beaten us, bowled us out at the 
fatal return match some years ago at S., had 
luckily, in a remove of a quarter of a mile last 
Lady-day, crossed the boundaries of his old 
parish, and actually belonged to us. Here 
was a stroke of good fortune ! Our captain 
applied to him instantly; and he agreed at a 
word. Indeed Samuel Long is a very civilized 
person. He is a middle-aged man who looks 
rather old amongst our young lads, and whose 
thickness and breadth give no token of remark- 
able activity; but he is very active, and so 
steady a player ! so safe ! We had half gained 
the match when we had secured hinri. He is 
a man of substance, too, in every way; ow.ns 
one cow, two donkeys, six pigs, and geese and 
ducks b(^yond count; dresses like a farmer, 
and owes no man a shilling; — and all this from 
pure industry, sheer day-labour. Note that 
your good cricketer is commonly the most 
industrious man in the parish ; the habits that 
make him such are precisely those which make 
liim a good workman — steadiness, sobriety, 
and activity — Samuel Long might pass for the 



A COUNTRY CRICKET-MATCH. 



43 



bean ideal of the two characters. Happy were 
we to possess him ! Then we had another piece 
of o-ood luck. James Brown, a journeyman 
blacksmith and a native, who, being of a ram- 
blinor disposition., had roamed from place to 
p. ace for half a dozen years, had just returned 
to settle with his brother at another corner of 
our villag-e, brintring with him a proditjious 
reputation in cricket and in gallantry — the oay 
Lothario of the neighbourhood. He is said to 
have made more conquests in love and in cricket 
than any blacksmith in the county. To him 
also went the indefatigable William Grey, and 
he also consented to play. No end to our good 
fortune! Another celebrated batter, called Jo- 
seph Hearne, had likewise recently married 
into the parish. He worked, it is true, at the 
A. mills, but slept at the house of his wife's 
father in our territories. He also was sought 
and found by our leader. But he was grand 
and shy; made an immense favour of the thing; 
courted courting and then hung back ; — " Did 
not know that he could be spared ; had partly 
resolved not to play again — at least not this 
season , thought it rash to accept the challenge ; 

thought they might do without him " 

" Truly I think so too," said our spirited cham- 
pion ; " we will not trouble you, Mr. Hearne." 

Having thus secured two powerful auxiliar- 
ies, and rejected a third, we began to reckon 
and select the regular native forces. Thus ran 
our list: — William Grey, 1. — Samuel Long, 2. 
— James Brown, 3. — George and John Sim- 
mons, one capital, the other so, so, — an uncer- 
tain hitter, but a good fieldsman, 5. — Joel 
Brent, excellent, 6. — Ben Appleton — Here was 
a little pause — Ben's abilities at cricket were 
not completely ascertained ; but then he was 
so good a fellow, so full of fun and waggery ! 
no doing without Ben. So he figured in the 
list, 7. — George Harris — a short halt there too ! 
Slowish — slow but sure. I think the proverb 
brought him in, 8. — Tom Coper — oh, beyond 
the world, Tom Coper! the red-headed gar- 
dening lad, whose left-handed strokes send her 
(a cricket-ball, like that other moving thing a 
ship, is always of the feminine gender,) send 
her spinning a mile, 9. — Harry Willis, another 
blacksmith, 10. 

We had now ten of our eleven, but the choice 
of the last occasioned some demur. Three 
young Martins, rich farmers of the neighbour- 
hood, successively presented themselves, and 
were all rejected by our independent and im- 
partial general for want of merit — crickelal 
merit. " Not good enough," was his pithy 
answer. Then our worthy neighbour, the half- 
pay lieutenant, offered his services — he, too, 
though with some hesitation and modesty, 
W"as refused — " not quite J'oung enough," was 
his sentence. John Strong, the exceeding long 
son of our dwarfish mason, was the next can- 
didate, — a nice youth — every body likes John 
Strong, — and a willing, but so tall and so limp, 
bent in the middle — a thread-paper, six feet 



high ! We were all afraid that, in spite of his 
name, his strength would never hold out. 
"Wait till next year, John," quoth William 
Grey, with all the dignified seniority of twenty 
speaking to eighteen. "Coper's a year 
younger," said John. "Coper's a foot shorter," 
replied William : so John retired ; and the 
eleventh man remained unchosen, almost to 
the eleventh hour. The eve of the match ar- 
rived, and the post was still vacant, when a 
little boy of fifteen, David Willis, brother to 
Harry, admitted by accident to the last prac- 
tice, saw eight of them out, and was voted in 
by acclamation. 

That Sunday evening's practice (for Monday 
was the important day) was a period of great 
anxiety, and, to say the truth, of great plea- 
sure. There is something strangely delightful 
in the innocent spirit of party. To be one of 
a numerous body, to be authorized to say ine, 
to have a rightful interest in triumph or defeat, 
is gratifying at once to social feeling and to 
personal pride. There was not a ten-year old 
urchin, or a septuagenary woman in the parish, 
who did not feel an additional importance, a 
reflected consequence, in speaking of " our 
side." An election interests in the same way; 
but that feeling is less pure. Money is there, 
and hatred, and politics, and lies. Oh, to be 
a voter or a voter's wife, comes nothing near 
the genuine and hearty sympathy of belonging 
to a parish, breathing the same air, looking on 
the same trees, listening to the same nightin- 
gales ! Talk of a patriotic elector ! — Give me 
a parochial patriot, a man who loves his par- 
ish ! Even we, the female partisans, may par- 
take the common ardour. 1 am sure I did. I 
never, though tolerably eager and enthusiastic 
at all times, remember being in a more deli- 
cious state of excitation than on the eve of that 
battle. Our hopes waxed stronger and stronger. 
Those of our players, who were present, were 
excellent. William Grey got forty notches off 
his own bat; and that brilliant hitter Tom 
Coper gained eight from two successive balls. 
As the evening advanced, too, we had encour- 
agement of another sort. A spy, who had been 
despatched to reconnoitre the enemy's quarters, 
returned from their practising ground, with a 
most consolatory report. " Really," said 
Charles Grover, our intelligencer — a fine old 
steady judge, one who had played well in his 
day — " they are no better than so many old 
women. Any five of ours would beat their 
eleven." This sent us to bed in high spirits. 
Morning dawned less favourably. The sky 
promised a series of deluging showers, and 
kept its word, as English skies are wont to do 
on such occasions; and a lamentable message 
arrived at the head-quarters from our trusty 
comrade Joel Brent. His master, a o-reat farm- 
er, had begun the hay-harvest that very morn- 
ing, and Joel, being as eminent in one field as 
in another, could not be spared. Liiagine Joel's 
plight I the most ardent of all our eleven ! a 



44 



OUR VILLAGE 



kniofht held back from the tourney ! a soldier 
from the bvittle ! The poor swain was incon- 
solable. At last, one who is always ready to 
do a (jood-natured action, great or little, set 
forth to back his petition ; and, by dint of ap 



numberless inconsistencies of which he stood 
accused. He was in love over head and ears, 
but the nym})h was cruel. She said no, and 
no, and no, and poor Brown three times reject- 
ed, at last resolved to leave the place, partly 



pealintr to the public spirit of our worthy neicrh- I in despair, and partly in that hope which often 
hour, and the state of the barometer, talking , minjjles strany^ely with a lover's despair, the 
alternately of the parish honour and thunder , hope that when he was o-one he should be 
showers, of lost matches and sopped hay, he | missed. He came home to his brother's accord- 
carried his point, and returned triumphantly inoly ; but for five weeks he heard nothings 
with the delighted .loel. from or of the inexorable Mary, and was glad 

In the mean time we became sensible of to beguile his own "vexing thoughts," by en- 
another defalcation. On calling over our roll, deavouring to create in his mind an artificial 
Brown was missing; and the spy of the pre- and factitious interest in our cricket-match — 
ceding night, Charles Grover, — the universal all unimportant as such a trifle must have 
scout and messenger of the village, a man ; seemed to a man in love. Poor .lames, how- 
who will run half-a-dozen miles for a pint of j ever, is a social and warm-hearted person, not 
beer, who does errands for the very love of the t likely to resist a contagious sympathy. As 
trade, who, if he had been a lord, would have j the time for the play advanced, the interest 



been an ambassador — was instantly despatched 
to summon the truant. His report spread gen- 
eral consternation. Brown had set off at four 
o'clock in the morning to play in a cricket- 
match at M., a little town twelve miles off, 
which had been his last residence. Here was 
desertion ! Here was treachery against that 
goodly state, our parish! To send James Brown 
to Coventry was the immediate resolution ; but 
even that seemed too light a punishment for 
such delinquency. Then how we cried him. 
down ! At ten, on Sunday-night, (for the ras- 
cal had actually practised with us, and never 
said a word of his intended disloyalty,) he 
was our faithful mate, and the best player (take 
him for all in all) of the eleven. At ten in the 
morning he had run away, and we were well 
rid of him ; he was no baiter compared with 
William Grey or Tom Coper ; not fit to wipe 
the shoes of Samuel Long, as a bowler; no- 
thinof of a scout to John Simmons ; the boy 
David Willis was worth fifty of him — 

"I trust we have within our realm 
Five hundred good as he," 

was the universal sentiment. So we took tall 
John Strong, who, with an incurable hanker- 
ing after the honour of being admitted, had 
ke])t constantly with the players, to take the 
chance of some such accident — we took John 
for our pi.sn/ler. I never saw any one prouder 
than the; good-humoured lad was of this not 
very flattering piece of preferment. 

John Strong was elected, and Brown sent 
to Coventry ; and when I first heard of his 



which he had at first affected became genuine 
and sincere : and he was really, when he left 
the ground on Sunday nioht, almost as enthu- 
siastically absorbed in the event of the next 
day as Joel Brent himself He little foresaw 
the new and delightful interest which awaited 
him at home, where, on the moment of his 
arrival, his sister-in-law and confidante, pre- 
sented him with a billet from the lady of his 
heart. It had, with the usual delay of letters 
sent by private hands, in that rank of life, 
loitered on the road in a degree inconceivable 
to those who are accustomed to the punctual 
speed of the post, and had taken ten days for 
its twelve-miles' journey. Have my readers 
any wish to see this billet-dotix ? I can show 
them (but in strict confidence) a literal copy. 
It was addressed, 

" For mistur jem browne 

" blaxrnith by 
" S." 
The inside ran thus : — " Mistur browne this 
is to Inform yew that oure parish playes bram- 
ley men next monday is a week, i think we 
shall lose without yew. from j'our humble 
servant to command 

" Mary Allen." 

Was there ever a ])rettier relenting 1 a sum- 
mons more flattering, more delicate, more ir- 
resistible 1 The precious epistle was undated ; 
but having ascertained who brought it, and 
found, by cross-examining the messenger, 
that the Monday in question was the very 
next day, we were not sur})rised to find that 



delinquency, I thought the punishment only ! Misfur browne forgot his engagement to us, 
too mild for the cri^me. . But I have since \ forgot all but Mary and Mary's letter, and set 
learned the secret history of the offence; (if \ off at four o'clock the next mornintr to walk 
we could know the secret histories of all of- ; twelve miles, and play for her parish and in 
fences, how much better the world would seem i her sight. Keally we must not send James 
than it does now!) and really my wrath is much Browne to Coventry — inust we 1 'I'houoh if, 



abated. It was a piece of gallantry, of devo' 
tion to the sex, or rather a chivalrous obedience 
to one chosen fair. I must tell my readers the 
story. Mary Allen, the jjrettiest girl of M., 
had it seems revenged upon our blacksmith the 



as his sister-in-law tells our damsel Harriet 
hebopes to do, he should bring the fair Mary 
home as his bride, he will not greatly care 
how little we say to him. But he must not 
be sent to Coventry — True-love forbid ! 



TOM CORDERY. 



45 



At last we were all assembled, and marched 
down to H. common, the appointed gjround, 
which, thoiiorh in our dominions according- to 
the map, was the constant practising place of 
our opponents, and terra incognita to us. We 
found our adversaries on the ground as we 
expected, for our various delays had hindered 
us from taking the field so early as we wish- 
ed ; and, as soon as we had settled all pre- 
liminaries, the match began. 

But, alas ! I have been so long settling my 
preliminaries that I have left myself no room 
for the detail of our victory, and must squeeze 
the account of our grand achievements into as 
little cora])ass as Cowley, when he crammed 
the names of eleven of his mistresses into the 
narrow space of four eight-syllable lines. 
Tlieij began the warfare — these boastful men 
of B. And what think you, gentle reader, 
was the amount of their innings T These 
challengers — the famous eleven — how many 
did they get"? Think! imagine! guess! — 
You cannot] — Well! — they got twenty-two, 
or rather they got twenty ; for two of theirs 
were short notches, and would never have 
been allowed, only that, seeing what they 
were made of, we and our umpires were not 
particular. They should have had twenty 
more, if they had chosen to claim them. Oh, 
how well we fielded ! and how well we bowl- 
ed ! our good play had quite as much to do 
with their miserable failure as their bad. 
Samuel Long is a slow bowler, George Sim- 
mons a fast one, and the change from Long's 
lobbing, to Simmons's fast balls posed them 
completely. Poor simpletons ! they were al- 
ways wrong, expecting the slow for the quick, I 
and the quick for the slow. Well, we went 
in. And what were our innings ? Guess 
again ! — guess ! A hundred and sixty-nine ! 
in spite of soaking showers, and wretched 
ground, where the ball would not run a yard, 
we headed them by a hundred and forty-seven ; 
and then they gave in, as well they might. 
William Grey pressed them much to try an- 
other innings. " There was so much chance,'* 
as he courteously observed, " in cricket, that 
advantageous as our position seemed, we 
might, very possibly, be overtaken. The B. 
men had better try." But they were beaten 
sulky, and would not move — to my great dis- 
appointment; I wanted to prolong the pleasure 
of success. What a glorious sensation it is 
to be for five hours together winning — win- 
ning—winning! always feeling what a whist- 
player feels when he takes up four honours, 
seven trumps ! Who would think that a little 
bit of leather, and two pieces of wood, had 
such a delightful and delighting power"? 

The only drawback on my enjoyment, was 
the failure of the pretty boy, David Willis, 
who injudiciously put in first, and playing for 
the first time in a match among men and 
strangers, who talked to him, and stared at 
him, was seized with such a fit of shame- 



faced shyness, that he could scarcely hold his 
bat, and was bowled out, without a stroke, 
from actual nervousness. " He will come off 
that," Tom Coper says. — I am afraid he will. 
I wonder whether Tom had ever any modesty 
to lose. Our other modest lad, .Tohn Strong, 
did very well; his length told in fielding, and 
he got good fame. Joel Brent, the rescued 
mower, got into a scrape, and out of it again ; 
his fortune for the day. He ran out his mate, 
Samuel Long; who, I do believe, but for the 
excess of Joel's eagerness, would have staid 
in till this time, by which exploit he got into 
sad disgrace; and then he himself got thirty- 
seven runs, which redeemed his reputation. 
William Grey made a hit which actually lost 
the cricket-ball. We think she lodged in a 
hedge, a quarter of a mile off, but nobody 
could find her. And George Simmons had 
nearly lost his shoe, which he tossed away in 
a passion, for having been caught out, owing 
to the ball glancing against it. These, to- 
gether with a very complete somerset of Ben 
Appleton, our long-stop, who floundered about 
in the mud, making faces and attitudes as 
laughable as Grimaldi, none could tell whether 
by accident or design, were the chief incidents 
of the scene of action. Amongst the specta- 
tors nothing remarkable occurred, beyond the 
general calamity of two or three drenchings, 
except that a form, placed by the side of a 
hedge, under a very insufficient shelter, was 
knocked into the ditch, in a sudden rush of 
the cricketers to escape a pelting shower, by 
which means all parties shared the fate of Ben 
Appleton, some on land and some by water ; 
and that, amidst the scramble, a saucy gipsey 
of a girl contrived to steal from the Ivuee of 
the demure and well-appareled Samuel Long, 
a smart handkerchief, which his careful dame 
had tied around it, to preserve his new (what 
is the mincing feminine word 1) his new in- 
expressibles ; thus reversing the story of Des- 
demona, and causing the new Othello to call 
aloud for his handkerchief, to the great diver- 
sion of the company. And so we parted ; the 
players retired to their supper, and we to our 
homes; all wet through, all good humoured, 
and all happy — except the losers. 

To-day we are happy too. Hats, with 
ribands in them, go glancing up and down; 
and William Grey says, with a proud humility, 
" We do not challenge any parish ; but, if we 
be challenged, we are ready." 



TOM CORDERY. 

There are certain things and persons that 
look as if they could never die : things of such 
vigour and hardiness, that they seem consti- 
tuted for an interminable duration, a sort of 
immortality. An old pollard oak of my ac- 



46 



OUR VILLAGE. 



quaintance used to give me this impression. 
Never was tree sn gnarled, so knotted, so full 
of crooked life. Garlanded w'tli ivy and wood- 
bine, almost bending under the weight of its 
own rich leaves and acorns, tough, vigorous, 
lusty, concentrating as it were the very spirit 
of vitality in its own curtailed proportions, — 
could that tree ever die] I have asked myself 
twenty times, as I stood looking on the deep 
water over which it hung, and in which it 
seemed to live again — would that strong dwarf 
ever fall 1 Alas! the question is answered. 
Walking by the spot to-day — this very day — 
there it lay prostrate; the ivy still clinging 
about it, the twigs swelling with sap, and put- 
ting forth already the early buds. There it lay 
a victim to the taste and skill of some admirer 
of British woods, who with the tact of Ugo 
Foscolo (that prince of amateurs) has disco- 
vered in the knots and gnarls of the exterior 
coat the leopard-like beauty which is concealed 
within the trunk. There it lies, a type of syl- 
van instability, fallen like an emperor. Another 
piece of strong nature in a human form used 
to convey to me exactly the same feeling — and 
he is gone too ! Tom Cordery is dead. The 
bell is tolling for him at this very moment. 
Tom Cordery dead ! the words seem almost 
a contradiction. One is tempted to send for 
the sexton and the undertaker, to undig the 
grave, to force open the coffin-lid — there must 
be some mistake. But, alas! it is too true; 
the typhus fever, that axe which levels the 
strong as the weak, has hewed him down at a 
blow. Poor Tom Cordery ! 

This human oak grew on the wild North-of- 
Hampshire country, of which I have before 
made honourable mention ; a country of heath, 
and hill, and forest, partly reclaimed, enclosed, 
and planted by some of the greater proprietors, 
but for the most )iart uncultivated and uncivil- 
ized ; a proper refuge for wild animals of every 
species. Of these the most notable was my 
friend Tom Cordery, who presented in his own 
person no unfit emblem of the district in which 
he lived — the gentlest of savages, the wildest 
of civilized men. He was by calling rat- 
catcher, hare-finder, and broom-maker; a triad 
of trades which he had substituted for the one 
grand profession of poaching, which he fol- 
lowed in his younger days with unrivalled 
talent and success, and would, undoubtedly, 
have pursued till his death, had not the burst- 
ing of an overloaded gun unluckily shot off 
his left hand. As it was, he still contrived to 
mingle a little of his old unlawful occupation 
with his honest callings ; was a reference of 
hitrh authority amongst the young aspirants, 
an adviser of undoubted honour and secresy — 
suspected, and more than suspected, as being- 
one " who, though he played no more, o'er- 
looked the cards." Yet he kept to windward 
of the law, and indeed contrived to be on such 
terms of social and even friendly intercourse 
with the guardians of the game on M. Com- 



mon, as may be said to prevail between re- 
puted thieves and the myrmidons of justice in 
the neighbourhood of Bow-street. Indeed his 
especial crony, the head-keeper, used some- 
times to hint, when Tom, elevated by ale, had 
provoked him by overcrowing, " that a stump 
was no bad shield, and that to shoot oflT a hand 
and a bit of an arm for a blind, would be no- 
thing to so daring a chap as Tom Cordery." 
This conjecture, never broached till the keeper 
was warm with wrath and liquor, and Tom 
fairly out of hearing, seemed always to me a 
little super-subtle ; but it is certain that Tom's 
new professions did bear rather a suspicious 
analogy to the old, and the ferrets, and terriers, 
and mongrels by whom he was surrounded, 
"did really look," as the v^-orthy keeper ob- 
served, "fitter to find Christian hares frnd 
pheasants, than rats and such vermin." So 
in good truth did Tom himself. Never did 
any human being look more like that sort of 
sportsman commonly called a poacher. He 
was a tall, finely-built man, with a prodigious 
stride, that cleared the ground like a horse, and 
a power of continuing his slow and steady 
speed, that seemed nothing less than miracu- 
lous. Neither man, nor horse, nor dog, could 
out-tire him. He had a bold, undaunted pre- 
sence, and an evident strength and power of 
bone and muscle. You might see by looking 
at him, that he did not know what fear meant. 
In his youth he had fought more battles than 
any man in the forest. He was as if born 
without nerves, totally insensible to the recoils 
and disgusts of humanity. 1 have known him 
take up a huoe adder, cut off its head, and then 
deposit the living and writhing body in his 
brimless hat, and w'alk with it coiling and 
wreathing about his head, like another Medusa, 
till the sport of the day was over, and he car- 
ried it home to secure the fat. With all this 
iron stubbornness of nature, he was of a most 
mild and gentle demeanour, had a fine placid- 
ity of countenance, and a quick blue eye beam- 
ing with good-humour. His face was sunburnt 
into one general pale vermilion hue that over- 
spread all his features ; his very hair was sun- 
burnt too. His costume was generally a smock- 
frock of no doubtful complexion, dirt-coloured, 
which hung round him in tatters like fringe, 
rather augmenting than diminishing the free- 
dom, and, if I may so say, the gallantry of 
his bearing. This frock was furnished with a 
huge inside pocket, in which to deposit the 
game killed by his patrons — for of his three 
employments, that which consisted of finding 
hares for the great farmers and small gentry, 
who were wont to course on the common, was 
by far the most profitable and most pleasing 
to him, and to them. Every body liked Tom 
Cordery. He had himself an aptness to like, 
which is certain to be repaid in kind — the very 
dogs knew him, and loved him, and would 
beat for him almost as soon as for their master. 
Even May, the most sagacious of greyhounds, 



TOM CORDERY. 



47 



appreciated his talents, and wonld as soon lis- 
ten to Tom sohoing as to old Tray giving 
tono-ue, 

Nnr was his conversation less aofreeable to 
the other part of the company. Servants and 
masters were equally desirons to secure Tom. 
Besides his oeneral and professional familiar- 
ity with beasts and birds, their ways and 
doinofs, a knowledge so minnte and accurate, 
that it might have put to shame many a pro- 
fessed naturalist, he had no small acquaintance 
with the goings-on of that unfeathered biped 
called man; in short, he was, next after Lucy, 
who recognized his rivalry by hating, decry- 
ing, and undervaluing him, by far the best 
newsgatherer of the countryside. His news 
he of course picked up on the civilized side of 
the parish, (there is no gossiping in the forest,) 
partly at that well-frequented inn the Red Lion, 
of which Tom was a regular and noted sup- 
porter — partly amongst his several employers, 
and partly by his own sagacity. In the mat- 
ter of marriages, (pairings be was wont to call 
them.) he relied cliiefly on bis ov\'n skill in 
noting certain preliminary indications ; and 
certainly for a guesser by profession and a very 
bold one, he was astonishingly often right. 
At the alehouse especially, he was of the first 
authority. An air of mild importance, a diplo- 
matic reserve on some points, great smoothness 
of speech, and that gentleness which is so 
often the result of conscious power, made him 
there an absolute ruler. Perhaps the effect of 
these causes might be a little aided by the la- 
tent dread which that power inspired in others. 
Many an exploit had proved that Tom Cor- 
dery's one arm was fairly worth any two on 
the common. The pommelling of Bob Arlott, 
and the levelling of Jem Serle to the earth by 
one swing of a huge old hare, (which unusual 
weapon was by the way the first-slain of May- 
flower, on its way home to us in that walking 
cupboard, his pocket, when the unlucky ren- 
contre with .lem Serle broke two heads, the 
dead and the living,) arguments such as these 
mitjht have some cogency at the Red Lion. 

But he managed every body, as your gentle- 
mannered person is apt to do. Even the rude 
'squires and rough farmers, bis temporary 
masters, be managed, particularly as far as 
concerned the beat, and was sure to bring them 
round to his own peculiar fancies and preju- 
dices, however strongly their own wishes 
might turn them aside from the direction indi- 
cated, and however often Tom's sagacity in 
that instance might have been found at fault. 
Two spots in the large wild enclosures into 
which the heath had been divided were his 
especial favourites; the Hundred Acres, alias 
the Poor Allotment, alias the Burnt Common 
— (Do any or all of these titles convey any 
notion of the real destination of that many- 
named ])lace'? a piece of moor-land portioned 
out to serve for fuel to the poor of the parish) 
— this was one. Oh the barrenness of this 



miserable moor! Flat, marshy, dingy, bare. 
Here that piece of green treachery, a bog ; 
there parched, and pared, and shrivelled, and 
black with smoke and ashes ; utterly desolate 
and wretched every where, exce[)t where 
amidst the desolation blossomed, as in mock- 
ery, the enamelled gentianella. No hares 
ever came there; they had too much taste. 
Yet thither would Tom lead his unwary em- 
plojrers ; thither, however warned, or caution- 
ed, or experienced, would be by reasoning, or 
induction, or gentle persuasion, or actual 
fraud, entice the hapless gentlemen ; and then 
to see him with his rabble of finders, pacing 
up and down this precious "sitting-ground," 
(for so was Tom, thriftless liar, wont to call 
it.) pretending to look for game, counterfeit- 
ing a meuse; forging a form; and telling a 
story some ten years old of a famous hare 
once killed in that spot by his honour's favour- 
ite bitch Marygold. I never could thoroughly 
understand whether it were design, a fear that 
too many hares might be killed, or a real and 
honest mistake, a genuine prejudice in favour 
of the place, that influenced Tom Cordery in 
this point. Half the one, perhaps, and half 
the other. Mixed motives, let Pope and his 
disciples say what they will, are by far the 
commonest in this parti-coloured world. Or 
be had shared the fate of greater men, and 
lied till he believed — a coursingr Cromwell, 
beginning in hypocrisy and ending in fimati- 
cism. Another pet spot was the Gallows- 
piece, an enclosure almost as large as the 
Hundred Acres, where a gibbet had once 
borne the bodies of two murderers, with the 
chains and bones, even in my remembrance, 
clanking and creaking in the wind. The gib- 
bet was gone now; but the name remained, 
and the feeling, deep, sad, and shuddering. 
The place, too, was wild, awful, fearful ; a 
heathy, furzy spot, sinking into broken hol- 
lows, where murderers might lurk; a few 
withered pines at the upjier end, and amongst 
them, half hidden by the brambles, the stone 
in which the gallows had been fixed : — the 
bones must have been mouldering beneath. 
All Torn's eloquence, seconded by two capi- 
tal courses, failed to drag me thither a second 
time. 

Tom was not, however, without that strong 
sense of natural beauty which they who live 
amongst the wildnesses and fastnesses of 
nature so often exhibit. One spot, w^here the 
common trenches on the civilized world, was 
scarcely less his admiration than mine. It is 
a high hill, half covered with furze and heath, 
and broom, and sinking abruptly down to a 
larnfe pond, almost a lake, covered with wild 
water-fowl. The ground, richly clothed with 
wood, oak and beech and elm, rises on the 
other side with equal abruptness, as if shut- 
ting in those glassy waters from all but the 
sky, which shines so brightly in their clear 
bosom : just in the bottom peeps a small 



48 



OUR VILLAGE. 



sheltered farm, whose wreaths of liorht smoke 
and the white trlancinor Winn's of the wild- 
ducks, as thpy flit across the lake, are all that 
give token of motion or of life. I have stood 
there in utter oblivion of greyhound or of 
hare, till moments have swelled to minutes, 
and minutes to hours ; and so has Tom, con- 
veying by his exclamations of delight at its 
" pleasantness," exactly the same feeling 
which a poet or a painter (for it breathes the 
very spirit of calm and sunshiny beauty that 
a master-painter loves) would express by dif- 
ferent but not truer praise. He called his 
own home " pleasant" too ; and there, though 
one loves to hear any home so called — there, 
I must confess, that favourite phrase, which 
I like almost as well as they who have no 
other, did seem rather misapplied. And yet 
it was finely placed, very finely. It stood in 
a sort of defile, where a road almost perpen- 
dicular wound from the top of a steep abrupt 
hill, crowned with a tuft of old Scottish firs, 
into a dingle of fern and wild brushwood. 
A shallow, sullen stream oozed from the bank 
on one side, and, after forming a rude chan- 
nel across the road, sank into a dark, deep 
pool, half hidden among the sallows. Behind 
these sallows, in a nook between them and 
the hill, rose the uncouth and shapeless cot- 
tage of Tom Cordery. It is a scene which 
hangs upon the eye and the memory, strikinor, 
grand, almost sublime, and above all eminently 
foreign. No English painter would choose 
such a subject for an English landscape ; no 
one in a picture would take it for English. It 
might pass for one of those scenes which have 
furnished models to Salvator Rosa. Tom's 
cottage was, however, very thoroughly na- 
tional and characteristic; a lov.% ruinous hovel, 
the door of which was fastened with a sedu- 
lous attention to security, that contrasted 
strangely with the tattered thatch of the roof, 
and the half-broken windows. No garden, 
no pigsty, no pens for geese, none of the 
usual signs of cottage habitation: — yet the 
house was covered with nondescript dwellings, 
and the very walls were animated with their 
extraordinary tenants ; pheasants, partridges, 
rabbits, tame wild ducks, half-tame hares, 
and their enemies by nature and education, 
the ferrets, terriers, and mongrels of whom 
his retinue consisted. Great ingenuity had 
been evinced in keeping separate these jarring 
elements ; and by dint of hutches, cages, 
fences, kennels and half a dozen little hurdled 
enclosures, resembling the sort of courts 
which children are apt to build round their 
card-houses, peace was in general tolerably 
well preserved. Frequent sounds, however, 
of fear or anger, as their several instincts were 
aroused, gave token that it was but a forced 
and hollow truce, and at such times the 
clamour was prodigious. Tom had the re- 
markable tenderness for animals when do- 
mesticated, which is so often found in those 



whose sole vocation seems to be their destruc- 
tion in the field ; and the one long, straggling, 
unceiled, barn-like room, which served for 
kitchen, bed-chamber, and hall, was cumbered 
with bipeds and quadrupeds of all kinds and 
descriptions — the sick, the delicate, the newly- 
caught, the lying in. In the midst of this 
menagerie sate Tom's wife, (for he was mar- 
ried, though without a family — married to a 
woman lame of a leg as he himself was 
minus an arm,) now trying to quiet her noisy 
inmates, now to outscold them. How long 
his friend the keeper would have continued to 
wink at this den of live game, none can say; 
the roof fairly fell in during the deep snow* of 
last winter, killing, as poor Tom observed, 
two as fine litters of rabbits as ever were 
kittened. Remotely, I have no doubt that he 
himself fell a sacrifice to this misadventure. 
The overseer, to whom he applied to reinstate 
his beloved habitation, decided that the walls 
would never bear another roof, and removed 
him and his wife, as an especial favour, to a 
tidy, snug, comfortable room in the work- 
house. The workhouse ! From that, poor 
Tom visibly altered. He lost his hilarity and 
independence. It was a change such as he 
had himself often inflicted, a complete change 
of habits, a transition from the wild to the 
tame. No labour was demanded of him ; he 
went about as before, finding hares, killing 
rats, selling brooms, but the spirit of the man 
was departed. He talked of the quiet of his 
old abode, and the noise of the new ; com- 
plained of children and other bad company ; 
and looked down on his neighbours with the 
sort of contempt with which a cock pheasant 
might regard a barn-door fowl. Most of ail 
did he, braced into a gipsy-like defiance of 
wet and cold, grumble at the warmth and dry- 
ness of his apartment. He used to foretell 
that it would kill him, and assuredly it did so. 
Never co\ild the typhus fever have found out 
that wild hill side, or have lurked under that 
broken roof. The free touch of the air would 
have chased the demon. Alas, poor Tom I 
warmth and snugness, and comfort, whole 
windows, and an entire ceiling, were the death 
of him. Alas, poor Tom I 



AN OLD BACHELOR. 

There is no effect of the subtle operation 
of the association of ideas more universal and 
more curious than the manner in which the 
most trivial circumstances recall particular 
persons to our memory. Sometimes these 
glances of recollection are purely pleasurable. 
Thus I have a double liking for a May-day, 
as being the birth-day of a dear friend whose 
fair idea bursts upon me with the first sun- 
beam of that glad morning; and I can never 



AN OLD BACHELOR. 



49 



hear certain airs of Mozart and Handel with- 
out seeraincr to catch an echo of that sweetest 
voice in which I first learnt to love them. 
Pretty often, however, the point of association 
is less elegant, and occasionally it is tolerahly 
ludicrous. We happened to-day to have for 
dinner a couple of wild-ducks, the first of the 
season ; and as the master of the house, who 
is so little of an epicure that I am sure he 
would never while he lived, out of its feathers, 
know a wild-duck from a tame, — whilst he, 
with a little affectation of science, was squeez- 
innr the lemon and mixing Cayenne pepper 
with the gravy, two of us exclaimed in a 
breath, " Poor Mr. Sidney !" — " Ay," rejoined 
the squeezer of lemons, " poor Sidney ! I 
think he would have allowed that these ducks 
were done even to half a turn." And then 
he told the story more el-iborately to a young 
visiter, to whom Mr. Sidnej^ was unknown ; 
— how, after eating the best parts of a couple 
of wild-ducks, which all the company pro- 
nounced to be the finest and the best dressed 
wild-ducks ever brought to the table, that ju- 
dicious critic in the gastronomic art limited 
the too sv»-eeping praise by gravely asserting, 
that the birds were certainly excellent, and 
that the cookery would have been excellent 
also, had they not been roasted half a turn too 
much. Mr. Sidney has been dead these fif- 
teen years ; but no wild-ducks have ever ap- 
peared on our homely board without recalling 
that observation. It is his memorable saying ; 
his one good thing. 

Mr. Sidney was, as might be conjectured, 
an epicure; he was also an old bachelor, a 
clergyman, and senior fellow of * * College, 
a post wliich he had long filled, being, al- 
though only a second son, so well provided 
for that he' could afford to reject living after 
living in expectation of one favourite rectory, 
to whicli he had taken an early fancy from the 
pleasantness of the air. Of the latter quality, 
indeed, he used to give an instance, which, 
however satisfactory as confirming his prepos- 
session, could hardly have been quite agree- 
able, as preventing him from gratifying it ; — 
namely, the extraordinary and provoking lon- 
gevity of the incumbent, who at upwards of 
ninety gave no sign of decay, and bade fair to 
emulate the age of old Parr. 

Whilst waiting for the expected living, Mr. 
Sidney, who disliked a college residence, built 
himself a very pretty house in our neiohbour- 
hood, which he called his home ; and where 
he lived, as much as a love of Bath and Brigh- 
ton and London and lords would let him. He 
counted many noble families amongst his near 
connections, and passed a good deal of his 
time at their country-seats — a life for which 
he was by character and habit peculiarly 
fitted. 

In person he was a tall stout gentlemanly 
man, "about fifty, or by'r lady, inclining to 
threescore," with fine features, a composed 

5 G 



gravity of countenance and demeanour, a bald 
head most accurately powdered, and a very 
graceful bow — quite the pattern of an elderly 
man of fashion. His conversation was in 
excellent keeping with the calm imperturba- 
bility of his countenance and the sedate gravity 
of his manner,— smooth, dull, commonplace, 
exceedingly safe, and somewhat imposing. 
He spoke so little, that ])eople really fell into 
the mistake of imagining that he thought; and 
the tone of decision with which he would ad- 
vance some second-hand opinion, was well 
calculated to confirm the mistake. Gravity 
was certainly his chief characteristic, and j'et 
it was not a clerical gravity either. He had 
none of the generic marks of his profi^ssion. 
Although perfectly decorous in life and word 
and thought, no stranger ever took Mr. Sidney 
for a clergyman. He never did any duty any 
where, that ever I heard of, except the agree- 
able duty of saying grace before dinner; and 
even that was often performed by some lay 
host, in pure forgetful ness of his guest's ordi- 
nation. Indeed, but for the direction of his 
letters, and an eye to * * * Rectory, I am 
persuaded that the circumstance might have 
slipped out of his own recollection. 

His quality of old bachelor was more per- 
ceptible. There lurked under all his polish, 
well covered but not concealed, the quiet self- 
ishness, the little whims, the precise habits, 
the primness and priggishness of that discon- 
solate condition. His man Andrews, for in- 
stance, valet, groom, and body-servant abroad ; 
butler, cook, caterer, and major d'om.o at 
home; tall, portly, powde-ed and blackcoated 
as his master, and like him in all things but 
the knowing pig-tail which stuck out hori- 
zontally above his shirt-collar, giving a lu- 
dicrous dignity to his appearance; — Andrews, 
who, constant as the dial pointed nine, carried 
up his chocolate and shaving water, and re- 
gular as " the chimes at midnight," iirepared 
his white-wine whey ; who never forgot his 
gouty shoe in travelling, (once for two days 
he had a slight touch of that gentlemanly dis- 
order,) and never gave him the newspaper un- 
aired ; to whom could this jewel of a valet, 
this matchless piece of clock-work belong, but 
an old bachelor? And his little dog Viper, 
unparagoned of terriers, black, sleek, sharp, 
and shrewish ; who would beg and sneeze 
and fetch and carry like a Christian ; eat 
olives and sweetmeats and mustard, drink 
coffee and wine and liqueurs; — who but an 
old bachelor could have taught Viper his mul- 
tifarious accomplishments? 

Little Viper was a most useful person in 
his way ; for although Mr. Sidney was a very 
creditable acquaintance to meet on the King's 
highway, (your dull man, if he rides well, 
should never think of dismounting.) or even 
on the level ground of a carpet in the crowd 
of a large party ; )'et when he happened to 
drop in to take a family dinner — a pretty fre- 



50 



OUR VILLAGE. 



quent habit of his when in the country — then 
Viper's talents were inestimable in relievinpf 
the ennui' occasioned by that grave piece of 
gentility his master, " not only dull in him- 
self, but the cause of dullness in others." Any 
thing to pass away the heavy hours, till whist 
or piquet relieved the female world from his 
intolerable silence. 

In other respects these visits were sufficient- 
ly perplexing. Every housewife can tell what 
a formidable guest is an epicure who comes 
to take pot-luck — how sure it is to be bad 
luck, especially when the unfortunate hostess 
lives five miles from a market-town. Mr. 
Sidney always came unseasonably, on wash- 
ing-day, or Saturday, or the day before a great 
party. So sure as we had a scrap dinner, so 
sure came he. My dear mother, who with 
true benevolence and hospitality cared much 
for her guest's comfort and notliing for her 
own pride, used to grieve over his discomfi- 
ture, and try all that could be done by potted 
meats and omelettes, and little things tossed 
up on a sudden to amend the bill of fare. But 
cookery is an obstinate art, and will have its 
time ; — however you may force the component 
parts, there is no forcing a dinner. Mr. Sid- 
ney had the evil habit of arriving just as the 
last bell rang ; and in spite of all the hurry- 
scurry in the kitchen department, the new 
niceties and the old, homely dishes were sure 
to disagree. There was a total want of keep- 
ing. The kickshaws were half raw, the solids 
were mere rags ; the vegetables were cold, 
the soup was scalding ; no shallots to the 
rump-steaks ; no mushrooms with the broiled 
chicken; no fish ; no oysters; no ice; no pine- 
apple. Poor Mr. Sidney ! He must have had 
a great regard for us to put up with our bad 
dinners. 

Perhaps the chance of a rubber had some- 
thing to do with his visits to our house. If 
there be such a thing as a ruling passion, the 
love of whist was his. Cards were not mere- 
ly the amusement, but the business of his life. 
I do not mean as a money-making specula- 
tion ; for although he belonged to a fashiona- 
ble club in London, and to every card-meeting 
of decent gentility within reach of his country- 
home, he never went beyond a regular mo- 
derate stake, and could not be induced to bet 
even by the rashest defier of calculation, or 
the most provoking undervaluer of his play. 
It always seemed to me that he regarded 
whist as far too important and scientific a 
pursuit to be degraded into an affair of gam- 
bling. It had in his eyes all the dignity of a 
study; an acquirement equally gentlemanly 
and clerical. It was undoubtedly his test of 
ability. He had the value of a man of family 
and a man of the world, for rank, and wealth, 
and station, and dignities of all sorts. No 
human being entertained a higher respect for 
a king, a prince, a prime minister, a duke, a 
bishop, or a lord. But these were conventional 



feelings. His genuine and unfeigned venera- 
tion was reserved for him who played a good 
rubber, a praise he did not easily give. He 
was a capital player himself, and held all his 
country competitors, except one, in supreme 
and undisguised contempt, which they endured 
to admiration. I wonder they did not send 
him to Coventry. He was the most disagree- 
able partner in the world, and nearly as un- 
pleasant an adversary ; for he not only en- 
forced the Pythagorean law of science, which 
makes one hate whist so, but used to distri- 
bute quite impartially to every one at table 
little disagreeable observations on every card 
they played. It was not scolding, or grum- 
bling, or fretting; one has a sympathy with 
those expressions of feeling, and at the worst 
can scold again ; it was a smooth polite com- 
mentary on the errors of the jiarly, delivered 
in the calm tone of undoubted superiority with 
which a great critic will sometimes take a 
small poet, or a batch of poets, to task in a 
review. How the people could bear it! — but 
the world is a goodnatured world, and does 
not like a man the less for treating it scorn- 
fully. 

So passed six evenings out of the seven 
with Mr. Sidney, for it was pretty well known 
that, on the rare occurrence of his spending a 
day at home without company, his fac-totum 
Andrews used to have the honour of being 
beaten by his master in a snug game at double 
dumby; but what he did. with himself on 
Sunday occasioned me some speculation. 
Never in my life did I see him take up a book, 
although he sometimes talked of Shakspeare 
and Rlilton, and .Johnson and Burke, in a 
manner which proved that he had heard of 
such things ; and as to the newspaper, which 
he did read, that was generally conned over 
long before night; besides he never exhibited 
spectacles, and I have a notion that he could 
not read newspaper type at night without them. 
How he could possibly get through the after- 
coffee hours on a Sunday puzzled me long. 
Chance solved the problem. He came to call 
on us after church, and agreed to dine and 
sleep at our house. The moment tea was 
over, without the slightest apology or attempt 
at conversation, he drew his chair to the fire, 
set his feet on the fender, and fell fasjt asleep 
in the most comfortable and orderly manner 
possible. It was evidently a week'y habit. 
Every sense and limb seemed composed to it. 
Viper looked up in his face, curled himself 
round on the hearth-rug, and went to sleep 
too; and Andrews, just as the clock struck 
twelve, came in to wake him that he might go 
to bed. It was clearly an invariable custom ; 
a settled thing. 

His house and grounds were ke])t in the 
neatest manner possible. There was some- 
tliing even disagreeable in the excessive 
nicety, the Dutch preciseness of the shining 
gravel walks, the smooth shaven turf of the 



A VILLAGE BEAU. 



51 



lawn, and the fine-sifted mould of the shrub- 
beries. A few dead leaves or scattered flowers, 
even a weed or twoj any thing to take away 
from the artificial toy-like look of the place, 
would have been an improvement. Mr. Sid- 
ney, however, did not think so. He actually 
caused his gardener to remove those littering 
plants called roses and gum cistuses. Other 
flowers fared little better. No sooner were 
they in bloom, than he pulled them up for fear 
they should drop. In doors, matters were 
still worse. The rooms and furniture were 
very handsome, abounding in the luxurious 
Turkey carpets, the sofas, easy chairs, and 
Ottomans, which his habits required ; and 
yet I never in my life saw any house which 
looked less comfortable. Every thing was 
so constantly in its place, so provokingly in 
order, so full of naked nicety, so thoroughly 
old-bachelorish. No work! no books! no 
music ! no flowers ! But for those two things 
of life. Viper and a sparkling fire, one might 
have thought the place uninhabited. Once a 
year, indeed, it gave signs of animation, in 
the shape of a Christmas party. That was 
Mr. Sidney's shining time. Nothing could 
exceed the smiling hospitality of the host, 
or the lavish profusion of the entertainment. 
It breathed the very spirit of a welcome, 
splendidly liberal ; and little Viper trisked 
and bounded, and Andrew's tail vibrated (I 
was going to say wagged) with cordiality 
and pleasure. Andrews, on these occasions, 
laid aside his " customary black " in favour 
of a blue coat and a white silk court waist- 
coat, with a light running pattern of em- 
broidery and silver spangles, assumed to do 
honour to his master and the company. How 
much he enjoyed the applause which the 
wines and the cookery elicited from the gen- 
tlemen ; and how anxiously he would direct 
the ladies' attention to a IMS. collection of 
riddles, the compilation of some deceased 
countess, laid on the drawing-room table for 
their amusement between dinner and tea. 
Once, I remember, he carried his attention so 
far as to produce a gone-by toy, called a banda- 
lore, for the recreation of myself and another 
little girl, admitted by virtue of the Christmas 
holidays to this annual festival. Poor An- 
drews ! I am convinced thai he considered 
the entertainment of the visiters quite as 
much his aflfair as his master's ; and certainly 
they both succeeded. Never did parties pass 
more pleasantly. On those evenings Mr. 
Sidney even forgot to find fault at whist. 

At last, towards the end of a very severe 
winter, during wiiich he had suffered much 
from repeated colds, the rectory of * * * be- 
came vacant, and our worthy neighbour hast- 
ened to take possession. The day before his 
journey he called on us in the highest spirits, 
anticipating a renewal of health and youth in 
this favourite spot, and approaching nearer 
i than I had ever heard him to a jest on the 



subject of looking, out for a wife. Married or 
single, he made us promise to visit him during 
the ensuing summer. Alas ! long before the 
summer arrived, our poor friend was dead. 
He had waited for this living thirty years ; he 
did not enjoy it thirty days. 



A VILLAGE BEAU. 

Thk finest young man in our village is 
undoubtedly Joel Brent, half-brother to my 
Lizzy. They are alike too ; as much alike 
as a grown-up person and a little child of dif- 
ferent sexes well can be; alike in a vigorous 
uprightness of form, light, firm, and compact 
as possible; alike in the bright, sparkling, 
triumphant blue eye, the short-curled upper 
lip, the brown wavy hair, the white forehead 
and sunburnt cheeks, and, above all, in the 
singular spirit and gaiety of their countenance 
and demeanour, the constant expression of life 
and glee, to which they owe the best and 
rarest part of their attractiveness. They seem, 
and they are two of the happiest and merriest 
creatures that ever trod on the greensward. 
Really to see Joel walking by the side of his 
team, (for this enviable mortal, the pride of 
our village, is by calling a carter), to see him 
walking, on a fine sunny morning, by the side 
of his bell-team, the fore-horse decked with 
ribbons and flowers like a countess on the 
birth-day, as consciously handsome as his 
driver, the long whip poised gracefully on his 
shoulder, his little sister in his hand, and his 
dog Ranger (a beautiful red and white spaniel 
— every thing that belongs to Joel is beautiful) 
frisking about them : — to see this group, and 
to hear the merry clatter formed by Lizzy's 
tongue, Joel's whistling, and Ranger's de- 
lighted bark, is enough to put an amateur of 
pleasant sounds and happy faces in good hu- 
mour for the day. 

It is a grateful sight in other respects, for 
Joel is a very picturesque person, just such 
an one as a painter would select for the fore- 
ground of some English landscape, where na- 
ture is shown in all her loveliness. His cos- 
tume is the very perfection of rustic coqiietr}^ 
of that grace, which all admire and few prac- 
tise, the grace of adaptation, the beauty of fit- 
ness. No one ever saw Joel in that wretched 
piece of deformity a coat, or that still wretch- 
eder apology for a coat a docktailed jacket. 
Broad-cloth, the " common stale" of peer and 
peasant, approaches him not; neither does 
" the poor creature,'" fustian. His upper gar- 
ment consists of that prettier jacket without 
skirts, call it for the more grace a doublet, of 
dark velveteen, hanging open over his waist- 
coat, giving a Spanish or an Italian air to his 
whole appearance, and setting off to great 
advantage his trim yet manly shape. To this 



52 



OUR VILLAGE. 



he adds a silk handkerchief, tied very loosely 
round his neck, a shirt-collar open so as to 
show his throat, as you commonly see in the 
portraits of artists, very loose trowsers, and a 
straw hat. Sometimes in cold weather, he 
throws over all a smock-frock, and last winter 
brougrht up a fashion amongst our lads, by as- 
suming' one of that blue hight Waterloo, such 
as butchers wear. As soon as all his comrades 
had provided themselves with a similar piece 
of rustic finery, he abandoned his, and indeed 
generally sticks to his velveteen jacket, which, 
by some magical influence of cleanliness and 
neatness, always looks new. I cannot imagine 
how he contrives it, but dirt never hangs upon 
Joel ; even a fall at cricket in the summer, or 
a tumble on the ice in the winter, fails to soil 
him ; and he is so ardent in his diversions, and 
so little disposed to let his coxcombry interfere 
with his sports, that both have been pretty 
often tried ; the former especially. 

Ever since William Grey's secession, which 
took })lace shortly after our great match, for 
no cause assigned, Joel has been the leader 
and chief of our cricketers. Perhaps, indeed, 
Joel's rapid improvement might be one cause 
of William's withdrawal, for, without attri- 
buting any thing like envy or jealousy to these 
fine young men, we all know that " two stars 
keep not their motion in one sphere," and so 
forth, and if it were absolutely necessary that 
either our " Harry Hotspur, or the Prince of 
Wales," should abdicate that fair kingdom the 
cricket-ground, I must say that I am content 
to retain our present champion. Joel is in my 
mind the better player, joining to William's 
agility, and certainty of liand and eye, all the 
ardour, force, and gaiety of his own quick and 
lively spirit. The whole man is in the game, 
mind and body ; and his success is such as 
dexterity and enthusiasm united must always 
command. To be sure he is a ketle over-eager, 
thai I must confess, and does occasionally run 
out a slow mate ; but he is sure to make up 
for it by his own exertions, and after all what 
a delightful fault zeal is ! Now that we are 
on the subject of faults, it must be said, not 
that Joel has his share, which is of course, but 
that they are exceedingly venial, little shades 
that become him, and arise out of his brighter 
qualities as smoke from the flame. Thus, if 
he sometimes steals one of his active holidays 
for a revel or a cricket-match, he is sure to 
make up the loss to his master by a double 
portion of labour the next day; and if now 
and then at tide-times, he loiters in the chim- 
ney-corner of the Rose, ratlier longer than 
strict prudence might warrant, no one can hear 
his laugh and his song pouring through the 
open door, like the ve^y voice of "jest and 
youthful jollity," without feeling certain that 
it is good fellowship, and not good liquor, that 
detains him. Indeed so much is he the delight 
of the country lads, who frequent that well- 
accustomed inn, so much is his company sought 



after in all rustic junketings, that I am only 
astonished at the strength of resolution, and 
power of resisting temptation, which he dis- 
plays in going thither so seldom. 

If our village lads be so fond of him, it is 
not to be doul)ted that our village maidens like 
him too. The pretty brunette, JSally Wheeler, 
who left a good service at B., to take in needle- 
work, and come home to her grandmother, she 
being, to use Sally's phrase, " unked for want 
of company," (N. B. Dame Wheeler is as 
deaf as a post, a cannon would not rouse her,) 
is thought, in our little world, to have had an 
eye to Joel in this excess of dutifulness. Miss 
Phcebe, the lass of the Rose, she also, before 
her late splendid marriage to the patten-maker, 
is said to have becurled and beflounced herself 
at least two tiers higher on club-nights, and 
Sundays, and holidays, and whenever there 
was a probable chance of meeting him. The 
gay recruiting sergeant, and all other beaux 
were abandoned the instant he appeared ; nay, 
it is even hinted, that the patten-maker owes 
his fair bride partly to pique at Joel's inditier- 
ence. Then Miss Sophia Matthews, the school- 
uiistress on the lea, to whom in point of dig- 
nity Miss Phoebe was nothing, who wears a 
muff and a veil, walks mincingly, and tosses 
her head in the air, keeps a maid, — a poor little 
drab of ten years old ; follows, as she says, a 
genteel profession, — I think she may have 
twenty scholars at eight-pence a week ; and 
when she goes to dine with her brother, the 
collar-maker, hires a boy for a penny to carry 
her clogs ; Miss Sophia, it is well known, hath 
pretermitted her dignity in the matter of Joel ; 
hath invited the whole family to tea (only think 
of Joel at a tea-party?) hath spoken of him 
as " a person above the common : a respecta- 
ble young man ; one, who with a discreet and 
accomplished wife, a woman of reading and 
education," (Miss Sophia, in the days of her 
father, the late collar-maker of happy memory, 
before she "taught the young idea how to 
shoot," had herself drunk deeply at that well 
of knowledge, the circulating library of B.) 
" not too young," (Miss Sophia calls herself 
twenty-eight — I wonder what the register 
says I) " no brazen-faced gipsy, like Sally 
Wheeler," (Miss Sophia's cast of countenance 
is altogether different from Sally's dark and 
sparkling beauty, she being pink-eyed, red- 
haired, lean, pale, and freckled) " or the jill- 

flirt Phoebe" but to cut short an oration 

which in spite of the lady's gentility, began to 
grow rather scurrilous, one fact was certain, — 
that Joel might, had he so chosen, have worn 
the crown matrimonial in Miss Sophia's terri- 
tories, consisting of a freehold-cottage, a little 
the worse for wear, a good garden, a capital 
orchard, and an extensive right of common ; to 
say nothing of the fair damsel and her school, 
or, as she is accustomed to call it, her seminary. 

Joel's proud bright eye glanced, however, 
carelessly over all. There was little percepti- 



A VILLAGE BEAU. 



53 



ble difference of feeling in the gay distant 
smile, with which he regarded the coquettish 
advances of the pretty brunette, Sally Wheel- 
er, or the respectful bow with which he re- 
treated from the dignified condescension of 
Miss Sophia. He fluttered about our village 
belles like a butterfly over a bed of tulips ; 
soinetimes approaching them for a moment, 
and seeing them ready to fix, but oftener above 
and out of reach, a creature of a sprightlier 
element, too buoyant and volatile to light on 
an ear.thly flower. At last, however, the rover 
was caught; and our damsel, Harriet, had the 
glory of winning that indomitable heart. 

Now Harriet is in all things Lucy's suc- 
cessor; in post, and favour, and beauty, and 
lovers. Ln my eye she is still prettier than 
Lucy ; there is something so feminine and so 
attractive in her loveliness. She is a tall 
young woman, finely, though, for eighteen, 
rather fully formed ; with a sweet child-like 
face, a fair blooming complexion, a soft inno- 
cent smile, and the eye of a dove. Add to 
this a gentle voice, a quiet modest manner, 
and a natural gentility of appearance, and no 
wonder that Harriet might vie with her pre- 
decessor in the number of her admirers. She 
inherited also a spice of her coquetry, although 
it was shown in so different a way that we 
did not immediately find it out. Lucy was a 
flirt active ; Harriet was a flirt passive : Lucy 
talked to her beaux ; Harriet only listened to 
her's ; Lucy, when challenged on the number 
of her conquests, denied the thing, and blushed, 
and laughed, and liked to be laughed at; Har- 
riet, on a similar charge, gave no token of 
liking or denial, but said quietly that she could 
not help it, and went on winning, hearts by 
dozens, prodigal of smiles but chary of love, 
till Joel came, "pleased her by manners most 
unlike her own," and gave to her delicate 
womanly beauty the only charms it wanted — 
sensibility and consciousness. 

The manner in which we discovered this 
new flirtation, which, unlike her others, was 
concealed with the pretty reserve and mystery 
that wait on true love, was sufficiently curi- 
ous. We had noted Joel more frequently than 
common about the house : sometimes he came 
for Lizzy ; sometimes to bring news of a 
cricket-match ; sometimes to ask questions 
about bats and balls; sometimes to see if his 
dog l-ianger had followed my May ; sometimes 
to bring me a nosegay. All this occasioned 
no suspicion; we were too glad to see Joel to 
think of inquiring wiiy he came. But when 
the days shortened, and evening closed in dark 
and cold before his work was done, and cricket 
and flowers were over, and May and Lizzy 
safe in their own warm beds, and poor Joel's 
excuses fairly at an end ; then it was, that in 
the after-dinner pause about seven, when the 
clatter of plates and dishes was over, that the 
ornithological ear of the master of the house, 
a dabbler in natural history, was struck by a 



regular and melodious call, the note, as he 
averred, of a sky-lark. That a sky-lark should 
sing in front of our house, at seven o'clock in 
a December evening, seemed, to say the least, 
rather startling. But our ornithologist hap- 
pening to agree with Mr. White, of Selborne, 
in the opinion, that many more birds sing by 
night than is commonly supposed, and becom- 
ing more and more confident of the identity of 
the note, thought the thing possible; and not 
being able to discover any previous notice of 
the fact, had nearly inserted it, as an original 
observation, in the Naturalist's Calendar, when 
running out suddenly one moonlight night, to 
try for a peep at the nocturnal songster, he 
caught our friend Joel, whose accomplishments 
in this line we had never dreamt of, in the act 
of whistling a summons to his lady-love. 

For some weeks our demure coquette list- 
ened to none but this bird-like wooing; partly 
from pride in the conquest; partly from real 
preference ; and partly, I believe, from a lurk- 
ing consciousness that Joel was by no means 
a lover to be trifled with. Lideed he used to 
threaten, between jest and earnest, a ducking 
in the goose-pond opposite, to whoever should 
presume to approach his fair intended ; and 
the waters being high and muddy, and he at 
all points a formidable rival, most of her for- 
mer admirers were content to stay away. At 
last, however, she relapsed into her old sin of 
listening. A neighbouring farmer gave a ball 
in his barn, to which both our lovers were in- 
vited and went. Now Harriet loves dancing, 
and Joel, though arrayed in a new jacket, and 
thin cricketing pumps, would not dance; he 
said he could not, but that, as Harriet ob- 
serves, is incredible. I agree with her that 
the gentleman was too fine. He chose to 
stand and look on, and laugh, and make laugh, 
the whole evening. Li the meantime his fair 
betrothed picked up a new partner, and a new 
beau, in the shape of a freshly-arrived carpen- 
ter, a grand martial-looking figure, as tall as 
a grenadier, who was recently engaged as 
foreman to our civil wheeler, and who, even 
if he had heard of the denunciation, was of a 
size and spirit to set Joel and the goose-pond 
at defiance, — David might as well have at- 
tempted to goose-pond Goliath ! He danced 
the whole evening with his pretty partner, 
and afterwards saw her home; all of which 
Joel bore with great philosophy. But the 
next night he came again ; and Joel approach- 
inor to give his own sky-lark signal, was star- 
tled at seeing another lover leaning over the 
wicket, and his faithless mistress standing at 
the half-open door, listening to the tall car- 
penter, just as complacently as she was wont 
to do to himself. He passed on without speak- 
ing, turned down the little lane that leads to 
Dame Wheeler's cottage, and in less than two 
minutes Harriet heard the love-call sounded 
at Sally's gate. The effect was instantane- 
ous ; she discarded the tall carpenter at once 



54 



OUR VILLAGE 



and for ever, locked and bolted the door, and 
sat down to work or to cry in the kitchen. 
She did not cry long. The next night we 
again heard the note of the sky-lark louder 
and more brilliant than ever, echoing across 
our court, and the lovers, the better friends 
for their little quarrel, have been as constant 
ap turtle-doves ever since. 



WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. 

THE HARD STJMMER. 

August 15th. — Cold, cloudy, windy, wet. 
Here we are, in the midst of the dog-days, 
clustering merrily round the warm hearth, like 
so many crickets, instead of chirruping in the 
green fields like that other merry insect the 
grasshopper; shivering under the influence of 
the JupHer Phivius of England, the watery 
St, Swithin ; peering at that scarce personage 
the sun, when he happens to make his appear- 
ance, as intently as astronomers look after a 
comet, or the common people stare at a bal- 
loon ; exclaiming against the cold weather, 
just as we used to exclaim against the warm. 
" What a change from last year!" is the first 
sentence you hear, go where you may. Every 
body remarks it, and every body complains of 
it; and yet in my mind it has its advantages, 
or at least its compensations, as every thing 
in nature has, if we would only take the trou- 
ble to seek for them. 

Last year in spite of the love which we are 
now pleased to profess tosvards that ardent 
luminary, not one of the sun's numerous ad- 
mirers had courage to look him in the face: 
there was no bearing the world till he had 
said " Good-night" to it. Then we might 
stir; then we began to wake and to live. All 
day long we languished under his influence in 
a strange dreaminess, too hot to work, too hot 
to read, too hot to write, too hot even to talk ; 
sitting hour after hour in a green arbour, em- 
bowered in leafiness, letting thought and fancy 
float as they would. Those day-dreams were 
pretty things in their way ; there is no deny- 
ing tliat. But then, if one half of the world 
were to dream through a whole summer, like 
the Sleeping Beauty in the Wood, what would 
become of the other? 

The only office requiring the slightest exer- 
tion, which I performed in that warm weather, 
was watering my flowers.- Common sympa- 
thy called for that labour. The poor things 
withered, and faded, and pined away; they 
almost, so to say, panted for drought. More- 
over, if I had not watered them myself, I sus- 
pect that no one else would ; for water last 
year was nearly as precious hereabout as wine. 
Our land-springs were dried up; our wells 
were exhausted ; our deep ponds were dwin- 
dling into mud; and geese, and ducks, "and 



pigs, and laundresses, used to look with a 
jealous and suspicious eye on the few and 
scanty half-buckets of that impure element, 
which my trusty lacquey was fain to filch for 
my poor geraniums and campanulas and tube- 
roses. We were forced to smuggle them in 
through my faithful adherent's territories, the 
stable, to avoid lectures within doors; and at 
last even that resource failed ; my garden, my 
blooming garden, the joy of my eyes, was 
forced to go waterless like its neighbours, and 
became shrivelled, scorched, and sunburnt, 
like them. It really went to my heart to look 
at it. 

On the other side of the house matters were 
still worse. What a dusty world it was when 
about sunset we became cool enough to creep 
into it! Flowers in the court looked fit for a 
hortiis siccus; mummies of plants, dried as in 
an oven; hollyhocks, once pink, turned into 
Quakers; cloves smelling of dust. Oh dusty 
world ! May herself looked of that com- 
plexion ; so did Lizzy ; so did all the houses, 
windows, chickens, children, trees, and pigs 
in the village; so above all did the shoes. 
No foot could make three plunges into that 
abyss of pulverised gravel, which had the im- 
pudence to call itself a hard road, without 
being clothed with a coat a quarter of an inch 
thick. Woe to white gowns ! woe to black ! 
Drab was your only wear. 

Then, when we were out of the street, what 
a toil it was to mount the hill, ciinibing witli 
weary steps and slow upon the brown turf by 
the wayside, slippery, hot, and hard as a rock! 
And, then if we happened to meet a carriage 
coming along the middle of tlie road, — the 
bottomless middle, — w'hat a sandy whirlwind 
it was! What choking! what suflTocation ! 
No state could be more pitiable, except in- 
deed that of the travellers who carried this 
misery about with them. I shall never forget 
the plight in which we met the coach one 
evening in last August, full an hour after its 
time, steeds and driver, carriage and passen- 
gers, all one dust. The outsides and the 
horses and the coachman, seemed reduced to 
a torpid quietness, the resignation of despair. 
They had left off trying to better their condi- 
tion, and taken refuge in a wise and patient 
hopelessness, bent to endure in silence the ex- 
tremity of ill. The six insides, on the con- 
trary, were still fighting against their fate, 
vainly struggling to ameliorate their hapless 
destiny. They were visibly grumbling at the 
weather, scolding, the dust, and heating them- 
selves like a furnace, b}^ striving against the 
heat. How well I remember the fat gentle- 
man wiihout his coat, who was wiping his 
forehead, heaving up his wig, and certainly 
uttering that English ejaculation, which, to 
our national reproach, is the phrase of our lan- 
guage best known on the continent. And that 
poor boy, red-hot, all in a flame, whose mam- 
ma, having divested her own person of all su- 



THE HARD SUMMER. 



55 



perfluons ap|)arel, was tryinor to relieve his 
sufFerinofs by the removal of his neck-kerchief 
— an operation which he resisted with all his 
miirht. How perfectly I remember him, as 
well as the pale girl who sate opposite fanning 
herself with her bonnet into an absolute fever ! 
They vanished after a while in their own dust; 
but I have them all before my eyes at this mo- 
ment, a companion-picture to Hogarth's After- 
noon, a standing lesson to the grumblers at 
cold summers. 

For my part I really like this wet season. 
It keeps us witliin, to be sure, rether more than 
is quite agreeable; but then we are at least 
awake and alive there, and the world out of 
doors is so much the pleasanter when we can 
get abroad. — Every thing does well, except 
those fastidious bipeds, men and women ; 
corn ripens, grass grows, fruit is plentiful ; 
there is no lack of birds to eat it, and there 
has not been such a wasp-season these dozen 
years. My garden wants no watering, and is 
more beautiful than ever, beating my old rival 
in that primitive art, the pretty wife of the lit- 
tle mason, out and out. Measured with mine, 
her flowers are nought. Look at those holly- 
hocks, like pyramids of roses; those garlands 
of the convolvulus major of all colours, hang- 
ing around that tall pole, like the wreathy hop- 
vine ; those magnificent dusky cloves, breath- 
ing of the Spice Islands; those flaunting 
double dahlias ; those splendid scarlet geran- 
iums, add those fierce and warlike flowers the 
tiger-lilies. Oh how beautiful they are ! Be- 
sides, the weather clears sometimes — it has 
cleared this evening; and here are we, after 
a merry walk up the hill, almost as quick as 
in the winter, bounding lightl)^ along the bright 
green turf of the pleasant common, enticed by 
the gay shouts of a dozen clear young voices, 
to linger awhile, and see the boys play at 
cricket. 

I plead guilty to a strong partiality towards 
that unpopular class of beings, country boys: 
I have a large acquaintance amongst them, 
and I can almost say, that I know good of 
many and harm of none. In general they are 
an open, spirited, good-humoured race, with a 
proneness to embrAce the pleasures and eschew 
the evils of their condition, a capacity for hap- 
piness, quite unmatched in man, or woman, 
or girl. They are patient, too, and bear their 
fate as scape-goats (for all sins whatsoever 
are laid, as matters of course, to their door, 
whether at home or abroad,) with amazing re- 
signation ; and, considering the many lies of 
which they are the objects, they tell wonder- 
fully few in return. The worst that can be 
said of them is, tliat they seldom, when grown 
to man's estate keep the promise of their boy- 
hood; but that is a fault to come — a fault that 
may not come, and ought not to he anticipated. 
It is astonishing how sensible they are to no- 
tice from their betters, or those whom they 
think such. I do not speak of money, or gifts, 



or praise, or the more coarse and common 
briberies — they are more delicate courtiers; a 
word, a nod, a smile, or the mere calling of 
them by their names, is enough to insure their 
hearts and their se vices. Half a dozen of 
them, ])oor urchins, have run away now to 
bring us chairs from their several homes. 
"Thank you, Joe Kirby ! — you are always 
first — yes, that is just the place. — I shall see 
every thing there. Have you been in yet, 
.Toel" — " No, ma'am ! I go in next." — " Ah, 
I am glad of tliat — and now 's the time. Real- 
ly, that was a pretty ball of .Jem Eusden's ! — 
I was sure it would go to the wicket. Run, 
Joe, they are waiting for you." There was 
small need to bid Joe Kirby make haste ; I 
think he is, next to a race-horse, or a grey- 
hound, or a deer, the fastest creature that runs 
— the most completely alert and active. Joe 
is mine especial friend and leader of the " ten- 
der juveniles," as Joel Brent is of the adults. 
In both instances ti.is post of honour was 
gained by merit, even more remarkably so in 
Joe's case than in Joel's ; for Joe is a less boy 
than many of his (;ompanions, (some of whom 
are fifteeners and sixteeners, quite as tall and 
nearly as old as Tom Coper) and poorer than 
all, as may be conjectured from the lamenta- 
ble state of that patched round frock, and the 
ragged condition of those unpatched shoes, 
which would encumber, if any thing could, 
the light feet that wear them. But why should 
I lament the poverty that never troubles him 1 
Joe is the merriest and happiest creature that 
ever lived twelve years in this wicked world. 
Care cannot come near him. He hath a per- 
petual smile on his round ruddy face, and a 
laugh in his hazel-eye, that drives the witch 
away. He works at yonder farm on the top 
of the hill, where he is in such repute for in- 
telligence and good-humour, that he has the 
honour of performing all the errands of the 
house, or helping the maid, and the mistress, 
and the master, in addition to his own stated 
office of carter's boy. There he works hard 
from five till seven, and then he comes here 
to work still harder under the name of play — 
batting, bowling, and fielding as if for life, 
filling the place of four boys ; being at a pinch, 
a whole eleven. The late Mr. Knyvett, the 
king's organist, who used in his own person 
to sing twenty parts at once of the hallelujah 
chorus, so that you would have thought he 
had a nest of nightingales in his throat, was 
but a type of Joe Kirby. There is a sort of 
ubiquity about him ; he thinks nothing of be- 
ing in two places at once, and for pitching a 
ball William Grey himself is nothing to him. 
It goes straight to the mark like a bullet. He 
is king of the cricketers from eight to sixteen, 
both inclusive, and an excellent ruler he 
makes. Nevertheless, in the best-ordered 
states there will be grumblers, and we have 
an ojjpositiou here in the shape of Jem Kusden. 
Jem Eusden is a stunted lad of thirteen, or 



56 



OUR VILLAGE 



thereabout, lean, small, and short, yet strong 
and active. His face is of an extraordinary 
ug-liness, colourless, withered, hacrgard, with 
a look of extreme ag-e, much increased by hair 
so liijht that it miojht rather pass for white 
than flaxen. He is constantly arrayed in the 
blue cap and old-fashioned coat, the costume 
of an endowed school to which he belonsrs ; 
where he sits still all day, and rushes into the 
field at night, fresh, untired, and ripe for ac- 
tion, to scold, and brawl, and storm, and blus- 
ter. He hates Joe Kirby, wiiose immoveable 
pood-humour, broad smiles, and knowing nods, 
must certainly be very provokinof to so fierce 
and turbulent a spirit; and he has himself 
(beincf, except by rare accident, no great play- 
er,) the preposterous ambition of wishing to 
be manager of the sports. In short, he is a 
demagogue in embryo, with every quality 
necessary to a splendid success in that voca- 
tion, — a strong voice, a fluent utterance, an in- 
cessant iteration, and a frontless impudence. 
He is a great " scholar," too, to use the coun- 
try phrase ; his " piece," as our village school- 
master terms a fine sheet of flourishing writing, 
something between a valentine and a sampler, 
enclosed within a border of little coloured 
prints — his last, I remember, was encircled by 
an engraved histor)' of Moses, beginning at 
the finding in the bulrushes, with Pharaoh's 
daughter, dressed in a rose-coloured gown and 
blue feathers, — his piece is not only the ad- 
miration of the school but of the parish, and 
is sent triumphantly around from house to 
house at Christmas, to extort halfpence and 
sixpences from all encouragers of learning 
— Montcm in miniature, The Mosaic history 
was so successful, that the produce enabled 
Jem to purchase a bat and ball, which, besides 
adding to his natural arrogance (for the little 
pedant actually began to mutter against being 
eclipsed by a dunce, and went so far as to 
challenge Joe Kirby to a trial in Practice, or 
the Rule of Three,) gave him, when com- 
pared with the general poverty, a most unna- 
tural preponderance in the cricket state. He 
had the ways and means in his hands — (for 
alas! the bard winter had made sad havoc 
among the bats, and the best ball was a bad 
one) — he bad the ways and means, could 
witlihold the supplies, and his party was be- 
ginning to wax strong, when Joe received a 
present of two bats and a ball for the young- 
sters in general, and himself in particular — 
and Jem's adherents left him on the spot — 
they ratted, to a man, that very evening. Not- 
withstanding this desertion, their forsaken 
leader has in nothing relaxed from his preten- 
sions, or his ill-humour. He still quarrels and 
brawls as if he had a faction to back him, and 
thinks nothing of contending with both sides, 
the ins and outs, secure of out-talking the 
whole field. He has been squabbling these 
ten minutes, and is just marching off now with 
his own bat (he never deigned to use one of 



Joe's) in his hand. What an ill-conditioned 
hobgoblin it is ! And yet there is something 
bold and sturdy about him too. I should miss 
Jem Eusden. 

Ah, there is another deserter from the party ! 
my friend the little huzzar — I do not know his 
name, and call him after his cap and jacket. 
He is a very remarkable person, about the age 
of eiglit years, the youngest piece of gravity 
and dignity I ever encountered; short, and 
square, and upright, and slow, with a fine 
bronzed flat visage, resembling those converti- 
ble signs the Broad-Face and the Saracen's 
Head, which, happening to he next-door neigh- 
bours in the town of B., I never know apart, 
resembling, indeed, any face that is open-eyed 
and immoveable, the very sign of a boy ! He 
stalks about with his hands in his breeches 
pocket, like a piece of machinery ; sits leisure- 
ly down when he ought to field, and never 
gets farther in batting than to stop the ball. 
His is the only voice never heard in the melee ; 
I doubt, indeed, if he have one, which maybe 
partly the reason of a circumstance that I re- 
cord to his honour, his fidelity to Jem Eusden, 
to whom he has adhered through every change 
of fortune with a tenacity proceeding perhaps 
from an instinctive consciousness that that lo- 
quacious leader talks enough for two. He is 
the only thing resembling a follower that our 
demagogue possesses, and is cherished by him 
accordingly. Jem quarrels for him, scolds for 
him, pushes for him ; and but for Joe Kirby's 
invincible good humour, and a just discrimina- 
tion of the innocent from the guilty, the ac- 
tivity of Jem's friendship would get the poor 
hussar ten drubbings a day. 

But it is growing late. The sun has set a 
long time. Only see what a gorgeous colour- 
ing has spread itself over those parting masses 
of clouds in the west, — what a train of rosy 
light! We shall have a fine sunshiny day to- 
morrow, — a blessing not to be undervalued, in 
spite of my late vituperation of heat. Shall 
we go home now] And shall we take the 
longest but prettiest road, that by the green 
lanes'? This way, to the left, round the corner 
of the common, past Mrs. Welles's cottage, 
and our path lies straight before us. How 
snug and comfortable that cottage looks! Its 
little yard all alive with the cow, and the 
mare, and the colt almost as large as the mare, 
and the young foal, and the great yard-dog all 
so fat ! Fenced in with hay-rick, and wheat- 
rick, and bean-stack, and backed by "the long 
garden, the spacious dryinj-ground, the fine 
orchard, and that large field quartered into 
four different crops. How comfortable this 
cottage looks, and how well the owners earn 
their comforts ! They are the most prosperous 
pair in the parish — she a laundress with twenty 
times more work than she can do, unrivalled 
in flounces and shirt-frills, and such delicacies 
of the craft ; he. partly a farmer, partly a 
farmer's man, tilling his own ground, and then 



THE TALKING GENTLEMAN. 



57 



tilling^ other people's ; — affording; a proof, even 
in this declininor -Age, when the circumstances 
of so many worthy members of the community 
seem to have "an alacrity in siniiing:," that it 
is possible to amend them by sheer industry. 
He, who was born in the workhouse, and bred 
up as a parish boy, has now, by mere manual 
labour, risen to the rank of a land-owner, pays 
rates and taxes, s^rumbles at the times, and is 
called Master Welles, — the title next to Mister 
— that by which Shakspeare was called; — 
what would man have more? His wife, be- 
sides being the best laundress in the county, 
is a comely woman still. There she stands at 
the spriiior, dipping up water for to-morrow, — 
the clear, deep, silent springr, which sleeps so 
peacefully under its high tlowery bank, red 
with the tall spiral stalks of the foxglove and 
their rich pendent bells, blue with the beauti- 
ful fortret-me-not, that gem-like blossom, which 
looks like a living jewel of turfjuoise and topaz. 
It is almost too late to see its beauty; and 
here is the pleasant shady lane, where the high 
elms will shut out the little twilight that re- 
mains. Ah, but we shall have the fairies' 
lamps to guide us, the stars of the earth, the 
glow-worms ! Here they are, three almost to- 
gether. Do you not see them 1 One seems 
tremulous, vibrating, as if on the extremity of 
a leaf of grass ; the others are deeper in the 
hedge, in some green cell on which their light 
falls with an emerald lustre. I hope my 
friends the cricketers will not come this way 
home. I would not have the pretty creatures 
removed for more than I care to say, and in 
this matter I would hardly trust Joe Kirby — 
boys so love to stick them in their hats. i3ut 
this lane is quite deserted. It is only a road 
from field to field. No one comes here at this 
hour. They are quite safe ; and I shall walk 
here to-morrow and visit them again. And 
now, good night! beautiful insects, lamps of 
the fairies, good night ! 



THE TALKING GENTLEMAN. 

Thk lords of the creation, who are generally 
(to do. them justice) tenacious enough of their 
distinctive and peculiar faculties and powers, 
have yet by common consent made over to the 
females the single gift of loquacity. Every 
man thinks and says that every woman talks 
more than he : it is the creed of the whole 
sex, — the debates and law reports notwith- 
standing. And every masculine eye that has 
scanned my title has already, I doubt not, 
looked to the errata, suspecting a mistake in 
the gender ; but it is their misconception, not 
my mistake. I do not (Heaven forbid !) in- 
tend to impugn or abrogate our female privi- 
lege ; I do not dispute that we do excel, ge- 
nerally speaking, in the use of the tongue; 

H 



I only mean to assert that one gentleman does 
exist, (whom I have the pleasure of knowing 
intimately,) who stands pre-eminent and un- 
rivalled in the art of talking, — unmatched and 
unapproached by man, woman, or child. Since 
the decease of my poor friend " the Talking 
Lad}''," who dropped down speechless in the 
midst of a long story about nine weeks ago, 
and was immediately known to be dead by her 
silence, I should be at a loss where to seek a 
competitor to contend with him in a race of 
words, and I should be still more puzzled to 
find one that can match him in wit, pleasantry, 
or good-humour. 

My friend is usually called Harry L., for, 
though a man of substance, a lord of land, a 
magistrate, a field officer of militia, nobody 
ever dreamed of calling him Mister or major, 
or by any such derogatory title — he is and will 
be all his life plain Harry, the name of uni- 
versal good-will. He is indeed the pleasantest 
fellow that lives. His talk (one can hardly 
call it conversation, as that would seem to im- 
ply another interlocutor, something like reci- 
procity) is an incessant flow of good thino-s, 
like Congreve's comedies without a re[)!ying 
speaker, or Joe Miller laid into one; and its 
perpetual stream is not lost and dispersed by 
diffusion, but runs in one constant channel, 
playing and sparkling like a fountain, the de- 
light and ornament of our good town of B. 

Harry L. is a perfect example of provincial 
reputation, of local fame. There is not an 
urchin in the town that has not heard of him, 
nor an old woman that does not chuckle by 
anticipation at his approach. The citizens of 
C. are as proud of him as the citizens of Ant- 
werp were of the Chapeau de Faille, and they 
have the advantage of the luckless Flem.ings 
in the certainty that their boast is not to be 
purchased. Harry, like the Flemish Beauty, 
is native to the spot; for he was born at B., 
educated at B., married at B., — though, as his 
beautiful wife brought him a good estate in a 
distant part of the country, there seemed at 
that epoch of his history some danger of his 
being lost to our ancient borough ; but he is a 
social and gregarious animal ; so he leaves 
his pretty place in Devonshire to take care of 
itself, and lives hero in the midst of a hive. 
His tastes are not at all rural. He is no 
sportsman, no farmer, no lover of strong ex- 
ercise. When at B., his walks are quite re- 
gular; from his own house, on one side of the 
town, to a gossip-shop called " literary" on 
the other, where he talks and reads newspa- 
pers, and others read newspapers and listen : 
thence he proceeds to another house of news, 
similar in kind, though differing in name, in 
an opposite quarter, where he and his hearers 
undergo the same process, and then he returns 
home, formings a pretty exact triangle of about 
half a mile. This is his daily exercise, or 
rather his daily walk; of exercise he takes 
abundance, not only in talking, (though that 



58 



OUR VILLAGE, 



is nearly as good lo open the chest as the 
dumb-bells,) but in a tjeneral restlessness and 
fidgetiness of person, the result o£ his ardent 
and nervous temperament, which can hardly 
endure repose of mind or body. He neither 
gives rest nor takes it. His company is, in- 
deed, in one sense (only one) fatiguing. Lis- 
tening to him tires you like a journey. You 
laugh till you are forced to lie down. The 
medical gentlemen of the place are aware of 
this, and are accustomed to exhort delicate 
patients to abstain from Harry's society, just 
as they caution them against temptations in 
point of amusement or of diet — pleasant but 
dangerous. Choleric gentlemen should al- 
ways avoid him, and such as love to have the 
last word ; for, though never provoked him- 
self, I cannot deny that he is occasionally 
tolerably provoking, — in politics especially — 
(and he is an ultra-liberal, quotes Cobbett, 
and goes rather too far) — in politics he loves 
to put his antagonist in a fume, and generally 
succeeds, though it is nearly the only subject 
on which he ever listens to an answer — chiefly 
I believe for the sake of a reply, which is 
commonly some trenchant repartee, that cuts 
off the poor answer's head like a razor. Very 
determined speakers would also do well to 
eschew his company — though in general I 
never met with any t-alker to whom other 
talkers were so ready to give way ; perhaps 
because he keeps them in such incessant 
laughter, that they are not conscious of their 
silence. To himself the number of his listeners 
is altogether unimportant. His speech flows 
not from vanity or lust of praise, but from sheer 
necessity ; — the reservoir is full, and runs over. 
When he has no one else to talk to, he can be 
content with his own company, and talks to 
himself, being beyond a doubt greater in soli- 
loquy than any man off tlie stage. Where he 
is not kno\\n, this habit sometimes occasions 
considerable consternation, and very ridiculous 
mistakes. He has been taken alternately for 
an actor, a poet, a man in love, and a man be- 
side himself. Once in particular, at Windsor, 
he greatly alarmed a philanthropic sentinel, 
by holding forth at his usual rate whilst 
pacing the terrace alone; and but for the op- 
portune arrival of his party, and their assur- 
ances that it was only " the gentleman's way," 
there was some danger that the benevolent 
soldier might have been tempted to desert his 
post to take care of him. Even after this ex- 
planation, he gazed with a doubtful eye at 
our friend, who was haranguing himself in 
great style, sighed and shook his head, and 
finally implored us to look well after him till 
he should be safe off the terrace. — " You see, 
ma'am," observed the philanthropist in scar- 
let, " it is an awkward place for any body 
troubled with vagaries. Suppose the poor 
soul should take a fancy to jump over the 
wall 1" 

In his externals he is a well-look ino- crentle- 



man of forty, or thereabout ; rather thin and 
rather pale, but with no appearance of ill- 
health, or any other peculiarity, except the re- 
markable circumstance of the lashes of one 
eye being white, wliich gives a singular non- 
resemblance to his organs of vision. Every 
one perceives the want of uniformity, and few 
detect the cause. Some suspect him of what 
farriers call a wall-eye ; some think he squints. 
He himself talks familiarly of his two eyes, 
the black and the white, and used to liken 
them to those of our fine Persian cat, (now, 
alas ! no more,) who had, in common with his 
feline countrymen, one blue as a sapphire, the 
other yellow as a topaz. The dissimilarity 
certainly rather spoils his beauty, but greatly 
improves his wit, — I mean the sense of his 
wit in others. It arrests attention and predis- 
poses to laughter ; is an outward and visible 
sign of the comical. No common man has 
two such eyes. They are made for fun. 

In his occupations and pleasures Harry is 
pretty much like other provincial gentlemen; 
loves a rubber, and jests all through, at aces, 
kings, queens, and knaves, bad cards, and 
good, at winning and losing, scolding and 
praise; — loves a play, at which he out-talks 
the actors whilst on the stage, — to say nothing 
of the advantage he has over them in the in- 
tervals between the acts ; — loves music, as a 
good accompaniment to his grand solo ; — loves 
a contested election above all. That is his 
real element, — that din and uproar, and riot 
and confusion ! To ride that whirlwind and 
direct that storm is his triumph of triumphs! 
He would make a great sensation in parlia- 
ment himself, and a pleasant one. (By the 
way, he was once in danger of being turned 
out of the gallery for setting all around him 
in a roar.) Think what a fine thing it would 
be for the members to have mirth introduced 
into the body of the house ! to be sure of an 
honest, hearty, good-hurnoured laugh during 
the session ! Besides, Harry is an admirable 
speaker, in every sense of the word. .Testing 
is indeed his forte, because he wills it so to 
be ; and therefore, because he chooses to play 
jigs and country dances upon a noble organ, 
even some of his stanchest admirers think he 
can play nothing else. There is no quality of 
which men so nmch grudge the reputation as 
versatility of talent. Because he is so hu- 
morous, they will hardly allow him to be elo- 
quent ; and, because he is so very witty, find 
it difficult to account him wise. But let him 
go where he has not that mischievous fame, 
or let him bridle his jests and rein in his hu- 
mour only for one short hour, and he will pass 
for a most reverend orator, — logical, pathetic, 
and vigorous above all. But hov/ can I wish 
him to cease jesting even for an hour f Who 
would exchange the genial fame of good-hu- 
moured wit for the stern reputation of wisdoml 
Who would choose to be Socrates, if with a 
wish he could be Harry h.l 



MRS. MOSSE. 



59 



MRS. MOSSE. 

I DO not know whether I ever hinted to the 
courteous reader that I had heen in my younjSfer 
days, without prejudice to my present condi- 
tion, somewhat of a spoiled child. The person 
who, next after my father and mother, contri- 
buted most materially to this melancholy ca- 
tastrophe, was an old female domestic, Mrs. 
Elizabeth Mosse, who, at the time of her 
death, had lived nearly sixty years in our 
iiouse and that of my maternal grandfather. 
Of course, duringr the latter part of this long^ 
period, the common forms and feelings of ser- 
vant and master were entirely swept away. 
She was a member of the family, an humble 
friend — happy are they who have such a friend ! 
— livintr as she liked, up stairs or down, in the 
kitchen or the nursery, considered, consulted, 
and beloved by the whole household. 

Mossy (for by that fondling nursery name 
she best liked to be called) had never been 
married, so that the family of her master and 
mistress had no rival in her heart, and on me, 
their only child, was concentrated that inten- 
sity of affection which distinoruishes the at- 
tachments of agfe. I loved her dearly too, as 
dearly as a spoiled child can love its prime 
spoiler, — but, oh ! how selfish was my love, 
com{)ared to the depth, the purity, the indul- 
g-ence, the self-denial of hers ! Dear Mossy! 
I shall never do her justice; and yet I must 
try. 

Mrs. Mosse, in her appearance, was in the 
highest degree what is called respectable. 
She must have been tall when young; for 
even when bent with age, she was above the 
middle height, a large-made though meagre 
woman. She walked with feebleness and dif- 
ficulty, from the attacks of hereditary gout, 
which not even her temperance and activity 
could ward off. There was something very 
interesting in this tottering helplessness, cling- 
ing to the balusters, or holding by doors and 
chairs like a child. It had nothing of vulgar 
lameness; it told of age, venerable age. Out 
of doors she never ventured, unless on some 
sunny afternoon I could entice her into the air, 
and then once roimd the garden, or to the lawn 
gate and back again, was the extent of her 
walk, propped by a very aristocratic walking- 
stick (once the property of a duchess) as tall 
as herself, with a hooked ivory handle, joined 
to the cane b}' a rim of gold. Her face was 
as venerable as her person. She must have 
been very handsome; indeed she was so still, 
as far as regular and delicate features, a pale 
ijrown complexion, dark eyes, still retaining 
the intelligence and animation of youth, and 
an expression perfectly gentle and feminine, 
could make her so. It is one of the worst 
penalties that woman pays to age, that often, 
when advanced in life, the face loses its cha- 
racteristic softness ; in short, but for the dif- 



ference in dress, many an old woman's head 
might pass f"or that of an old man. This mis- 
fortune could never have happened to Mossy. 
No one could mistake the sex of that sweet 
countenance. 

Her dress manifested a good deal of lauda- 
ble coquetry, a' nice and minute attention to 
the becoming. I do not know at what precise 
date her costume was fixed : but, as long as I 
remember her fixed it was, and stood as inva- 
riably at one point of fashion, as the hand of 
an unwound clock stands at one hour of the 
day. It consisted (to begin from the feet and 
describe upwards) of black shoes of shining 
stuff, with very pointed toes, high heels, and 
a peak up the instep, showing to advantage 
her delicately white cotton stockings, and 
peeping beneath petticoats so numerous and 
substantial, as to give a rotundity and projec- 
tion almost equal to a hoop. Her exterior gar- 
ment was always quilted, varying according to 
the season or the occasion, from simple stuff, 
or fine white dimity, or an obsolete manufac- 
ture called Marseilles, up to silk and satin ; — 
for, as the wardrobes of my tiiree grandmo- 
thers (pshaw! I mean my grandfather's three 
wives !) had fallen to her lot, few gentlewomen 
of the last century could boast a greater vari- 
ety of silks that stood on end. — Over the 
quilted petticoat came an open gown, whose 
long waist reached to the bottom of her stiff 
stays, and whose very full tail, about six inches 
longer than the petticoat, would have formed 
a very inconvenient little train, if it had been 
permitted to hang down ; but that inconve- 
nience never happened, and could scarcely 
have been contemplated by the designer. The 
tail was constantly looped up, so as to hang 
behind in a sort of bunchy festoon, exhibiting 
on each side the afores'aid petticoat. In mate- 
rial the gown also varied with the occasion, 
although it was always either con.posed of 
dark cotton or of the rich silks and satins of 
my grandmamma's wardrobe. The sleeves 
came down just below the elbow, and wen 
finished by a narrow white ruffle meeting hei 
neat mittens. On her neck she wore a snow 
white double muslin kerchief, pinned over the 
gown in front, and confined by an apron also 
of muslin ; and, over all, a handsome silk 
shawl, so pinned back as to show a part of the 
snowy neck-kerchief. Her head-dress was 
ecjuaily becoming, and more particularly pre- 
cise; for, if ever she betrayed an atom of old- 
maidishness, it was on the score of her caps. 
From a touch of the gout in her hands which 
had enlarged and stiffened the joints, she could 
do no work which required nicety, and the 
successive lady's maids, on whom the opera- 
tion devolved, used to say that they would ra- 
ther make up ten caps for their mistress than 
one for Mrs. Mosse ; and yet the construction 
seemed simple enough. A fine clear-starched 
caul, sticking up rather high and peaked in 
front, was plaited on a Scotch gauze liead{)ieco; 



60 



OUR VILLAGE 



(I remember there used to be exactly six plaits 
on each side — woe to the damsel who should 
put more or less !) and, on the other side, a 
border, consisting of a strip of fine muslin, 
edged with narrow lace, clear-starched and 
crimped, was plaited on with equal precision. 
In one part of this millinery 1 used to assist. 
I dearly loved to crimp Mossy's frills, and she 
with hor usual indulgence used frequently to 
let me, keeping however a pretty close eye on 
her laces and muslins, whilst I was passing 
them with triumphant rapidity between the 
small wooden machine notched longitudinally, 
and the corresponding roller. Perhaps a great- 
er proof of indulgence could hardly have been 
shown, since she must, during this operation, 
have been in double fear for her own cap strips, 
which did occasionally get a rent, and for my 
fingers, which were sometimes well pinched — 
then she would threaten that 1 should never 
crimp her muslin again — a never which seldom 
lasted beyond the next cap-making. The head- 
piece was then concealed by a satin riband 
fastened in a peculiar bow, sometliitig between 
a bow and a puffing behind, whilst the front 
was adorned with an equally peculiar small 
knot, of which the two bows were pinned 
down flat and the two ends left sticking up, 
cut into scallops of a prodigious regularity. 
The purchase of the ribands formed another 
branch of the cap-making department to which 
1 laid claim. From the earliest period at which 
I could distinguish one colour from another, I 
had been purveyor of ribands to Mossy, and 
indeed at all fairs, or whenever I received a 
present or entered a shop, (and I was so liber- 
ally supplied that there was nothing like gen- 
erosity in the case,) it was the first and plea- 
santest destination of money that occurred to 
me: so that the dear woman used to complain, 
that Miss bought her so many ribands, that 
they spoiled in kee|)ing. We did not quite 
agree either in our taste. White, as both ac- 
knowledged, was the only wear for Sundays 
and holidays; but then she loved plain white, 
and I could not always control a certain wan- 
dering inclination for figured patterns and pearl 
edges. If Mossy had an aversion to any thing, 
it was to a pearl edge. I never could persuade 
her to wear that simple piece of finery but 
once ; and then she made as many wry faces 
as a child eating olives, and stood before a 
glass eyeing the obnoxious riband with so 
much discomposure, that I was fain to take it 
out myself, and promise to buy no more pearl 
edges. The every-day ribands were coloured ; 
and there, too, we had our little differences of 
tasto and opinion. Both agreed in the propri- 
ety of grave colours ; but then my reading of 
a grave colour was not always the same as 
hers. My eyes were not old enough. She 
used to accuse my French greys of blueness, 
and my crimsons of redness, and my greens 
of their greenness. She had a 'penchant for 
brown, and to brown I had a repugnance only 



to be equalled by that which she professed to- 
wards a pearl edge ; — indeed I retain my dis- 
like to this hour; — it is such an exceedingly 
cross and frumpish-looking colour — and then 
its ugliness! Show me a brown flower ! No! 
I could not bring myself to buy brown; — so 
after fighting many battles about grey and 
green, we at last settled on purple as a sort 
of neutral tint, a hue which pleased both par- 
ties. To return to the cap which we have 
been so long making — the finish both to that 
and to my description was a strip of crimped 
muslin, with edging on both sides to match 
the border, quilled on a piece of tape, and fast- 
ened on a cap at each ear. This she called 
the chinnum. A straight short row of hair 
rather grey, but still very dark for her age, 
just appeared under the plaited lace; and a 
pair of silver-mounted spectacles completed 
her equipment. If I live to the age of seven- 
ty, I will dress so too, with an exception of 
the stiff stays. Only a waist native to the 
fashion could endure that whalebone armour. 
Her employments were many and various. 
No v'ork was required of her from her mis- 
tress ; but idleness was misery to her habits 
of active usefulness, and it was astonishing 
how much those crippled fingers could do. 
She preferred coarse needle-work, as it was 
least difficult to her eyes and hands; and she 
attended also to those numerous and undefined 
avocations of a gentleman's family which come 
under the denomination of odd jobs — shelling 
peas, paring apples, splitting French beans, 
washing china, darning stockings, hemming 
and mending dusters and house-cloths, mak- 
ing cabbage-nets, and knitting garters. These 
were her daily avocations, the amusements 
which she loved. The only more delicate 
operation of needle-work that she ever under- 
took was the making of pincushions, a manu- 
facture in which she delighted — not the quips 
and quiddities of these degenerate days, little 
bits of riband, and pasteboard, and gilt paper, 
in the shape of books or butterflies, by which, 
at charitable repositories, half-a-dozen pins are 
smuggled into a lady's pocket, and shillings 
and half-crowns are smuggled out; — no! 
Mossy's were real solid old-fashioned silken 
pincushions, such as Autolycus might have 
carried about amongst his pedlery-ware, square 
and roomy, and capable, at a moderate com- 
putation, of containing a whole paper o[ sfiorl- 
iv/u'les, and another of nnddlings. It. was de- 
lightful to observe her enjoyment of this play- 
work ; the conscious importance with which 
she produced her satins and brocades, and her 
cards of sewing silks (she generally inade a 
whole batch at once) — the deliberation with 
which she assorted the colours; — the care 
with which she tacked and fitted side to side, 
and corner to corner ; — the earnestness with 
which, when all was sewed up except one 
small aperture for the insertion of the stuf- 
fing, she would pour in the bran, or stow in 



MRS. MOSSE. 



61 



the wool : — then the care with which she 
poked the stuffing into every separate corner, 
ramminor it down with all her strength, and 
making- the little bag (so to say) hold more 
than it would hold, until it became almost as 
hard as -^ cricket-ball; — then how she drew 
the aperture together by main force, putting 
so many last stitches, fastening off with such 
care; — and then distributing them to all around 
her (for her lady-like spirit would have scorned 
the idea -of selling them), and always reserv- 
ing the gayest and the prettiest for me. Dear 
old soul ! I have several of them still. 

But, if I should begin to enumerate all the 
instances of kindness which I experienced at 
her hands, through the changes and varieties 
of troublesome childhood and fantasti&youth ; 
from the time when I was a puling baby, to 
the still more exacting state of a young girl 
at home in the holidays, I should never know 
when to end. Her sweet and loving temper 
was self-rewarded. She enjoyed the happi- 
ness she gave. Those were pleasant evenings 
when my father and mother were engaged in 
the Christmas-dinner visits of a gay and ex- 
tensive neighbourhood, and Mrs. Mosse used 
to put on her handsomest shawl and her kind- 
est smile, and totter up stairs to drink tea with 
me, and keep me company. From those even- 
ings I imbibed, in the first place, a love of 
strong green tea, for which gentlewomanly 
excitation Mossy had a remarkable predilec- 
tion ; second!)', a very discreditable and unla- 
dylike partiality, of which I am quite ashamed, 
which I keep a secret from my most intimate 
friends, and wou_d not mention for the world 
— a sort of sneaking kindness for her favourite 
game of cribbage; an old-fashioned vulgarity, 
which, in my mind, beats the genteeler pas- 
times of whist and picquet, and every game, 
except quadrille, out and out. I make no ex- 
ception in favour of chess, because, thanks to 
m)r stupidity, I never could learn that recon- 
dite diversion ; moreover, judging from the 
grave faces and fitiguing silence of the initi- 
ated, I cannot help suspecting that, board for 
board, we cribbage-players are as well amused 
as they. Dear Mossy could neither feel to 
deal and shutlle, nor see to peg; so that the 
greater part of the business fell to my share. 
The success was pretty equally divided. Three 
rubbers were our stint ; and we were often 
game and game in the last before victory de- 
clared itself. She was very anxious to beat, 
certainly — (N. B. we never played for any 
thing) — she liked to win ; and yet she did not 
quite like that I should lose. If we could 
both have won — if it had been four-handed 
cribbage, and she my partner — still there 
would have been somebody to be beaten and 
pitied, but then that somebody would not have 
been " Miss." 

The cribbage hour was pleasant ; but I think 
the hours of chat which preceded and followed 
it were pleasanter still. Mossy was a most 



agreeable companion, sensible, modest, sim- 
ple, shrewd, with an exactness of recollection, 
an honesty of memory, that gave exceeding 
interest to her stories. You were sure that ! 
you heard the truth. There was one striking 
peculiarity in her manner of talking, or rather 
one striking contrast. The voice and accent 
were quite those of a gentlewoman, as sweet- 
toned and correct as could be; the words and 
their arrangement were altogether those of a 
common person, provincial and ungrammatical 
in every phrase and combination. I believe 
it is an effect of association, from the little 
slips in her grammar, that I have contracted 
a most unscholar-like prejudice in favour of 
false syntax, which is so connected in my 
mind with right notions, that I no sooner catch 
the sound of bad English than I begin to listen 
for good sense ; and really they often go toge- 
ther (always supposing that the bad English 
be not of the order called slang), and meet 
much more frequently than those exclusive 
people, ladies and gentlemen, are willing to 
allow. In her they were always united. But 
the charm of her conversation was in the old 
family stories, and the unconscious peeps at 
old manners which they afforded. 

My grandfather, with whom she had lived 
in his first wife's time, full twenty years be- 
fore my mother's birth, was a most respectable 
clergyman, who, after passing a few years in 
London amongst the wits and poets of the 
day, seeing the star of Pope in its decline, and 
that of Johnson in its rise, had retired into the 
country, where he held two adjoining livings 
of considerable value, both of which he served 
for above forty years, until the duty becoming 
too severe, he resigned one of them under an 
old-fashioned notion, that he who did the duty 
ought to receive the remuneration. I am very 
proud of m}'' venerable ancestor. We have a 
portrait of him taken shortly after he was or- 
dained, in his gown and band, with a curious 
flowing wig, something like that of a judge, 
fashionable doubtless, at the time, but which 
at present rather discomposes one's notions of 
clerical costume. He seems to have been a 
dark little man, with a sensible countenance, 
and a pair of black eyes, that even in the pic- 
ture look you through. He was a votary of 
the Muses, too; a contributor to Lewis's Mis- 
cellany ; (did my readers ever hear of that 
collection'?) translated Horace, as all gentle- 
men do; and wrote love-verses, which had 
the unusual good fortune of obtaining their 
object, being, as Mrs. Mosse was wont to 
affirm, the chief engine and implement by 
which at fifty he gained the heart of his third 
wife, my real grandmamma, the beautiful 
daughter of a neighbouring 'squire. Of Dr. 
R., his wives, and his sermons, the bishops 
who visited, and the poets who wrote to him, 
Mossy's talk was mainly composed ; chiefly 
of the wives. 

Mrs. R., the first, was a fine London lady, 



62 



OUR VILLAGE. 



a widow, and considerably older than her 
spouse, inasmuch as my grandpapa's passion 
for her commenced when he and her son, by 
a former husband, were school-fellows at 
Westminster. Mrs. Mosse never talked much 
of her, and, I suspect, did not much like her, 
though, when closely questioned, she would 
say that madam was a fine, portly lady, 
stately and personable, but rather too high. 
Her son made a sad mesalliance. He ran 
away with the sexton's daughter, an adven- 
ture which cost the sexton his post, and his 
mother her pride : she never looked up after 
it. That disgrace, and a cold caught by bump- 
ing on a pillion six miles through the rain, 
sent her to her grave. 

Of the second Mrs. R. little remains on 
record, except a gown and petticoat of prim- 
rose silk, curiously embossed and embroidered 
with gold and silver thread and silks of all 
colours, in an enormous running pattern of 
staring flowers, wonderfully unlike nature ; 
also various recipes in the family receipt- 
book, which show a delicate Italian hand, and 
a bold originality of orthography. The chief 
event of her married life appears to have been 
the small-pox. She and two of her sisters, 
and Mrs. Mosse, were all inoculated together. 
The other servants, who had not gone through 
the disorder, were sent out of the house: Dr. 
R. himself took refuge with a neighbouring 
friend, and the patients were consigned to the 
care of two or three nurses, gossips by profes- 
sion, hired from the next town. The best 
parlour, (in those days drawing-rooms were 
not,) was turned into a hospital ; a quarantine, 
almost as strict as would be required in the 
plague, was kept up, and the preparation, the 
disease, and the recovery, consumed nearly 
two months. Mrs. Mosse always spoke of it 
as one of the pleasantest passages of her life. 
None of them suffered much ; there was no- 
thing to do, plenty of gossiping; a sense of 
self-importance, such as all prisoners must 
feel more or less; and for amusement they 
had Pamela, the Spectator, and Sir Charles 
Grandison. My grandfather had a very fine 
library; but Sir Charles was a female book, 
having been purchased by the joint contri- 
butions of six young ladies, and circulated 
amongst them once a year, sojourning two 
months with each fair partner, till death or 
marriage broke up the coterie. Is not that 
famel V7ell, the second Mrs. R. died in the 
course of time, though not of the small-pox ; 
and m}' grandfather, faithful to his wives, but 
not to th(!ir memories, married again as usual. 

His third adventure in that line was par- 
ticularly happy; for my grandmother, beside 
being a celebrated beauty, appears to have 
been one of the best and kindest women that 
ever gladdened a country-home. She had a 
large household ; for the tithes of one rich rec- 
tory were taken in kind, and the glebe culti- 
vated ; so that the cares of a farm-house were 



added to the hospitality of a man of good for- 
tune, and to the sort of stateliness which in 
those primitive days appertained to a doctor 
of divinity. The superintendence of that large 
household seems to have been at once her duty 
and her delight. It was a plenty and festivity 
almost resembling that of Camacho's wed- 
ding, guided by a wise and liberal economy, 
and a spirit of indefatigable industry. Oh the 
saltings, the picklings, the preservings, the 
cake-makings, the unnamed and unnameable 
confectionary doings over which she presided ! 
The very titles of her territories denoted the 
extent of her stores. The apple-room, the 
pear-bin, the cheese-loft, the mi need -meat 
closet, were household words as familiar in 
Mossy's mouth as the dairy or the poultry- 
yard. And my grandmamma was no hoarder 
for hoarding's sake, no maker of good things 
which Avere not to be eaten — as I have some- 
times noted amongst your managing ladies ; 
the object of her cares and stores was to con- 
tribute to the comfort of all who came within 
her influence. The large parsonage-house was 
generally overflowing with guests ; and from 
the Oxford professor, who, with his wife, chil- 
dren, servants, and horses, passed his vaca- 
tions there, to the poor pew-opener, who came 
with her little ones at tide-times, all felt the 
charm of her smiling graciousness, her sweet 
and cheerful spirit, her open hand and open 
heart. It is difficult to imagine a happier 
couple than my venerable grandfather and his 
charming wife. He retained to the last his 
studious habits, his love of literature, and his 
strong and warm family aff'ections ; while she 
cast the sunshine of her innocent gaiety over 
his respectable age, proud of his scholarship, 
and prouder still of his virtues. Both died 
long ago. But Mossy was an "honest chro- 
nicler," and never weary of her theme. Even 
the daily airings of the good doctor (who, in 
spite of his three wives, had a little of the pe- 
culiar preciseness in his studies and his exer- 
cise, which one is apt to attribute exclusively 
to that dreary person, an old bachelor) even 
those airings from twelve to two, four miles 
on the turnpike-road, and four miles back, 
with the fat horses and the grey-haired coach- 
man, became vivid and characteristic in her 
description. The very carriage-dog, Sancho, 
was individualized ; we felt that he belonged 
to the people and the time. 

Of these things we talked, mingled with 
many miscellaneous anecdotes of the same 
date; — how an electioneering duke saluted 
madam, and lost master's interest by the free- 
dom ; — how Sir Thomas S., the Lovelace of 
his day, came in his chariot and six, full twenty 
miles out of his way, to show himself to Miss 
Fanny in a Spanish masquerade dress, white 
satin slashed with blue, a blue cloak embroid- 
ered with silver, and point-lace that might 
have won any woman's heart, except that of 
his fair but obdurate mistress ; and lastly, 



MRS. MOSSE 



6a 



how Henry Fielding, when on a visit in the 
neighbourhood, had been accustomed to come 
and swing tlie children in the great barn ; he 
had even swung Mossy herself, to her no 
small edification and delight — only think of 
being chucked backwards and forwards by the 
man who wrote about Parson Adams and 
'Squire Allworthy! I used to envy her that fe- 
licity. Then from authors we got to books. 
She could not see in my time to read any thing 
but the folio Bible, and Common Prayer-Boole, 
with which my dear mother had furnished her; 
but in her younger days she had seen or heard 
parts at least of a variety of books, and enter- 
ed into them with a very keen though uncriti- 
cal relish. Her chief favourites were, the 
Pilgrim's Progress, Don Quixote, Gulliver's 
Travels, Robinson Crusoe, and the equally 
apocryphal but still truer-seeming History of 
the Plague in London, by the same author, all 
of which she believed with the most earnest 
simplicity. I used frequently to read to her 
the passages she liked best ; and she in her 
turn would repeat to me songs and ballads, 
good, bad, and indifferent — a strange medley, 
and strangely confounded in her memory; and 
so the time passed till ten o'clock. Those 
were pleasant evenings for her and for me. 

I have sometimes, on recollection, feared 
that her down-stair life was less happy. All 
that the orders of a mistress could effect for 
her comfort was done. But we were rich then 
unluckily; and there were skipjacks of foot- 
men, and surly coachmen, and affected wait- 
ing-maids, and vixenish cooks, with tempers 
red-hot like their coals, to vex and tease our 
dear old woman. She must have suffered 
greatly between her ardent zeal for her mas- 
ter's interest, and that strange principle of con- 
cealing evil doings which servants call ho- 
nour, and of which she was perpetually the 
slave and the victim. She had another infirm- 
ity, too, an impossibility of saying no, which, 
added to an unbounded generosity of temper, 
rendered her the easy dupe of the artful and 
designing. She would give any thing to the 
appearance of want, or the pretence of affec- 
tion ; in short, to importunity, however clothed. 
It was the only point of weakness in her cha- 
racter; and to watch that she did not throw 
away her own little comforts, to protect her 
from the effects of her over-liberality, was the 
chief care of her mistress. Three inferior ser- 
vants were successively turned away for tres- 
passing on Mossy's goodness, drinking her 
green tea, eating her diet-bread, begging her 
gowns. But the evil was incurable; she 
could dispense with any pleasure, except that 
of giving. So she lived on, beloved as the 
kind, the gentle, and the generous must be, 
till 1 left school, an event that gave her great 
satisfaction. 

We passed the succeeding spring in Lon- 



don ; and she took the opportunity to pay a 
long-promised visit to a half-nephew and niece, 
or rather a half-niece and her husband, who 
lived in Prince's-street, Barbican. Mrs. Beck 
(one naturally mentions her first as the person 
of most consequence) was the only real wo- 
man who ever came up to the magnificent ab- 
stract idea of the "fat woman of Brentford," 
the onlj' being for whom Sir John Falstaff 
might have passed undetected. She was in- 
deed a mountain of Hesh, exuberant, rubicund, 
and bearded like a man ; and she spoke, in a 
loud deep mannish voice, a broad Wiltshire 
dialect; but she was hearty and jovial withal, a 
thorough good fellow in petticoats. Mr. Beck, 
on the other hand, was a little insignificant, 
perking, sharp-featured man, with a Jerry- 
Sneak expression in his pale whey-face, a thin 
squeaking voice, and a Cockney accent. He 
had been lucky enough to keep a little shop 
in an independent borough, at the time of a 
violently contested election ; and having adroit- 
ly kept back his vote till votes rose to their 
full value (I hope this is no breach of privi- 
lege,) and then voted on the strongest side, 
he was at the time of which I speak comfort- 
abl}'^ settled in the excise as a tide-waiter, had 
a pretty neat house, brought up his family in 
good repute, wore a flaming red waistcoat, at- 
tended a dissenting meeting, and owed no man 
a shilling. 

These good people were very fond of their 
aunt, who had indeed, before they were so 
well off, shown them innumerable kindnesses. 
Perhaps there might be in the case a little gra- 
titude for favours to come; for she had three 
or four hundred pounds to bequeath, partl3'^her 
own savings, and partly a legacy frorn a dis- 
tant relative ; and they were her natural heirs. 
However that might be, they paid her all pos- 
sible attention, and when we were about to 
return into the country, petitioned so vehe- 
mently for a few weeks more, that, yielding to 
the above-mentioned infirmity, she consented 
to stay. I had myself been the ambassadress 
to Barbican to fetch our dear old friend ; and 
I remember, as if it were yesterday, how ear- 
nestly I entreated her to come with me, and 
how seriously I lectured Mrs. Beck for her 
selfishness, in wishing to keep her aunt in 
London during the heat of June. I even, after 
taking leave, sprang out of the carriage and 
ran up stairs to persuade her to come with 
me. Mossy's wishes were evidently on my 
side; but she had promised, and the perform- 
ance of her promise was peremptorily claim- 
ed : so with a heavy heart I left her. I never 
saw her again. There is surely such a thing 
as presentiment. A violent a.ttack of gout in 
the stomach carried her off in a few hours. 
Hail to thy memory ! for thou wast of the an- 
tique world, when " service sweat for duty, 
not for meed !" 



64 



OUR VILLAGE, 



WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. 

NUTTING. 

September 2Gth. — One of those delicious 
autumnal days, when the air, the sky, and the 
earth, seem lulled into an universal calm, softer 
and milder even than May. We sallied forth 
for a walk, in a mood congenial to the wea- 
ther and the season, avoiding, by mutual con- 
sent, the bright and sunny common, and the 
gay high road, and stealing through shady un- 
frequented lanes, where we were not likely to 
meet any one, — not even the pretty Aimily pro- 
cession, which in other years we used to con- 
template with so much interest — the father, 
mother, and cinldren, returning from the wheat 
field, the little ones laden with bristling close- 
tied bunches of wheat-ears, their own glean- 
ings, or a bottle and a basket which had con- 
tained their frugal dinner, whilst the mother 
would carry her babe hushing and lulling it, 
and the father and an elder child trudged after 
with the cradle, all seeming weary, and all 
happy. We shall not see such a procession 
as this to-day; for the harvest is nearly over, 
the fields are deserted, the silence may almost 
be felt. Except the wintry notes of the red- 
breast, nature herself is mute. But how beau- 
tiful, how gentle, how harmonious, how rich ! 
The rain has preserved to the herbage all the 
freshness and verdure of spring, and the world 
of leaves has lost nothing of its midsummer 
brightness, and the harebell is on the banks 
and the woodt)ine in the hedges, and the low 
furze, which the lambs cropped in the spring, 
has burst again into its golden blossoms. 

All is beautiful that the eye can see ; per- 
haps the more beautiful for being shut in with 
a forest-like closeness. We have no prospect 
in this labyrinth of lanes, cross-roads, mere 
cart-ways, leading to the innumerable little 
farms into which this part of the parish is di- 
vided. Uphill or down, these quiet woody 
lanes scarcely give us a peep at the world, 
except when, leaning over a gate, we look in- 
to one of the small enclosures, hemmed in with 
hedo-erows, so closely set with growing tim- 
ber, that the meady opening looks almost like 
a glade in a wood, or when some cottage, 
planted at a corner of one of the little greens 
formed by the meeting of these cross-ways, 
almost startles us by the unexpected sight of 
the dwellings of men in such a solitude. But 
that we have more of hill and dale, and that 
our cross-roads are excellent in their kind, this 
side of our parish would resemble the descrip- 
tion given of La Vendee, in Madame Laroche- 
jacquelia's most interesting book.* I am sure 

* An almost equally interesting account of that very 
peculiar and interesting scenery, may be found in 
"The Maid of La Vendee," an F.iijilish novel, re- 
markable fc>r its simplicity and truth of painting, 
written by IMrs. Le JNoir, the daughter of Cliristoplier 
Smart, and inheritrix of much of his talent. Her 
works deserve to be belter known. 



if wood can entitle a country to be called Le 
Bocage, none can have a better right to the 
name. Even this ])retty snug farm-house on 
the hill-side, with its front covered with the 
rich vine, which goes w-reathing up to the very 
top of the clustered chimney, and its sloping 
orchard full of fruit — even this pretty quiet 
nest can hardly peep out of its leaves. Ah! 
they are gathering in the orchard harvest. 
Look at that young rogue in the old rnossy 
apple-tree — that great tree, bending with the 
weitrht of its golden rennets — see how he pelts 
his little sister beneath with apples as red and 
as round as her own cheeks, while she, with 
her outstretched frock, is trying to catch them, 
and laughing and offering to pelt again as 
often as one bobs against her; and look at 
that still younger imp, who, as grave as a 
judge, is creeping on hands and knees under 
the tree, picking up the apples as they fall so 
deedily,! and depositing them so honestly in 
the great basket on the grass, already fixed so 
firmly and opened so widely, and filled almost 
to overflowing by the brown rough fruitage of 
the golden-rennet's next neighbour the russet- 
ing; and see that smallest urchin of all seated 
apart in infantine state on the turfy bank, with 
that toothsome piece of deformity a crumpling 
in each hand, now biting from one sweet hard 
juicy morsel, and now from another. — Is not 
that a pretty English picture ] And then, 
farther up the orchard, that bold hardy lad, 
the eldest-born, who has scaled (Heaven knows 
how I) the tall straight upper branch of that 
great pear-tree, and is sitting there as securely 
and as fearlessly, in as much real safety and 
apparent danger, as a sailor on the top-mast. 
Now he shakes the tree with a mighty swing 
that brings down a pelting shower of stony 
bergamots, which the father gathers rapidly 
up, whilst the mother can hardly assist for 
her motherly fear, — a fear which only spurs 
the spirited boy to bolder ventures. Is not 
that a pretty picture 1 And they are such a 
handsome family, too, the Brookers. I do not 
know that there is any gipsy blood, but there 
is the true gipsy complexion, richly brown, 
with cheeks and lips so deeply red, black hair 
curling close to their heads in short crisp rings, 
white shining teeth — and such eyes I — That 
sort of beauty entirely eclipses your mejre roses 
and lilies. Even Lizzy, the prettiest of fair 
children, would look poor and watery by the 
side of Willy Brooker, the sober liule per- 
sonage who is picking up the apples with his 
small chubby hands, and filling the basket so 
orderly, next to his father the most useful man 
in the field. " Willy !" he hears without see- 

t " Deedily," — T am not quite sure that this word is 
good Knglish; but it is genuine Hampshire, and is 
used by the most correct of female wniers, Miss 
Ausien. It means (and it is no small merit that it has 
no exact synonymo) any thing done with a protbund 
and [iloddiiig attention, an action which engrosses all 
the powers ot mind and body. 



WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. 



65 



ing; for we are quite hidden by the high 
bank, and a spreading hawthorn-bush that 
overtops it, though between the lower branches 
! and the grass we have found a convenient 
peep-hole. " Willy !" The voice sounds to 
him like some fiiry dream, and the black eyes 
are raised from the ground with sudden won- 
der, the long silky eye-lashes thrown back till 
they rest on the delicate brow, and a deeper 
blush is burning in those dark cheeks, and a 
smile is dimpling about those scarlet lips. 
But the voice is silent now, and the little quiet 
boy, after a moment's pause, is gone coolly to 
work again. He is indeed a most lovely 
child. I think some day or other he must 
marry Lizzy ; I shall propose the match to 
their respective mammas. At present the 
parties are rather too young for a wedding — 
the intended bridegroom being, as I should 
judge, six, or thereabout, and the fair bride 
barely five, — but at least we might have a 
betrothment after the royal fashion, — there 
could be no harm in that. Miss Lizzy, I 
have no doubt, would be as demure and co- 
quettish as if ten winters more had gone over 
her head, and poor Willy would open his in- 
nocent black eyes, and wonder what was go- 
ing forward. They would be the very Oberon 
and Titania of the village, the fairy king and 
queen. 

Ah ! here is the hedge along which the peri- 
winkle wreathes and twines so profusely, with 
its evergreen leaves shining like the myrtle, 
and its starry blue flowers. It is seldom found 
wild in this part of England; but, when we 
do meet with it, it is so abundant and so wel- 
come, — the very robin-red-breast of flowers, a 
winter friend. Unless in those unfrequent 
frosts which destroy all vegetation, it blossoms 
from September to June, surviving the last 
lingering crane's-bill, forerunning the earliest 
primrose, hardier even than the mountain 
daisy, — peeping out from beneath the snow, 
looking at itself in the ice, smiling through 
the tempests of life, and yet welcoming and 
enjoying the sunbeams. Oh, to be like that 
flower ! 

The little spring that has been bubbling un- 
der the hedge all along the hill side, begins, 
now that we have mounted the eminence and 
are imperceptibly descending, to deviate into 
a capricious variety of clear deep pools and 
channels, so narrow and so choked with weeds, 
that a child might overstep them. The hedge 
has also changed its character. It is no longer 
the close compact vegetable wall of hawthorn 
and maple, and briar roses, intertwined with 
bramble and woodbine, and crowned with 
large elms or thickly set saplings. No! the 
pretty meadow which rises high above us, 
backed and almost surrounded by a tall cop- 
pice, needs no defence on our side but its own 
steep bank, garnished with tufts of broom, 
with pollard oaks wreathed with ivy, and here 
and there with long patches of hazel over- 



hanging the water. " Ah there are still nuts j 
on that bough !" and in an instant my dear I 
companion, active and eager and delighted as i 
a boy, has hooked down with his walking-! 
stick one of the lissome hazel stalks, and i 
cleared it of its tawny clusters, and in another j 
moment he has mounted the bank, and is in j 
the midst of the nuttery, now transferring the j 
spoil from the lower branches into that vast i 
variety of pockets which gentlemen carry 
about them, now bending the tall tops into 
the lane, holding them down by main force, 
so that I might reach them and enjoy the 
pleasure of collecting some of the plunder my- 
self. A very great pleasure he knew it would 
be. I doffed my shawl, tucked up my flounces, 
turned my straw bonnet into a basket, and be- 
tran ffatherinsT and scramblincr — for manage it 
how you may, nutting is scrambling work, — 
those boughs, however tightly you may grasp 
them by the young fragrant twigs and the 
bright green leaves, will recoil and burst 
away ; but there is a pleasure even in that : 
so on we go, scrambling and gathering with 
all our might ant- all our glee. Oh what an 
enjoyment ! All my life long I have had a 
passion for that sort of seeking which implies 
finding, (the secret, I believe, of the love of 
field-sports, which is in man's mind a natural 
impulse,) — therefore I love violeting, — there- 
fore, when we had a fine garden I used to love 
to gather strawberries, and cut asparagus, and, 
above all, to collect the filberts from the shrub- 
beries : but this hedge-row nutting beats that 
sport all to nothing. That was a make-believe 
thing compared with this; there was no sur- 
prise, no suspense, no unexpectedness — it was 
as inferior to this wildnutting, as the turning 
out of a bag fox is to unearthing the fellow in 
the eyes of a staunch foxhunter. 

Oh what an enjoyment this nut-gathering 
is I — They are in such abundance, that it 
seems as if there were not a boy in the parish, 
nor a young man nor a young woman, — for a 
basket of nuts is the universal tribute of coun- 
try gallantry ; our pretty damsel Harriet has 
had at least half a dozen this season ; but no 
one has found out these. And they are so full 
too, we lose half of them from over-ripeness; 
they drop from the socket at the slightest mo- 
tion. If we lose, there is one who finds. — 
May is as fond of nuts as a squirrel, and cracks 
the shell and extracts the kernel with equal 
dexterity. Her white glossy head is upturned 
now to watch them as they fall. See how her 
neck is thrown back like that of a swan, and 
how beautifully her folded ears quiver with 
expectation, and how her quick eye follows 
the rustling noise, and her light feet dance and 
pat the ground, and leap up with -^agerness, 
seeming almost sustained in the air, just as I 
have seen her when Brush is beating a hedge- 
row, and she knows from his questing that 
there is a hare afoot. See, she has caught 
that nut just before it touched the water ; but 



6* 



I 



66 



OUR VILLAGE. 



the water would have been no defence, — she 
fishes them from the bottom, she delves after 
them amongst the matted grass — even my 
bonnet — how hegforingly she looks at that! 
"Oh what a pleasure nuttin^ is! — Is it not, 
May 1 But the pockets are almost full, and so 
is the basket-bonnet, and that brifrht watch 
the sun says it is late ; and after all it is wrong 
to rob the poor boys — is it not, Mayl" May 
shakes her graceful head denyingly, as if she 
understood the question. — "And we must go 
home now — must we not 1 But we will come 
nutting again some time or other — shall we 
not, my May 1" 



AUNT MARTHA. 

One of the pleasantest habitations I have 
ever known is an old white house, built at 
right anglps, with the pointed roofs and 
clustered chimneys of Elizabeth's day, cover- 
ed with roses, vines, and passion-flowers, and 
parted by a green sloping meadow from a 
straggling picturesque village street. In this 
charming abode resides a more charming 
family : a gentleman, 

" Polite ai? all his life in courts had been, 
And good as he the world had never seen ;" 

two daughters full of sweetness and talent ; 
and aunt Martha-;-the most delightful of old 
maids! She has another appellation I sup- 
pose, — she must have one ; — but I scarcely 
know it : Aunt Martha is the name that be- 
longs to her — the name of affection. Such is 
the universal feeling which she inspires, that 
all her friends, all her acquaintances, (in this 
case the terms are almost synonymous,) speak 
of her like her own family: — she is every 
body's Aunt Martha — and a very charming 
Aunt Martha she is. 

First of all, she is, as all women should be 
if they can, remarkably handsome. She may 
be — it is a delicate matter to speak of a lady's 
age I — she must be five-and-forty ; but few 
beauties of tvv-enty could stand a comparison 
with her loveliness. It is such a fulness of 
bloom, so luxuriant, so satiating; just tall 
enough to carry off the plumpness which at 
forty-five is so becoming; a brilliant com- 
plexion ; curled pouting lips ! long, clear, 
bright grey eyes — the colour for expression, 
that which unites the quickness of the black 
with the softness of the blue; a Roman re- 
gularity of feature; and a profusion of rich 
brown hair. — Such is Aunt Martha. Add to 
this a very gentle and pleasant speech, always 
kind, and generally lively; the sweetest tem- 
per; the easiest manners; a singular rectitude 
and singleness of mind ; a perfect open-heart- 
edness ; and a total unconsciousness of all 
these charms; and you will wonder a little 



that she is Aunt Martha still. I have heard 
hints of an early engagement broken by the 
fickleness of man ; — and there is about her an 
aversion to love in one particular direction — 
the love matrimonial — and an overflowing of 
aflTection in all other channels, that it seems 
as if the natural course of the stream had been 
violently dainmed up. She has many lovers 
— admirers I should say, — for there is, amidst 
her good-humoured gaiety, a coyness that for- 
bids their going farther; a modesty almost 
amounting to shyness, that checks even the 
laughing girls, who sometimes accuse her of 
stealing away their beaux. I do not think any 
man on earth could tempt her into wedlock ; 
it would be a most unpardonable monopoly if 
any one should ; an intolerable engrossing of 
a general blessing ; a theft from the whole 
community. 

Her usual home is the white house covered 
with roses; and her station in the family is 
rather doubtful. She is not the mistress, for 
her charming nieces are old enough to take 
and to adorn the head of the table; nor the 
house-keeper, though, as she is the only lady 
of the establishment who wears pockets, those 
ensigns of authority, the keys, will sometimes 
be found, with other strays, in that goodly re- 
cej)tacle : nor a guest; her spirit is too active j 
for that lazy post ; her real vocation there, 
and every where, seems to be comforting, I 
cheering, welcoming, and spoiling every thing 
that comes in her way ; and, above all, nurs- 
ing and taking care. Of all kind employ- 
ments, these are her favourites. Oh the shawl- 
ings, the cloakings, the cloggings ! the cau- 
tions against cold, or heat, or rain, or sun ! the 
remedies for diseases not arrived ! colds un- 
caught! incipient tooth-aches! rheumatisms 
to come ! She loves nursing so well, that we 
used to accuse her of inventing maladies for 
other people, that she might have the pleasure 
of curing them ; and when they really come — 
as come they will sometimes in sj)ite of Aunt 
Martha — what a nurse she is ! It is worth 
while to be a little sick to be so attended. All 
the cousins, and cousins' cousins of her con- 
nection, as regularly send for her on the occa- 
sion of a lying-in, as for the midwife. I sup- 
pose she has undergone the ceremony of 
dandling the baby, sitting up with the new 
mamma, and dispensing the caudle, twenty 
times at least. She is equally important at 
weddings or funerals. Her humanity is in- 
exhaustible. She has an intense feeling of 
fellowship with her kind, and grieves or re- 
joices in the sufferings or happiness of others 
with a reality as genuine as it is rare. 

Her accomplishments are exactly of this 
sympathetic order; all calculated to adminis- 
ter much to the pleasure of her companions, 
nothing to her own importance or vanity. She 
leaves to the sirens, her nieces, the higher en- 
chantments of the piano, the harp, and the 
guitar, and that noblest of instruments, the 



WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. 



67 



human voice ; ambitious of no other musical 
fame than such as belongs to the playing of 
quadrilles and waltzes for their little dances, 
in which she is indefatigable : she neither 
caricatures the face of man nor of nature under 
pretence of drawing figures or landscapes; 
but she ornaments the reticules, bell-ropes, 
ottomans, and chair-covers of all her acquaint- 
ance, with flowers as rich and luxuriant as her 
own beauty. She draws patterns for the ig- 
norant, and works flounces, frills, and baby- 
linen, for the idle ; she reads aloud to the sick, 
plays at cards with the old, and loses at chess 
to the unhappy. Her gift in gossiping, too, 
is extraordinary ; she is a gentle newsmonger, 
and turns her scandal on the sunny side. But 
she is an old maid still ; and certain small pe- 
culiarities hang about her. She is a thorough 
hoarder; whatever fashion comes up, she is 
sure to have something of the sort by her — 
or, at least, something thereunto convertible. 
She is a little superstitious; sees strangers in 
her tea-cup, gifts in her finger-nails, letters 
and winding-sheets in the candle, and purses 
and coffins in the fire; would not spill the salt 
" for all the worlds that one ever has to give ;" 
and looks with dismay on a crossed knife and 
fork. Moreover, she is orderl)'to fidgetiness; 
— that is her greatest calamity ! — for young 
ladies now-a-days are not quite so tidy as they 
should be, — and ladies' maids are much worse; 
and drawers are tumbled, and drawing-rooms 
in a litter. Happy she to whom a disarranged 
drawer can be a misery! Dear and happy 
Aunt Martha ! 



WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. 

THE VISIT. 

October 27th. — A lovely autumnal day; 
the air soft, balmy, genial ; the sky of that 
softened and delicate blue upon which the eye 
loves to rest, — the blue which gives such re- 
lief to the rich beauty of the earth, all around 
glowing in the ripe and mellow tints of the 
most gorgeous of the seasons. Really such 
an autumn may well compensate our English 
climate for the fine spring of the south, that 
spring of which the poets talk, but which we 
so seldom enjoy. Such an autumn glows upon 
us like a splendid evening; it is the very sun- 
set of the year : and I have been tempted 
forth into a wider range of enjoyment than 
usual. This roalk (if I may use the Irish 
figure of speech called a bull) will be a ride. 
A very dear friend has beguiled me into ac- 
companying her in her pretty equipage to her 
beautiful home, four miles off^; and having 
sent forward in the style of a running footman 
the servant who had driven her, she assumes 
the reins, and otFwe set. 

My fair companion is a person whom nature 



and fortune would have spoiled if they could. 
She is one of those striking women whom a 
stranger cannot pass without turning to look 
again : tall and finely proportioned, with a 
bold Roman contour of figure and feature, a 
delicate English complexion, and an air of dis- 
tinction altogether her own. Her beauty is 
duchess-like. She seems born to wear fea- 
thers and diamonds, and to form the grace and 
ornament of a court ; and the noble frankness 
and simplicity of her countenance and manner 
confirm the impression. Destiny has however 
dealt more kindly by her. She is the wife of 
a rich country gentleman of high descent and 
higher attainments, to whom she is most de- 
votedly attached, — the mother of a fine little 
girl as lovely as herself, and the delight of all 
who have the happiness of her acquaintance, 
to whom she is endeared not merely by her 
remarkable sweetness of temper and kindness 
of heart, but by the singular ingenuousness ! 
and openness of character which communicate ! 
an indescribable charm to her conversation. I 
She is as transparent as water. You may see | 
every colour, every shade of a mind as lofty; 
and beautiful as her person. Talking with 
her is like being in the Palace of Truth, de- ' 
scribed by Madame de Genlis ; and yet so | 
kindly are her feelings, so great the indul- ' 
gence to the little failings and foibles of our i 
common nature, so intense her sympathy with j 
the wants, the wishes, the sorrows, and the 
happiness of her fellow-creatures, that with 
all her frank-speaking, I never knew her to 
make an enemy or lose a friend, I 

But we must get on. What would she say i 
if she knew I was putting her into print? We i 
must get on up the hill. Ah ! that is precisely | 
what we are not likely to do ! This horse, 
this beautiful and high-bred horse, well fed, 
and fat and glossy, who stood prancing at our 
gate like an Arabian, has suddenly turned sul- 
ky. He does not indeed stand quite still, but 
his way of moving is little better — the slowest j 
and most sullen of all walks. Even they who ! 
ply the hearse at funerals, sad-looking beasts, j 
who totter under black feathers, go faster. It : 
is of no use to admonish him by whip or rein, j 
or word. The rogue has found out that it is '■ 
a weak and tender hand that guides him now. I 
Oh for one pull, one stroke of his old driver, ' 
the groom! How he would fly! But there 
is the groom half-a-mile before us, out of ear- ; 
shot, clearing the ground at a capital rate, ' 
beating us hollow. He has just turned the top 
of the hill ; — and in a moment — ay, noiv he is 
out of sight, and will undoubtedly so continue 
till he meets us at the lawn gate. Well ! there \ 
is no great harm. It is only prolonging the 
pleasure of enjoying together this charming 
scenery in this fine weather. If once we make 
up our minds not to care how slowly our steed 
goes, not to fret ourselves by vain exertions, 
it is no matter what his pace may be. There 
is little doubt of his getting home by sunset, 



68 



OUR VILLAGE. 



and that will content ns. He is, after all, a 
fine noble animal ; and perhaps when he finds 
that we are determined to give iiim his way, 
he may relent and give us ours. All his sex 
are sticklers for dominion, though when it is 
undisputed, some of them are generous enough 
to abandon it. Two or three of the most dis- 
creet wives of my acquaintance contrive to 
manage their husbands sufficiently with no 
better secret than this seeming submission ; 
and in our case the example lias the more 
weight since we have no possible way of help- 
ing ourselves. 

Thus philosophising, we reached the top of 
the hill, and viewed with "reverted eyes" 
the beautiful prospect that lay bathed in golden 
sunshine behind us. Cowper says, with that 
boldness of expressing in poetry the common- 
est and simplest feelings, which is perhaps 
one great secret of his originality, 

"Scenes must be beautiful, which, daily seen, 
Please daily, and whose novelty survives 
Long knowledge and the scrutiny ol'years." 

Every day I walk up this hill — every day I 
pause at the top to admire the broad winding 
road v/ith the green waste on each side, unit- 
ing it w"ith the thickly timbered hedgerows; 
the two pretty cottages at unequal distances, 
placed so as to mark the bends ; the village 
beyond, with its mass of roofs and clustered 
chimneys peeping through the trees; and 
the rich distance, where cottages, mansions, 
churches, towns, seem embowered in some 
wide forest, and shut in by blue shadowy hills. 
Every day I admire this most beautiful land- 
scape ; yet never did it seem to me so fine or 
so glowing. as bow. All the tints of the glo- 
rious aulumn, orange, tawny, yellow, red, are 
poured in profusion amongst the bright greens 
of tiie meadow's and turnip fields, till the eye 
is satiated with colour ; and then before us we 
have the common with its picturesque rough- 
ness of surface, tufted with cottages, dappled 
with water, edging off on one side into fields 
and farms and orchards, and terminated on the 
other by the princely oak avenue. What a 
richness and variety the wild broken ground 
gives to the luxuriant cultivation of the rest 
of the landscape ! Cowper has described it 
for me. How perpetually, as we walk in the 
country, his vivid pictures recur to the memo- 
ry ! Here is his common and mine ! 

"The common overgrown with fern, and rough 
With prickly gorse, that, shapeless and deform'd 
And dangerous lo the touch, has yet its bloom, 
And decks itself with ornaments of gold ; — 

there the turf 

Smells fresh, and, rich in odoriferous herbs 
And fungous fruits of earth, regales the sense 
With luxury of unexpected sweets." 

The description is exact. There, too, to the 
left is my cricket-ground ; (Cowper's common 
'wanted that finishing grace ;) and there stands 
I one solitary urchin, as if. in contemplation of 



its past and future glories ; for, alas ! cricket 
is over for tlie season. Ah ! it is Ben Kirby, 
next brother to Joe, king of the youngsters, 
and probably his successor — for this Michael- 
mas has cost us Joe. He is promoted from 
the farm to the mansion-house, two iniles off: 
there he cleans shoes, rubs knives, and runs 
upon errands, and is, as his mother expresses 
it, " a sort of 'prentice to the footman." — I 
should not wonder if Joe, some day or other, 
should overtop the footman, and rise to be but- 
ler; and his splendid prospects must be our 
consolation for the loss of this great favourite. 
In the mean tiine we have Ben. 

Ben Kirby is a year younger than Joe, and 
the schoolfellow and rival of Jem Eusden. 
To be sure his abilities lie in rather a difler- 
ent line: Jem is a scholar; Ben is a wag: 
Jem is great in figures and writing; Ben in 
faces and mischief. His master says of him, 
that, if there were two such in the school, he 
must resign his office : and, as far as my ob- 
servation goes, the worthy pedagogue is right. 
Ben is, it must be confessed, a great corrupter 
of gravity. He hath an exceeding aversion 
to authority and decorum, and a wonderful 
boldness and dexterity in overthrowing the 
one and puzzling the other. His contortions 
of visage are astounding. His " power over 
his own muscles and those of other people," 
is almost equal to that of Listen : and indeed 
the original face, flat and square and Cliinese 
in its shape, of a fine tan complexion, with a 
snub nose, and a slit for a mouth, is nearly as 
comical as that matchless performer's. When 
aided by Ben's singular mobility of feature, 
his knowing winks and grins and shrugs and 
nods, together with a certain dry shrewdness, 
a habit of saying sharp things, and a marvel- 
ous gift of impudence, it forms as fine a spe- 
cimen as possible of a humorous country boy, 
an oddity in einbryo. Every body likes Ben, 
except his butts ; (which may comprise half 
bis acquaintance;) and of them no one so tho- 
roughly hates and dreads hitn as our parish 
school-master, a most worthy King Log, whom 
Ben dumfounds twenty times a day. He is a 
great ornament of the cricket-ground, has a 
real genius for the game, and displays it after 
a very original manner, under the disguise of 
awkwardness — as the clown shows oflf his 
agility in a pantomime. Nothing comes amiss 
to hitn. — By the by, he would have been the 
very lad for us in our present dilemma; not a 
horse in England could master Ben Kirby. 
But we are too far from him now — and per- 
haps it is as well that we are so. I believe 
that the rogue has a kindness for me in re- 
membrance of certain apples and nuts, which 
my usual companion, who delights in his wit, 
is accustomed to dole out to him. But it is 
a Robin Goodfellow, nevertheless, a perfect 
Puck that loves nothing on earth so well as 
mischief. Perhaps the horse may be the safer 
conductor of the two. 



WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. 



69 



The avenue is quite alive to-day. Old wo- 
men are picking' up twigs and acorns, and pig-s 
of all sizes doing- their utmost to spare them 
the latter part of the trouble ; boys and girls 
groping for beech-nuts under yonder clump; 
and a group of young elves collecting as many 
dead leaves as they can find to feed the bon- 
fire which is smoking away so briskly amongst 
the trees, — a sort of rehearsal of the grand 
bonfire nine days hence; of the loyal confla- 
gration of the arch traitor Guy Fawkes, which 
is annually solemnized in the avenue, accom- 
panied by as much sfjuibbery and crackery as 
our boys can beg or borrow — not to say steal. 
Ben Kirby is a great man on the 5th of No- 
vember. All the savings of a month, the 
hoarded halfpence, the new farthings, the very 
luck-penny go off in fumn on that night. For 
my part, I like this daylight mockery better. 
There is no gunpowder — odious gunpowder ! 
no noise but the merry shouts of the small 
fry, so shrill and happy, and the cawing of the 
rooks who are wheeling in large circles over- 
head, and wondering what is going forward in 
their territory — seeming in their loud clamour 
to ask what that light smoke may mean that 
curls so prettily amongst their old oaks, tow- 
ering as if to meet the clouds. There is some- 
thing very intelligent in the ways of that black 
people the rooks, particularly in their wonder. 
I suppose it results from their numbers and 
unity of purpose, a sort of collective and cor- 
])orate wisdom. Yet geese congregate also; 
and geese never by any chance look wise. 
But then geese are a domestic fowl ; we have 
spoiled them ; and rooks are free commoners 
of nature, who use the habitations we provide 
for them, tenant our groves and our avenues, 
and never dream of becoming our subjects. 

What a labyrinth of a road this is ! I do 
think there are four turnings in the short half- 
mile between the avenue and the mill. And 
what a pity, as my companion observes — not 
that our good and jolly miller, the very repre- 
sentative of the old English yeomanry, should 
be so rich, but that one consequence of his 
riches should be the pulling down of the pret- 
tiest old mill that ever looked at itself in the 
Loddon, with the picturesque low-browed ir- 
regular cottage, which stood with its light- 
pointed roof, its clustered chimneys, and its 
ever-open door, looking like the real abode of 
comfort and hospitality, to build this huge, 
staring, frightful, red-brick mill, as ugly as a 
manufactory, and this great squnre house, ugly 
and red to match, just behind. The old build- 
ings always used to remind me of Wollett's 
beautif\il engraving of a scene in the Maid of 
the Mill. It will be long before any artist 
will make a drawing of this. Only think of 
this redness in a picture ! this boiled lobster 
of a house ! Falstaff 's descrijjtion of Bar- 
dolph's nose would look pale in the compari- 
son. 

Here is that monstrous machine of a tilted 



wagon, with its load of flour, and its four fat 
horses. I wonder whether our horse will 
have the decency to get out of the way. If 
he does not, I am sure we cannot make him ; 
and that enormous ship upon wheels, that ark 
on dry land, would roll over us like the car of 
Juggernaut. Really — Oh no! there is no dan- 
ger now. I should have remembered that it 
is my friend Samuel Long who drives the mill- 
team. He will take care of us. " Thank you, 
Samuel !" And Samuel has put us on our 
way, steered us safely past his wagon, escort- 
ed us over the bridge; and now, having seen 
us through our immediate difficulties, has 
parted from us with a very civil bow and 
good-humoured smile, as one who is always 
civil and good-humoured, but with a certain 
triumphant masterful look in his eyes, which 
I have noted in men, even the best of them, 
when a woman gets into straits by attempting 
manly em|)loyments. He has done us great 
good though, and may be allowed his little 
feeling of superiority. The parting salute he 
bestowed on our steed, in the shape of an as- 
tounding crack of his huge whip, has put that 
refractory animal on his mettle. On we go 
fast! past the glazier's pretty house, with its 
porch and its filbert walk; along the narrow 
lane bordered with elms, whose fallen leaves 
have made the road one yellow; past that 
little farm-house with the horse-chesnut trees 
before, glowing like oranges; past the white- 
washed school on the other side, gay with 
October roses ; past the park, and the lodge, 
and the mansion, where once dwelt the great 
earl of Clarendon; — and now the rascal has 
begun to discover that Samuel Long and his 
whip are a mile off, and that his mistress is 
driving him, and he slackens his pace accord- 
ingly. Perhaps he feels the beauty of the 
road just here, and goes slowly to enjoy it. 
Very beautiful it certainly is. The park pal- 
ing forms the boundary on one side, with fine 
clumps of oak, and deer in all attitudes; the 
water, tufted with alders, flowing along on 
the other. Another turn, and the water winds 
away, succeeded by a low hedge, and a sweep 
of green meadows; whilst the park and its 
paling are replaced by a steep bank, on which 
stands a small, quiet, village ale-house; and 
higher up, embosomed in wood, is the little 
country church, with its sloping church-yard 
and its low white steeple, peeping out from 
amongst magnificent yew-trees : 

"Huge trunks! and each particular trunk a growth 
Of intertwisted fibres serpentine 
Up-coiling and invet'rately convolved." 

Wordsworth. 

No village-church was ever more happily 
placed. It is the very image of the peace and 
humbleness inculcated within its walls. 

Ah ! here is a higher hill rising before us, ! 
aliuost like a mountain. How grandly the, 
view opens as we ascend over that wild bank, ' 
overgrown with fern,- and heath, and gorse, I 



70 



OUR VILLAGE, 



and between those tall hollies, glowing with 
their coral berries ! What an expanse ! But 
we have little time to gaze at present; for that 
piece of perversit)^ our horse, who has walked 
over so much level ground, has now, inspired, 
I presume, by a desire to revisit his stable, 
taken it into that unaccountable noddle of his 
to trot up this, the very steepest hill in the 
county. Here we are on the top; and in five 
minutes we have reached the lawn gate, and 
are in the very midst of that beautiful piece 
of art or nature (I do not know to which class 
it belongs,) the pleasure-ground of F. Hill. 
Never was the " prophetic eye of taste" ex- 
erted with more magical skill than in these 
plantations. Thirty years ago this place had 
no existence; it was a mere undistinguished 
tract of field and meadow and common land ; 
now it is a mimic forest, delighting the eye 
with the finest combinations of trees and 
shrubs, the rarest effects of form and foliage, 
and bewildering the mind with its green 
glades, and impervions recesses, and appa- 
rently interminable extent. It is the triumph 
of landscape gardening, and never more beau- 
tiful than in this autumn sunset, lighting up 
the ruddy beech and the spotted sycamore, 
and gilding the shining fir-cones that hang so 
thickly amongst the dark pines. The robins 
are singing around us, as if they too felt the 
magic of the hour. How gracefully the road 
winds through the leafy labyrinth, leading 
imperceptibly to the more ornamented sweep. 
Here we are at the door amidst geraniums, 
and carnations, and jasmines, still in flower. 
Ah ! here is a flower sweeter than all, a bird 
gayer than the robin, the little bird that chirps 
to the tune of "mamma! mamma!" the 
bright-faced fairy, whose tiny feet come pat- 
tering along, making a merry music, mam- 
ma's own Frances ! And following her gui- 
dance, here we are in the dear round room, 
time enough to catch the last rays of the sun, 
as they light the noble landscape which lies 
like a panorama around us, lingering longest 
on that long island of old thorns and stunted 
oaks, the oasis of B. Heath, and then vanish- 
ing in a succession of gorgeous clouds. 

October 28. — Another soft and brilliant 
morning. But the pleasures of to-day must 
be written in short-hand. I have left myself 
no room for notes of admiration. 

First we drove about the coppice ; an ex- 
tensive wood of oak, and elm, and beech, 
chiefly the former, which adjoins the park 
paling of F. Hill, of which demesne, indeed, 
it forms one of the most delightful parts. The 
roads through the coppice are studiously wild, 
so that they have the appearance of mere cart- 
tracts ; and the manner in which the ground 
is tumbled about, the steep declivities, the 
sunny slopes, the sudden swells and falls, 
now a close narrow valley, then a sharp as- 
cent to an eminence, commanding an immense 
extent of prospect, have a striking air of na- 



tural beauty, developed and heightened by the 
perfection of art. AH this, indeed, was fami- 
liar to me ; the colouring only was new. I 
had been there in early springr, when the 
fragrant palms were on the willow, and the 
yellow tassels on the hazel, and every twig 
was swelling with renewed life ; and I had 
been there again and again in the green leafi- 
ness of midsummer; but never as now, when 
the dark verdure of the fir-plantations, hanging 
over the picturesque and unequal paling, part- 
ly covered with moss and ivy, contrast so re- 
markably with the shining orange-leaves of 
the beech, already half fallen, the pale yellow 
of the scattering elm, the deeper and richer 
tints of the oak, and the glossy stems of the 
"lady of the woods," the delicate weeping 
birch. The underwood is no less picturesque. 
The red-spotted leaves and redder berries of the 
old thorns, the scarlet festoons of the bramble, 
the tall fern of every hue, seem to vie with 
the brilliant mosaic of the ground, now cover- 
ed with dead leaves and strewn with fir-cones, 
now, where a little glade intervenes, gay with 
various mosses and splendid fungi. How 
beautiful is this coppice to-day ! especially 
vi^here the little spring, as clear as crystal, 
comes bubbling out from the "old fantastic" 
beech root, and trickles over the grass, bright 
and silent as the dew in a May morning. The 
wood pigeons (who are just returned from 
their summer migration, and are cropping the 
ivy berries) add their low cooings, the very 
note of love, to the slight fluttering of the 
fallen leaves in the quiet air, giving a voice to 
the sunshine and the beauty. Tiiis coppice is 
a place to live and die in. But we must go. 
And how fine is the ascent which leads ns 
again into the world, past those cottages hid- 
den as in a pit, and by that hanging orchard 
and that rough heathy bank ! The scenery in 
this one spot has a wildness, an abruptness 
of rise and fall, rare in any part of England, 
rare above all in this rich and lovely but mo- 
notonous county. It is Switzerland in minia- 
ture. 

And now we cross the hill to pay a morning 
visit to the. family at the great house, — another 
fine place, commanding another fine sweep of 
countr)'. The park studded with old trees and 
sinking gently into a valley, rich in wood and 
water, is in the best style of ornamental land- 
scape, though more according to the common 
routine of gentlemen's seats than the singular- 
ly original place which we have just left. 
There is, however, one distinctive beauty in 
the grounds of the great house; — the magni- 
ficent firs which shade the terraces and sur- 
round the sweep, giving out in summer odours 
really Sab.ean, and now in this low autumn 
sun producing an effect almost magical, as the 
huge red trunks, garlanded with ivy, stand out 
from the deep shadows like an army of giants. 
In-doors — Oh I must not take my readers in- 
doors, or we shall never get away ! — In-doors 



A PARTING GLANCE AT OUR VILLAGE. 



71 



the sunshine is brighter still ; for there, in a 
lofty licrhtsome room, sits a damsel fair and 
arch and piquante, one whom Titian or Velas- 
quez should be born again to paint, leaning 
over an instrument* as sparkling and fanciful 
as herself, singing pretty French romances, 
and Scottish Jacobite songs, and all sorts of 
graceful and airy drolleries picked up I know 
not where — (an English improvvisatrice ! a 
gayer Annot Lyle ! whilst her sister, of a 
higher order of beauty, and with an earnest 
kindness in her smile that deepens its power, 
lends to the piano, as her father to the violin, 
an expression, a sensibility, a spirit, an elo- 
quence, almost superhuman — almost divine! 
Oh to hear these two instruments accompany- 
ing my dear companion (I forgot to say that 
she is a singer worthy to be so accompanied) 
in Haydn's exquisite canzonet, "She never 
told her love," — to hear her voice, with all its 
power, its sweetness, its gush of sound, so 
sustained and assisted by modulations that ri- 
valled its intensity of expression ; to hear at 
once such poetry, such music, such execution, 
is a pleasure never to be forgotten, or mixed 
with meaner things. I seem to hear it still. 

As in the bursting spring-time o'er the eye 
Of one who haunts the fields fair visions creep 
Beneath the closed lids (a(ore dull sleep 

Dims the quirk fancy) of sweet flowers thai lie 

On grassy hanks, oxlip of orient dye, 
And palest primrose and blue violet, 
All in their fresh and dewy beaiUy set, 

Pictur'd within the sense, and will not fly: 

So in mine ear resounds and lives again 
One mingled melody, — a voice, a pair 
Of instruments most voice-like! Of the air 

Rather than of the earth seems that high strain 

A spirit's song, and worthy of the train 
That sooth'd old Frospero with mUsic rare. 



A PARTING GLANCE AT OUR 
VILLAGE. 

It is now eighteen months since our village 
first sat for its picture, and I cannot say fare- 
well to my courteous readers, witliout giving 
them some little intelligence of our iroings on, 
a sort of parting glance at us and our condi- 
tion. In outward appearance it hath, I sup- 
pose, undergone less alteration than any place 
of its inches in the kingdom. There it stands, 
the same long straggling street of pretty cot- 
tages, divided by pretty gardens, wholly un- 
changed in size or appearance, unincreased 
and undiminished by a single brick. To be 
sure, yesterday evening a slight misfortune 
happened to our goodly tenement, occasioned 
by the unlucky dilirrence mentioned in my first 
notice, which, under the conduct of a sleepy 
coachmnn, and a restive horse, contrived to 
knock down and demolish the wall of our 

*The dital harp. 



court, and fairly to drive through the front 
garden, thereby destroying sundry curious 
stocks, carnations, and geraniums. It is a 
mercy that the unruly steed was content with 
battering the wall ; for the messuage itself 
would come about our ears at the touch of a 
finger, and really there is one little end par- 
lour, an after-thought of the original builder, 
which stands so temptingly in the way, that 
I wonder the sagacious quadruped missed it. 
There was quite din enough without that ad- 
dition. The three insides (ladies) squalling 
from the interior of that cominodious vehicle ; 
the outsides (gentlemen) swearing on the roof; 
the coachman still half asleep, but unconscious- 
ly blowing his horn; we in the house scream- 
ing and scolding; the passers-by shouting and 
hallooing; and May, w-ho little brooked such 
an invasion of her territories, barking in her 
tremendous lion-note, and putting down the 
ether noises like a clap of thunder. But pas- 
sengers, coachman, horses, and spectators, all 
righted at last; and there is no harm done but 
to my flowers and to the wall. May, how- 
ever, stands bewailing the ruins, for that low 
wall was her favourite haunt; she used to 
parade backwards and forwards on the top of 
it, as if to show herself, just after the manner 
of a peacock on the top of a house; and would 
sit or lie for hours on the corner next the gate, 
basking in the sunshine like a marble statue. 
Really she has quite the air of one who la- 
ments the destruction of personal property ; 
but the wall is to be rebuilt to-morrow, with 
old weather-stained bricks — no patch-work ! 
and exactly in the same form ; May herself 
will not find the difference; so that in the way 
of alteration this little misfortune will pass for 
nothing. Neither have we any improvements 
worth calling such. Except that the wheeler's 
green door hath been retouched, out of the 
same pot (as I judge from the tint) with 
which he furbished up our new-old pony- 
chaise ; that the shop-window of our neigh- 
bour, the universal dealer, hath been beauti- 
fied, and his naine and calling splendidly set 
forth in yellow letters on a black ground ; and 
that our landlord of the Rose hath hoisted a 
new sign of unparalleled splendour; one side 
consisting of a full-faced damask rose, of the 
size and hue of a pinny, the other of a inaiden 
blush in profile, which looks exactly like a 
carnation, so that both flowers are considera- 
bly indebted to the modesty of the " out-of- 
door artist," who has warily written The Rose 
under each ; — except these trifling ornaments, 
which nothing but the jealous eye of a lover 
could detect, the dear place is altogether un- 
changed. 

The only real improvement with which we 
have been visited for our sins — (I hate all in- 
novation, whether for better or worse, as if I 
was a furious Tory, or a woman of three-score 
and ten) — the only misfortune of that sort 
which has befallen us, is underfoot. The road 



72 



OUR VILLAGE. 



has been adjusted on the plan of Mr. Mac- 
Adam ; and a tremendous operation it is. I 
do not know what good may ensue; but for 
the last six months, some part or other of the 
highway has been impassable for any feet, 
except such as are shod by the blacksmith ; 
and even the four-footed people who wear iron 
shoes, make wry faces, poor things ! at those 
stones, enemies to man and beast. However, 
the business is nearly done now ; we are co- 
vered with sharp flints every inch of us, except 
a " bad step" up the hill, whicii, indeed, looks 
like a bit cut out of the deserts of Arabia, 
fitter for camels and caravans than for Chris- 
tian horses and coaches ; a point, which, in 
spite of my dislike of alteration, I was forced 
to acknowledge to our surveyor, a portly gen- 
tleman, who, in a smart gig, drawn by a pranc- 
ing steed, was kicking up a prodigious dust 
at that very moment. He and I ought to be 
great enemies ; for, besides the MacAdamite 
enormity of the stony road, he hath actually 
been guilty of tree-murder, having been an ac- 
cessary before the fact in the death of three 
limes along the rope-walk — dear sweet inno- 
cent limes, that did no harm on earth except 
shading the path ! I never should have for- 
given that offence, had not their nmioval, by 
opening a beautiful view from the village up 
the hill, reconciled even my tree-loving eye to 
their abstraction. And, to say the truth, though 
we have had twenty little squabbles, there is 
no bearing malice with our surveyor ; he is so 
civil and good-humoured, such an honest ear- 
nestness in his vocation (which is gratuitous 
by the by), and such an Intense conviction 
that the state of the ti"'npike road belween B. 
and K. is the principal affair of this lifj, that 
I would not undeceive him for the world. 
How often have I seen him on a cold winter 
morning, with a face all frost and business, 
great-coated up to the eyes, driving from post 
to post, from one gang of labourers to another, 
praising, scolding, ordering, cheated, laughed 
at, and liked by them all ! Well, when once 
the hill is finished, we shall have done with 
him for ever, as he used to tell me by way of 
consolation, when I shook my head at him, as 
he went jolting along over his dear new roads, 
at the imminent risk of his springs and his 
bones : we shall see no more of him; for the 
MacAdam ways are warranted not to wear 
out. So be it ; I never wish to see a road- 
mender again. 

But if the form of outward things be all un- 
changed around us, if the dwellings of man 
remain the same to the sight and the touch, the 
little world within hath undergone its usual 
mutations; — the hive is the same, but of the 
bees some are dead and some are flown away, 
and some that we left insects in the shell, are 
already putting forth their youna wings. — 
Children in our village really sprout up like 
mushrooms; the air is so promotive of growth, 
that the rogues spring into men and women, 



as if touched by Harlequin's wand, and are 
quite offended if one happens to say or do any 
thing which has a reference to their previous 
condition. My father grievously affronted 
Sally L. only yesterday, by bestowing upon 
her a great lump of ginger-bread, with which 
he had stuffed his pockets at a fair. She imme- 
diately, as she said, gave it to the " children." 
Now Sally cannot be above twelve to my cer- 
tain knowledge, though taller than I am. — 
Lizzy herself is growing womanly. I actu- 
ally caught that little lady stuck upon a chest 
of drawers, contemplating herself in the glass, 
and striving with all her might to gather the 
rich curls that hang about her neck, and turn 
them under a comb. Well ! if Sally and 
Lizzy live to be old maids, they may proba- 
bly make the amende hoiwrab/e to time, and 
wish to be thought young again. In the mean 
while, shall we walk up the street ] 

The first cottage is that of Mr. H. the pa- 
triot, the illuminator, the independent and 
sturdy, yet friendly member of our little state, 
who, stoutand comely, with ahandsome chaise- 
cart, a strong mare, and a neat garden, might 
have passed for a portrait of that enviable class 
of Englishmen, who, after a youth of frugal 
industry, sit down in some retired place to 
" live upon their means." He and his wife 
seemed the happiest couple on earth ; except 
a little too much leisure, I never suspected 
that they had one trouble or one care. But 
Care, the witch, will come everywhere, even 
to that happiest station and this prettiest place. 
She came in one of her most terrific forms — 
blindness — or (which is perhaps still more 
tremendous) the faint glimmering light and 
gradual darkness which precedes the total 
eclipse. For a long time we had missed the 
pleasant bustling ofhciousness, the little ser- 
vices, the voluntary tasks, which our good 
neighbour loved so well. Fruit trees were 
blighted, and escaped his grand specific fumi- 
gation ; wasps multiplied, and their nests re- 
mained untraced ; the cheerful modest knock 
with which, just at the very hour when he 
knew it could be spared, he presented himself 
to ask for the newspaper, was heard no more; 
he no longer hung over his gate to waylay 
passengers, and entice them into chat; at last 
he even left off driving his little chaise, and 
was only seen moping up and down the gar- 
den walk, or stealing gropinoly from the wood- 
pile to the house. He evidently shunned con- 
versation or questions, forbade his wife to tell 
what ailed him, and even when he put a green 
shade over his darkened eyes, fled from hu- 
man sympathy with a stern pride that seemed 
almost ashamed of the humbling infirmity. 
That strange (but to a vigorous and healthy 
man. perhaps natural) feeling soon softened. 
The disease increased hourly, and he became 
dependent on his excellent wife for every com- 
fort and relief. She had many willing assist- 
ants in her labour of love ; all his neighbours 



A PARTING GLANCE AT OUR VILLAGE. 



73 



strove to roturn, according to their several 
means, the kindness which all had received 
from hinri in some shape or another. The conn- 
try boys, to whose service he had devoted so 
much time, in shaping bats, constructing bows 
and arrows, and other quips and trickeries of 
the same nature, vied with each other in per- 
forming little offices abolit the yard and stable; 
and John Evans, the half-witted gardener, to 
whom he had been a constant friend, repaid 
his goodness by the most unwearied attention. 
Gratitude seemed to sharpen poor John's per- 
ception and faculties. There is an old man 
in our parish work-house, who occasionally 
walks through the street, led by a little boy 
holding the end of a long stick. The idea of 
this man, who had lived in utter blindness for 
thirty years, was always singularly distressing 
to Mr. H. I shall never forget the address 
with which our simple gardener used to try 
to divert his attention from this miserable fel- 
low-sufferer. He would get between them to 
prevent the possibility of recognition by the 
dim and uncertain vision ; would talk loudly 
to drown the peculiar noise, the sort of duet 
of feet, caused by the quick short steps of the 
child, and the slow irregular tread of the old 
man ; he would turn the conversation with an 
adroitness and acuteness that might put to 
shame the proudest intellect. So passed many 
months. At last Mr. H. was persuaded to 
consult a celebrated oculist, and the result 
was most comt^orting. The disease was ascer- 
tained to be a cataract; and now with the in- 
crease of darkness came an increase of hope. 
The film spread, thickened, ripened, speedily 
and healthily ; and to-day the requisite ope- 
ration has been performed with equ5il skill and 
success. You may still see some of the coun- 
try boys lingering round the gate with looks 
of strong and wondering interest; poor John 
is going to and fro, he knows not for what, 
unable to rest a moment; Mrs. H., too, is 
walking in the garden shedding tears of thank- 
fulness; and he who came to support their 
spirit, the stout strong-hearted farmer A., 
seems trembling and overcome. The most 
tranquil person in the house is probably the 
patient: he bore the operation with resolute 
firmness, and he has seen again. Think of the 
bliss bound up in those four words ! He is 
in darkness now, and must remain so for some 
weeks ; but he has seen, and he will see: and 
that humble cottage is again a happy dwelling. 
Next we come to the shoemaker's abode. 
All is unchanged there, except that its master 
becomes more industrious and more pale-faced, 
and that his fair daughter is a notable exem- 
plification of the developement which I have 
already noticed amongst our young things. But 
she is in the real transition state, just emerg- 
ing from the crysalis — and the eighteen months 
between fourteen and a half and sixteen, would 
metamorphose a child into a woman all the 
world over. She is still pretty, but not so 
7 ^ 



elegant as when she wore frocks and pin-a- 
fores, and unconsciously classical, parted her 
long brown locks in the middle of her fore- 
head, and twisted them up in a knot behind, 
giving to her finely-shaped head and throat 
the air of a Grecian statue. Then she was 
stirring all day in her small housewifery, or 
her busy idleness, delving and digging in her 
flower-border, tossing and dangling every in- 
fant that came within her reach, feeding pigs 
and poultry, playing with May, and prattling 
with an open-hearted frankness to the country 
lads, who assemble at evening in the shop to 
enjoy a little gentle gossiping ; for be it known 
to my London readers, that the shoemaker's 
in a country village is now what (according 
to tradition and the old novels) the barber's 
used to be, the resort of all the male news- 
mongers, especially the young. ■ Then she 
talked to these visiters gaily and openly, sang 
and laughed and ran in and out, and took no 
more thought of a young man than of a gos- 
ling. Then she was only fourteen. Now she 
wears gowns and aprons, — puts her hair in 
paper, has left off singing, talks, — has left 
oft running, walks, — nurses the infants with 
a grave solemn grace, — has entirely cut her 
former playmate Mayflower, who tosses her 
pretty head as much as to say — who cares'? 
— and has nearly renounced all acquaintance 
with the visiters of the shop, who are by no 
means disposed to take matters so quietly. 
There she stands on the threshold, shy and 
demure, just vouchsafing a formal nod or a 
faint smile as they pass, and, if she in her 
turn be compelled to pass the open door of 
their news-room (for the working apartment 
is separate from the house) edging along as 
slyly and mincingly as if there were no such 
beings as young men in the world. Exquisite 
coquette ! I think (she is my ojjposite neigh- 
bour, and I have a right to watch her doings, 
— the right of retaliation), there is one youth 
particularly distinguished by her non-notice, 
one whom she never will see or speak to, who 
stands a very fair chance to carry her off. He 
is called Jem Tanner, and is a fine lad, with 
an open ruddy countenance, a clear blue eye, 
and curling hair of that tint which the poets 
are pleased to denominate golden. Though 
not one of our eleven, he was a promising 
cricketer. We have missed him lately on the 
green at the Sunday evening game, and I find 
on inquiry that he now visits a chapel about 
a mile off, where he is the best male singer, 
as our nymph of the shoe-shop is incompara- 
bly the first female. I am not fond of betting; 
but I would venture the lowest stake of gen- 
tility, a silver threepence, that, before the win- 
ter ends, a wedding will be the result of these 
weekly meetings at the chapel. In the long 
dark evenings, when the father has enough to 
do in piloting the mother with conjugal gal- 
lantry through the dirty lanes, think of the 
opportunity that Jem will have to escort the 



74 



OUR VILLAGE. 



daughter. A little difficulty he may have to 
encovintor; the lass will be coy for a while; 
the mother will talk of their youth, the father 
of their finances; but the marriage, I doubt 
not, will ensue. 

Next in order, on the other side of the street, 
is the blacksmitli's house. Change has been 
busy here in a different and more awful form. 
Our sometime constable, the tipsiest of parish 
officers, of blacksmiths and of men, is dead. 
Returning from a revel with a companion as 
full of beer as himself, one or the other, or 
both, contrived to overset the cart in a ditch ; 
(the living scapegrace is pleased to lay the 
blame of the mishap on the horse, but that is 
contrary to all probability, this respectable 
quadruped being a water drinker;) and inward 
bruises, acting on inflamed blood and an im- 
paired constitution, carried him off in a very 
short time, leaving an ailing wife and eight 
children, the eldest of whom is only fourteen 
years of age. This sounds like a very tragi- 
cal story ; yet, perhaps, because the loss of a 
drunken husband is not quite so great a ca- 
lamity as the loss of a sober one, the effect of 
this event is not altogether so melancholy as 
might be expected. The widow, when she 
was a wife, had a complaining broken-spirited 
air, a peevish manner, a whining voice, a dis- 
mal countenance, and a person so neglected 
and slovenly, that it was difficult to believe 
that she had once been remarkably handsome. 
She is now quite another woman. The very 
first Sunday she put on her weeds, we all ob- 
served how tidy and comfortable she looked ; 
how much her countenance, in spite of a de- 
cent show of tears, was improved, and how 
completely through all her sighings her tone 
had lost its peevishness. I have never seen 
her out of spirits or out of humour since. She 
talks and laughs and bustles about, managing 
her journeymen and scolding her children as 
notably as any dame in the parish. The very 
house looks more cheerful; she has cut down 
the old willow trees that stood in the court, 
and let in the light; and now the sun glances 
brightly from the casement windows, and 
plays amidst the vine-leaves and the clusters 
of grapes which cover the walls; the door is 
newly painted, and shines like the face of its 
mistress; even the forge has lost half its din- 
giness. Every thing smiles. She indeed talks 
by fits of " poor George," especially when 
any allusion to her old enemy, mine host of 
the Rose, brings the deceased to her memory ; 
then she bewails (as is pro))er) her dear hus- 
band and her desolate condition ; calls herself 
a lone widow; sighs over her eight children; 
complains of the troubles of business, and tries 
to persuade herself and others that she is as 
wretched as a good wife ought to be. But 
this will not do. She is a happier woman 
than she has been any time these fifteen years, 
and she knows it. My dear village-husbands, 
if you have a mind that your wives should be 



really sorry when you die, whether by a fall 
from a cart or otherwise, keep from the ale- 
house ! 

Next comes the tall thin red house, that 
ought to boast genteeler inmates than its short 
fat mistress, its children, its pigs, and its quan- 
tity of noise, happiness, and vulgarity. The 
din is greater than ever. The husband, a 
merry jolly tar, with a voice that sounds as if 
issuing from a speaking-trumpet, is returned 
from a voyage to India; and another little one, 
a chubby roaring boy, has added his lusty 
cries to the family concert. 

This door, blockaded by huge bales of 
goods, and half darkened by that moving 
mountain, the tilted wagon of the S. mill 
which stands before it, belongs to the village 
shop. Increase has been here too in every 
shai)e. Within fourteen months two little, 
pretty, quiet girls, have come into the world. 
Before Fanny could well manage to totter 
across the road to her good friend the nymph 
of the shoe-shop, Margaret made her appear- 
ance; and poor Fanny, discarded at once from 
the maid's arms and her mother's knee, de- 
graded from the rank and privileges of "the 
baby," (for at that age precedence is strangely 
reversed,) would have had a premature fore- 
taste of the instability of human felicity, had 
she not taken refuge with that best of nurses, 
a fond father. Every thing thrives about the 
shop, from the rosy children to the neat maid 
and the smart apprentice. No room now for 
lodgers, and no need ! The young mantua- 
making school-mistresses, the old inmates, are 
gone ; one of them not very far. She grew 
tired of scolding little boys and girls about 
their A, B, C, and of being scolded in her turn 
by their sisters and mothers about pelisses and 
gowns; so she gave up both trades about a 
year ago, and has been ever since our pretty 
Harriet. I do not think she has ever repented 
of the exchange, though it might not perhaps 
have been made so soon, had not her elder 
sister, who had been long engaged to an at- 
tendant at one of the colleges of Oxford, 
thought herself on the point of marriage just 
as our housemaid left us. Poor Betsy! She 
had fared the fate of many a prouder maiden, 
wearing out her youth in expectation of the 
promotion that was to authorise her union 
with the man of her heart. Many a year had 
she waited in smiling constancy, fond of Wil- 
liam in no common measure, and proud of 
him, as well she might be ; for, when the vaca- 
tion so far lessened his duties as to render a 
short absence practicable, and he stole up here 
for a few days to enjoy her company, it was 
difficult to distinguish him in air and manner, 
as he sauntered al)out in elegant indolence 
with his fishing-rod and his flute, from the 
young Oxonians his masters. At last promo- 
tion came ; and Betsy, apprised of it, by an 
affectionate and congratulatory letter from his 
sister, prepared her wedding-clothes, and 



A PARTING GLANCE AT OUR VILLAGE 



75 



looked hourly for the bridegroom. No bride- 
groom came. A second letter announced, 
with regret and indignation, that William had 
made another choice, and was to be married 
early in the ensuing month. Poor Betsy ! 
We were alarmed for her health, almost for 
her life. She wept incessantly, took no food, 
wandered recklessly about from morning till 
night, lost her natural rest, her flesh, her co- 
lour; and in less than a week she was so 
altered, that no one would have known her. 
Consolation and remonstrance were alike re- 
jected, till at last Harriet happened to strike 
the right chord, by telling her that " she won- 
dered at her want of spirit." This was touch- 
ing her on the point of honour; she had al- 
ways been remarkably high-spirited, and could 
as little brook the imputation as a soldier, or 
a gentleman. This lucky suggestion gave an 
immediate turn to her feelings; anger and 
scorn succeeded to grief; she wiped her eyes, 
" hemmed away a sigh," and began to scold 
most manfully. She did still better. She re- 
called an old admirer, who in spite of repeated 
rejections had remained constant in his attach- 
ment, and made such good speed, that she was 
actually married the day before her faithless 
lover, and is now the happy wife of a very 
respectable tradesman. 

Ah ! the in-and-out cottage ! the dear, dear 
home! No weddings there! No changes! 
except that the white kitten, who sits purring 
at the window under the great myrtle, has 
succeeded to his lamented grandfather, our 
beautiful Persian cat, I cannot find one altera- 
tion to talk about. The wall of the court in- 
deed — but that will be inended to-morrow. 

Here is the new sign, the well-frequented 
Rose Inn ! Plenty of changes there ! Our 
landlord is always improving, if it be only a 
pig-sty or a water-trough — plenty of changes, 
and one splendid wedding. Miss Phoebe is 
married, not to her old lover the recruiting ser- 
geant (for he had one wife already, probably 
more,) but to a patten-maker, as errant a dan- 
dy as ever wore mustachios. How Phcebe could 
" abase her eyes" from the stalely sergeant to 
this youth, half a foot shorter than herself, 
whose " waist would go into any alderman's 
thumb-ring," might, if the final choice of a 
coquette had ever been a matter of wonder, 
have occasioned some speculation. But our 
patten-maker is a man of spirit ; and the 
wedding was of extraordinary splendour. — 
Three gigs, each containing four persons, 
graced the procession, besides numerous carts 
and innumerable pedestrians. The bride was 
equipped in muslin and satin, and really look- 
ed very pretty with her black sparkling eyes, 
her clear brown complexion, her blushes and 
her smiles ; the bride-maidens were only less 
smart than the bride ; and the bridegroom was 
"point device in his accoutrements," and as 
munificent as a nabob. Cake flew about the 
village; plum-puddings were abundant; and 



strong beer, ay, even mine host's best double 
X, was profusely distributed. There was all 
manner of eating and drinking, with singing, 
fiddling, and dancing between ; and in ttie 
evening, to crown all, there was Mr. Moon 
the conjuror. Think of that stroke of good 
fortune! — Mr. Moon the very pearl of all con- 
jurors, who had the honour of puzzling and 
delighting their late Majesties with his "won- 
derful and pleasing exhibition of thaumatur- 
gics, tachygraphy, mathematical operations 
and inagical deceptions," happened to arrive 
about an hour before dinner, and commenced 
his ingenious deceptions very unintentionally 
at our house. Calling to apply for permission 
to perform in the village, being equipped in a 
gay scarlet coat, and having something smart 
and sportsman-like in his a[ipearance, he was 
announced by Harriet as one of the gentlemen 
of the C. Hunt, and taken (w/staken I should 
have said) by the whole family for a certain 
captain newly arrived in the neighbourhood. 
That misunderstanding, which must, I think, 
have retaliated on Mr. Moon a little of the 
puzzlement that he inflicts on others, vanished 
of course at the production of his bill of fare; 
and the requested permission was instantly 
given. Never could he have arrived in a hap- 
pier hour ! Never were spectators more grati- 
fied or more scared. All the tricks prospered. 
The cock crew after his head was cut off; and 
half-crowns and sovereigns flew about as if 
winged; — the very wedding-ring could not 
escape Mr. Moon's incantations. We heard 
of nothing else for a week. From the bride- 
groom, im esjD?-«7 y^r/, who defied all manner 
of conjuration and diablerie, down to my Liz- 
zy, whose boundless faith swallows the Ara- 
bian tales, all believed and trembled. — So 
thoroughly were men, women, and children, 
impressed with the idea of the worthy conju- 
ror's dealings with the devil, that when he 
had occasion to go to B., not a soul would 
give him a cast, from pure awe; and if it had 
not been for our pony chaise, poor Mr. Moon 
must have walked. I hope lie is really a pro- 
phet ; for he foretojd all happiness to the new- 
married pair. 

So this pretty white house with the lime- 
trees before it, whioii has been under repair 
for these three years, is on the point of being 
finished. — The vicar has taken it, as the vicar- 
age house is not yet fit for his reception. He 
has sent before him a neat modest maid-ser- 
vant, whose respectable appearance gives a 
character to her master and mistress, — a ham- 
per full of flower-roots, sundry boxes of books, 
a piano-forte, and some simjile and useful fur- 
niture. Well, we shall certainly have neigh- 
bours, and I have a presentiment that we shall 
find friends. 

Lizzy, you may now come along with me 
round the conier and up the lane, just to the 
end of the wheeler's shop, and then we shall 
go home ; it is high time. What is this qfficfie 



76 



OUR VILLAGE. 



in the parlour window 1 " Apartments to let, 
— inquire within." These are certainly the 
curate's lodgings— is he going away] Oh I 
suppose the new vicar will do his own duty 
— yet, however well he may do it, rich and 
poor will regret the departure of Mr. B. Well, 
I hope he may soon get a good living. " Lodg- 
ings to hn"— who ever thought of seeing such 
a placard hereabout] The lodgings, indeed, 
are very convenient for "a single gentleman, 
a man and his wife, or two sisters," as the 
newspapers say — comfortable apartments, neat 
and tasty withal, and the civilest of all civil 
treatment from the host and hostess. But 
who would ever have dreamt of such a notice ] 
Lodgings to let in our village ! 



PREFACE.* 

The indulgent reception given to her little 
book of Our Village, has encouraged the au- 
thor to extend her work by putting forth' a 
second volume on a similar plan ; consisting, 
like the first, of slight and simple delinea- 
tions of country manners, blended with a few 
sketches drawn from a somewhat higher rank 
of society. 



A WALK THROUGH THE VILLAGE. 

When I had the honour about two years 
ago of presenting our little village to that mul- 
tiform and most courteous personage the Pub- 
lic, I hinted I tliink that it had a trick of stand- 
ino- still, of remaining stationary, unchanged, 
and unimproved in this most changeable and 
improving world. This habit, whether good 
or evil, it has retained so pertinaciously, that 
except that it is two years older, I cannot 
point out a single alteration which has oc- 
curred in our street. I was on the point of 
paying the inhabitants some equivocal com- 
pliment — and really I almost may — for, set- 
ting aside the inevitable growth of the young 
members of our community, and a few more 
grey hairs and wrinkles amongst the elder, I 
see little change. We are the same people, 
the same generation, neither richer, nor wiser, 
nor better, nor worse. Some, to be sure, have 
migrated ; and one or two have died ; and 
some — But we had better step out into the 
village, and look about us. 

It is a pleasant lively scene this May morn- 
ing, with the sun shining so gaily on the irre- 
gular rustic dwellings, intermixed with their 
pretty gardens; a cart and wagon watering 
(it would be more correct, perhaps, to say 

* To the second volume, as originally published. 



beering) at the Rose ; Dame Wheeler, with 
her basket and her btown loaf, just coming 
from the bake-house; the nymph of the shoe- 
shop feeding a large family of goslings at the 
open door — they are very late this year, those 
noisy little geese ; two or three women in high 
gossip dawdling up the street ; Charles North 
the gardener, with his blue apron and ladder 
on his shoulder, walking rapidly by ; a cow 
and a donkey browsing the grass by the way- 
side; my white greyhound, Mayflower, sit- 
ting majestically in front of her own stable; 
and ducks, chickens, pigs, and children, scat- 
tered over all. 

A pretty scene! — rather more lopping of 
trees, indeed, and clipping of hedges, along 
the high road, than one quite admires; but 
then that identical turnpike-road, my ancient 
despair, is now so perfect and so beautiful a 
specimen of MacAdamization, that one even 
learns to like tree-lopping and hedge-clipping 
for the sake of such smooth ways. It is sim- 
ply the best road in England, so says our sur- 
veyor, and so say I. The three miles between i 

us and B are like a bowling-green. By 

the way, I ought, perhaps, to mention, as 
something like change in our outward posi- 
tion, that this little hamlet of ours is much 
nearer to that illustrious and worshififul town 
than it used to be. Not that our quiet street 
hnth been guilty of the unbecoming friskiness 
of skipping from place to place, but that our 
ancient neighbour, v;hose suburbs are sprout- 
ing forth in all directions, hath made a parti- 
cularly strong shoot towards us, and threatens 
some day or other to pay us a visit bodily. 
The good town has already pushed the turn- 
pike gate half a mile nearer to us, and is in a 
fair way to overleap that boundary and build 
on, till the buildings join ours, as London has 
done by Hampstead or Kensington. What j 
a strange figure our rude and rustical habita- 
tions would cut ranged by the side of some! 
staring red row of newly-erected houses, each i 
as like the other as two drops of water, with I 
courts before and behind, a row of poplars op- 1 
posite and a fine new name. How different! 
we should look in our countless variety of j 
nooks and angles, our gardens, and arbours, 
and lime-trees, and pond ! but this union of 
town and country will hardly happen in my 

time, let B enlarge as it may. We shall 

certainly lend no assistance, for our bounda- I 
ries still continue exactly the same. 

The first cottage — Ah! there is the post- 
cart coming up the road at its most respectable 
rumble, that cart, or rather caravan, which so 
much resembles a house upon wheels, or a 
show of the smaller kind at a country fair. 
It is now crammed full of passengers, the dri- 
ver just protruding his head and hands out of 
the vehicle, and the sharp clever boy, whof 
in the occasional absence of his father, ofli- 
ciates as deputy, perched like a monkey on 
the roof. " Any letters to day V And that 



A WALK THROUGH THE VILLAGE. 



77 



question, always so interesting, being unsatis- 
factorily answered, I am at leisure to return 
to our survey. The first cottage is that erst 
inhabited by Mr. and Mrs. H. the retired pub- 
lican and his good wife. They are gone; I 
i always thought we were too quiet for them; 
and his eyes being quite recovered, he felt the 
j weariness of idleness more than ever. So 
they returned to W., where he has taken a 
\ comfortable lodging next door to their old and 
j well-frequented Inn, the Pie and Parrot, where 
1 he has the pleasure every evening of reading 
; the newspaper, and abusing the ministers 
i amongst his old customers, himself a cus- 
i tomer; as well as of lending his willing aid 
in waiting and entertaining on fair-days and 
market-days, at pink-feasts and melon-feasts, 
to the great solace of mine host, and the no 
small perplexity of the guests, who, puzzled 
between the old landlord and the new, hardly 
know to whom to pay their reckoning, or 
which to call to account for a bad tap: — a 
mistake, which our sometime neighbour, hap- 
pier than he has been since he left the Bar, 
particularly enjoys. His successor here is an 
industrious person, by calling a seedsman, as 
may be collected by the heaps of pea and bean 
seed, clover and vetches, piled tier above tier 
against the window. 

The little white cottage down the lane 
which stands so prettily, backed by a tall 
elm wood, has also lost its fair inmate, Sally 
Wheeler; who finding that Joel continued 
constant to our pretty Harriet, and was quite 
out of hope, was suddenly forsaken by the fit 
of dutifulness which brought her to keep her 
deaf grandmother company, and returned to 
service. Dame Wheeler has howeVe-r a com- 
panion, in a widow of her own standing, ap- 
pointed by the parish to live with, and take 
care of her. A nice tidy old woman is Dame 
Shearman ; — pity that she looks so frumpish ; 
her face seems fixed in one perpetual scold. 
It was not so when she lived with her sister 
on the Lea : then she was a light-hearted mer- 
ry chatterer, whose tongvie ran all day long — 
and that's the reason of her cross look now ! 
Mrs. Wheeler is as deaf as a post, and poor 
! Mrs. Shearman is pining of a suppression of 
I speech. Fancy what it is for a woman, espe- 
1 cially a talking woman, to live without a list- 
I ener ! forced either to hold her peace, or when 
! that becomes impossible, to talk to one to 
! whose sense words are as air ! La Trappe is 
I nothing to this tantalization ; — besides the 
Trappists were men. No wonder that poor 
Dame Shearman looks cross. 

The Blacksmith's! no change in that quar- 

j ter; except a most astonishing growth amongst 

! the children. George looks quite a man, and 

j Betsy, who was just like a blue-eyed doll, 

i with her flaxen curls and her apple-blossom 

complexion, the prettiest fairy that ever was 

seen, now walks up to school every morning 

with her work-bag and her spelling-book, and 



is really a great girl. They are a fine family 
from the eldest to the youngest. 

The shoemaker's! — not much to talk of 
there; no funeral ! and (which disappoints my 
prediction) no wedding! My pretty neigh- 
bour has not yet made her choice. She does 
wisely to look about her, A belle and an 
heiress — I dare say she'll have a hundred 
pounds to her portion — and still in her teens, 
has some right to be nice. Besides, what 
would all the mammas, whose babies she 
nurses, and all the ciiildren whom she spoils, 
do without her"? No sparing the shoemaker's 
fair daughter ! She must not marry yet these 
half-dozen years ! 

The shop! — all prosperous, tranquil, and 
thriving; another little one coming; an idle 
apprentice run away, — more of him anon ; and 
a civil journeyman hired in his room. An ex- 
cellent exchange ! Jesse is a very agreeable 
person. He is the politician of the village 
since we have lost Mr. H., and as he goes 

every day into B in his paper cap to carry 

our country bread, he is sure to bring home 
the latest intelligence of all sorts, especially 
of canvassing and electioneering. Jesse has 
the most complete collection of squibs in the 
country, and piques himself on his skill in 
detecting the writers. He will bestow as 
many guesses, and bring forward as many 
proofs on occasion of a hand-bill signed " Fair- 
Play," or a song subscribed " True-blue," as 
ever were given to that abiding riddle, the au- 
thorship of Junius — and very likely come as 
near the mark. 

Ah, the dear home ! A runaway there too ! 
I may as well tell the story now, although 
very sorry to have to record so sad an act of 
delinquency of my clients tlie boys, as an 
elopement from our own premises. 

Henry Hamilton — that ever a parish boy, 
offspring of a tailor and a cook-maid, should 
have an appellation so fitted to the hero of a 
romance! Henry Hamilton had lived with 
us for three years and upwards as irian of all 
work, part waterer of my geraniums, sole 
feeder of May, the general favourite and fac- 
totum of the family. Being an orphan with 
no home but the workhouse, no friend but the 
overseer, at whose recommendation he was 
engaged, he seemed to belong to us in an 
especial manner, to have a more than com- 
mon claim on protection and kindness. Henry 
was just the boy to discover and improve this 
feeling; — quick, clever, capable, subtle, and 
supple; exceedingly agreeable in manner, and 
pleasant in appearance. He had a light, pli- 
ant form, with graceful delicate limbs like a 
native Indian ; a dark but elegant countenance 
s[)arkling with expression ; and a remarkable 
variety and versatility of talent. Nothing 
came amiss to him. — In one week he hath 
been carpenter, blacksmith, painter, tinker, 
glazier, tailor, cobbler, and wheelwright. 
These were but a few of his multifarious ac- 



OUR VILLAGE. 



'1 



complishments ; he would beat Harriet at nee- 
dle-work, and me in gardeninjr. All the parish 
was in the habit of applying to him on emer- 
gency, and I never knew him decline a job in 
my life. He hath mended a straw bonnet and 
a smoke-jack, cleaned a clock, constructed a 
donkey-cart, and dressed a doll. 

"With all these endowments, Henry was 
scarcely so ffood a servant as a duller boy. 
Besides that he undertook so many thin<Ts 
that full half of them were of necessity 
left unfinished, he was g'enerally to seek 
when wanted, and after sending^ a hue and cry 
round the neighbourhood, would be discovered 
at the blacksmith's or the collar-maker's in- 
tently occupied on some devices of his own. 
Then he had been praised for invention, till 
he thougrht it necessary to display that bril- 
liant quality on all occasions, by which means 
we, who are exceedingly simple, old-fashion- 
ed, matter-of-fact people, were constantly 
posed by new-fangled novelties, which no- 
body but the artist could use, or quibs and 
quiddities of no use whatever. Thus we had 
fastenings for boxes that would not open, and 
latches for gates that refused to shut, bellows 
of a new construction that no mortal could 
blow, and traps that caught fingers instead of 
rats ; May was nearly choked by an improved 
slip, and my white Camellia killed outright 
by an infallible wash for insects. 

Notwithstanding these mishaps, we all liked 
Henry; his master liked his sportsmanship, 
his skill and boldness in riding, and the zeal 
with which he would maintain the honour of 
his own dogs, right or wrong; his mistress 
liked his civility and good humour; Harriet 
felt the value of his alert assistance; and I 
had a real respect for his resource. In the 
village he was less a favourite; he looked 
down upon the other boys; and the men, al- 
though amused by his cleverness, looked down 
upon him. 

At last he unfortunately met with a friend 
of his own age in a clever apprentice, who ar- 
rived at our neighbour the baker's from the 

good town of B . This youngster, " for 

shortness called" Bill, was a thorough town 
boy : you might see at a glance that he had 
been bred in the streets. He was a bold 
sturdy lad, with a look compounded of great 
impudence and a little slyness, and manners, 
although characterised by the former of these 
amiable qualities. His voice was a shout, his 
walk a swagger, and his knock at the door a 
[bounce that threatened to bring the house 
about our ears. The very first time that I 
i saw him he was standing before our court 
I with a switch in his hand, with which he 
I was alternately menacing May, who, nothing 
daunted, returned his attack by an incessant 
i bark, and demolishing a superb crown impe- 
Irial. Never was a more complete mauvais 
I sujet, 
I This audacious urchin most unfortunately 



took a great fancy to Henry, which Henry, 
caught by the dashing assurance of his man- ] 
ner, most unluckily returned. They became 
friends after the fashion of Orestes and Py- I 
lades, or Damon and Pythias, fouoht for each ' 
other, lied for each other, and, finally, ran 
away with each other. The reason for Bill's 
evasion was manifest, his conduct having been 
such that his master had been compelled to 
threaten him with Bridewell and the tread- 
mill ; but why Henry, who, although his in- 
vention had latterly taken a decided bent to- 
wards that branch of ingenuity called mischief, 
might still have Avalked quietly out of the 
street door with a good character in his pocket, 
should choose to elope from the garret win- 
dow, is best known to himself. Off they set 
upward — that is to say Londonward, the com- 
mon destination of j'our country youths W'ho 
sally forth to try their fortune. Forth they 
set, and in about a week they were followed 
by a third runaway, a quiet, simple, modest- 
looking lad, a sort of hanger-on to the other 
two, and an apprentice to our worthy neigh- 
bour the carpenter. Poor Ned ! we were sorry 
for himi ; he was of some promise as a crick- 
eter — (by the way. Bill never went near the 
ground, which I ahvays thought a bad sign;) 
— Ned would really have made a good crick- 
eter, not a brilliant hitter, but an excellent 
stopper of the ball ; one of your safe steady 
players, whom there is no putting out. No- 
body ever dreamt of his running away. We 
all knew that he was a little idle, and that he 
was a sort of follower of Bill's — but Ned to 
decamp ! He must have gone out of pure 
imitation, just as geese waddle into a pond in 
single file, or as one sheep or pig will follow 
another through a gap in the hedge; — sheer 
imitation ! A notable example of the harm 
that one town-bred youth will work in a coun- 
try village ! Go he did, and back he is come, 
poor fellow ! thin as a herring, and ragged as 
a colt, a mere moral to tag a tale withal. He 
has not had a day's work since he left his 
good master, nor, to judge from his looks, a 
sufiicient meal. His account of the other two 
worthies is just what I expected. Henry, 
after many ups and downs, (during one of 
which he was within half an inch of being a 
soldier, that is to say, he did enlist, and want- 
ed only that much of the standard,) is now in 
a good place, and likely to do well. Hhjidus 
Jchnfes, Bill, has disappeared from London as 
he did from the'ccuntry. No one knows what 
is become of him. For my own part, I never | 
looked for any good from a lad, who, to say j 
nothing of his graver iniquities, kept away 
from the cricket ground, thrashed my flowers, [ 
and tried to thrash May. 

The flourishing and well-accustomed Rose | 
Inn has lost its comely mistress, a harmless, ; 
blameless, kindly-tempered woman, with a 
pleasant smile and a gentle voice, who with- j 
ered suddenly in the very strength and pride 



A WALK THROUGH THE VILLAGE. 



79 



of womanhood, and died lamented by hi^h and 
]ovv. She is succeeded in the management of 
that respectable hostelry by two liorht-footed 
and light-hearted lasses of twelve and thirteen, 
who skip about after tlteir good bustling father 
with an oflicious civility that the guests find 
irresistible, and conduct the house-keeping 
with a frugality and forethought beyond their 
years. 

The white house, with the limes in front, 
has also lost, though not by death, our, good 
vicar and his charming family. They have 
taken possession of their own pretty dwelling; 
and their removal has given mean opportunity 
of becoming intimately acquainted with all 
the crooks and turnings, the gates, ponds, and 
pollards of the vicarage lane; — a walk which 
on that event I suddenly discovered to be one 
of the prettiest in the neighbourhood. 

Ah ! here is Lizzy, half leaning half riding 
on the gate of her own court, looking very 
^demure, and yet quite ripe for a frolic. Lizzy 
has in some measure outgrown her beauty ; 
which desirable possession does very often 
run away from a young lady at six years old, 
and come back again at twelve. I think that 
such will be the case here. She is still a very 
nice little girl, quick, clever, active, and use- 
ful ; goes to school ; cooks upon occasion her 
father's dinner; and is beyond all comparison 
the handiest littlewaiting-woman in the parish. 
She is waiting now to speak to her playmate 
and companion the wheelwright's daughter, 
who, with all her mother's attentive politeness, 
is running down the street with an umbrella 
and her clogs, to fence their lodger, Mrs. Hay, 
from the ill effects of a summer shower. I 
think that we have had about a dozen drops 
of rain, and where they came from no mortal 
can guess, for there is not a cloud in the sky ; 
but there goes little Mary with a grave civili- 
ty, a curtsying earnestness that would be quite 
amusing in so young a child, if the feelings 
that dictated the attention were not so good 
and so real, and the object so respectable. 

Mrs. Hay is a widow, a slight, delicate el- 
derly person, in a well-preserved black silk 
gown, a neat quiet bonnet never in fashion, 
nor ever wholly out, snow-white stockings, 
and a handsome grey shawl — her invariable 
walking costume. She makes no visits ; cul- 
tivates no acquaintance ; and seldom leaves 
her neat quiet room except to glide into church 
on a Sunday, and to take a short walk on some 
fine spring morning. No one knows precisely 
what Mrs. Hay's station has been, but every 
body feels that she is an object of interest and 
respect. 

Now up the hill ! past the white cottage of 
the little mason, whiter than ever, for it has 
just been beautified ; past t!ie darker but still 
prettier dwelling of the lieutenant, mantled 
with sweetbriar and honeysuckles, and fruit- 
trees of all sorts ; one turn to look at the land- 
scape so glowingly bright and green, with its 



] afl^uence of wood dappled with villages and 
gentlemen's seats, the wide-spreading town 

of B lying in tlie distance with its spires 

and towers, the Thames and the Kennett wind- 
ing along their lines of light like glittering 

serpents, and the hills rising beyond ; 

one glance at that glorious prospect, and here 
we are at the top of the hill, on the open com- 
mon, where the air is so fresh and pure, and 
the sun shines so gaily on the golden furze. 

Did I say there were no alterations in our 
village] Could I so utterly forget the great 
doings on the top of the hill, where, by dint 
of whitening and sash-windowing, and fresh- 
dooring, the old ample farm-house has become 
a very genteel-looking residence ^ Or the cot- 
tage on the common opposite, or rather the 
two cottages, which have b}' a similar trans- 
mogrification been laid into one, and now form, 
with their new cart-shed, their double garden, 
and their neat paling, so pretty and comforta- 
ble a home for the respectable mistress of the 
little village school and her industrious hus- 
band ] How could I forget that cottage, whose 
inhabitants I see so often and like so well ! 

Mr. Moore is the greatest market-gardener 
in the parish; and leads his donkey chaise 
through the street every summer afternoon, 
vending fruit and vegetables, and followed by 
a train of urchins of either sex. Some who 
walk up boldly to the cart, halfpenny custo- 
mers, who ask questions and change their 
minds, balance between the merits of cherries 
and gooseberries, and gravely calculate under 
what form of fruit they may get most eating 
for their money.* These are the rich. Others, 
the shy, who stand aloof, are penniless elves, 
silent petitioners, who wait about w'ith longing 
looks, till some child-loving purchaser, or Mr. 
Moore himself, unable to withstand those 
pleading eyes, flings them a dole, and gives 
them the double delight of the frui and the 
scramble. 

The dear cricket ground! Even at this 
hour there are boys loitering about that be- 
loved scene of evening pastime, not quite play- 
ing, but idling and lounging, and looking as 
if they longed to play. My friend, the little 
Hussar, with his blue jacket and his immova- 
ble gravity, is the quietest of the party, and 
Ben Kirby, youngest brother of .Toe, (I think 
I have spoken of Ben before,) by far the nois- 
iest. Joe no longer belongs to the boys' side, 

* It is amusing to see how very early poor children 
become acquainted wiih the rate of exchange between 
the smaller denominations of com and the commodi- 
ties — siich as cakes, nuts, and ginger-bread — which 
they purchase. JN'o better judge of the currency ques- 
tion than a country brat of three years old. Lizzy, 
be(()re she could speak plain, «as so knowing in cakes 
and halfpence, that it was a common amusement with 
the people at the shop where she dealt to try to cheat 
her, and watch her excessive anger when she detected 
the imposition. She was sure to fiiul them out, and 
was never pacified till she had all that was due to 
her. I 



80 



OUR VILLAGE. 



having been promoted to play with the men ; 
and Ben has succeeded to his post as chief 
and leader of the youngsters. Joe is a sort 
of person to make himself happy anywhere, 
but I suspect that he has not at present grained 
much pleasure by the exchange. It is always 
a very equivocal advantage when a person is 
removed from the first place in one class, to 
the lowest in the rank just above ; and in the 
present instance poor Joe seems to me to have 
gained little by his preferment except the ho- 
nour of being Fag general to the whole party. 
His feelings must be something like those of 
a provincial actor transplanted to the London 
boards, who finds himself on the scene of his 
amhition indeed, but playing Richmond instead 
of Richard, Macduff instead of Macbeth. Joe, 
however, will work his way up, and in the 
mean time Ben fills his abdicated throne with 
eminent ahility. 

Jem Eusden, his quondom rival, is lost to 
the cricket ground* altogether. He is gone 
forth to see the world. An uncle of his mo- 
ther's, a broker by profession, resident in Shoe 
Lane, came into this neighbourhood to attend 
a great auction, and was so caught by Jem's 
scholarship that he carried him off to London 
and placed him with a hosier in Cheapside, 
where he is to this hour engaged in tying up 
gloves and stockings, and carrying out par- 
cels. His grand-uncle describes him as much 
improved by the removal ; and his own letters 
to Ben (for since they have been parted they 
are become great friends) confirm the asser- 
tion. He writes by every opportunity, full as 
often, I should think, as or.ce a quarter : and 
his letters give by far the best accounts of the 
Lord Mayor's day, as well as of the dwarfs, 
giants, and other monsters on show in Lon- 
don, of any that arrive in these parts. He is 
critical on the Christmas Pantomimes, de- 
scriptive on the Panoramas, and his narrative 
of the death of the elephant (whose remains 
his good kinsman the broker took him to visit) 
was so pathetic that it made the whole village 
cry. All the common is in admiration of Jem's 
genius, always excepting his friend Ben Kir- 
by, who laughs at every thing, even his cor- 
respondent's letters, and hath been heard to 
insinuate that the most eloquent morceaux are 
"bits out of newspapers." Ben is a shrewd 
wag and knowing ; but in this instance I 
think he is mistaken. I hold Jem's flights 
for original, and suspect that the young gen- 
tleman will turn out literary. 



THE TENANTS OF BEECHGROVE. 

Those who live in a thickly inhabited, and 
very pretty country, close to a large town, 
within a morning's ride of London, and an 
easy distance from Bath or Cheltenham and 



the sea, must lay their account, (especially if 
there be also excellent roads, and a capital 
pack of fox-hounds) on some of the evils which 
are generally found to counterbalance so many 
conveniences ; such as a most unusual dear- 
ness and scarcity of milk, cream, butter, eggs, 
and poultry — luxuries held proper to rural life, 
— a general corruption of domestics, — and, 
above all, a perpetual change and fluctuation 
of neighbours. The people of the higher class 
in this neighbourhood, are as mutable as the 
six-months denizens of Richmond, or Hamp- 
stead — mere birds of passage, who, "come 
like shadows, so depart." If a resident of 
ten years ago, were, by any chance, to come 
here now, he would be in great luck if he 
found three faces of gentility that l)e could re- 
cognise. I do not mean to insinuate that 
faces in our parts wax old or ugly sooner 
than elsewhere; but, simply, that they do not 
stay amongst us long enough to become old — 
that one after another, they vanish. All our 
mansions are let, or to be let. The old ma- 
norial Hall, where squire succeeded to squire 
from generation to generation, is cut down in- 
to a villa, or a hunting-lodge, and transferred 
season after season, from tenant to tenant, 
with as little remorse as if it were a lodging- 
house at Brighton. The lords of the soil are 
almost as universally absentees as if our fair 
country were part and parcel of the Sister 
Kingdom. Tlie spirit of migration possesses 
the land. Nobody of any note even talks of 
staying amongst us, that I have heard — ex- 
cept a speculating candidate for the next 
borough ; and he is said to have given pretty 
intelligible hints that he shall certainly be off, 

unless he be elected. In short, we H shire 

people are a generation of runaways. 

As "out of evil cometh good," one pleasant 
consequence of this incessant mutation has 
been the absence of that sort of prying and 
observation of which country neighbours used 
to be accused. No street even in London was 
freer from small gossiping. With us, they 
who were moving or thinking of moving, had 
something else to do : and we, the few dull 
laggards, who remained fixed in our places, 
as stationary as directing-posts, and pretty 
nearly as useless, were too much accustomed 
to the whirl, to take any great note of the 
passers-by. 

Yet, even amidst the general flitting, one 
abode gradually forced itself into notice, for 
the unrivalled rapidity of succession, with 
which tenant followed tenant, — the most ad- 
mired and the most changeable of all. It was 
an exceedingly pretty inconvenient cottage, a 
picture of a place, — with its French windows 
and verandahs, its trellis and porch covered 
with clematis and jessamine, its baby-house 
conservatory, and its miniature lawn. It was 
situated in the midst of woody, winding lanes, 
lost as it were in the labyrinths of our rich 
and intricate country; with an open grove ofi 



THE TENANTS OF BEECHGROVE. 



81 



noble beeches on one side of it, and a clear 
streana crossed by a winding bridge, on the 
othor. 

In short, Beechgrove, with all its pretty 
rusticities, its violets and primroses, and 
nightingales and turtle-doves, was the very 
place in which to spend the honeymoon. It 
seemed a spot made expressly for brides and 
bridegrooms, doomed by the inexorable laws 
of fashion, to fuur \veeks of connubial felicity, 
to get creditably weary of solitude and of each 
other. 

Accordingly, couple after couple repaired to 
Beechgrove. The very postilions, whether 
from south or north, east or west, knew in- 
stinctively, where to deposit a new-married 
pair. There was not so pretty a dovecote 
within twenty miles. Here they came in 
quick succession, and we had great amuse- 
ment in watching them. A bridal party is 
generally very pleasant to look at, — all white 
satin, and white lace, and white favours, and 
finery and gaiety ! one likes every thing about 
it: the horses so sleek and prancing: the 
carriages so ostentatiously new and grand ; 
the servants so full of conscious importance, 
parading and bustling, as proud of their mas- 
ter's splendour, as if they belonged to a 
Sheriff on Lord Mayor's day, or to a winning 
candidate at an election time ! Well ! they 
came, and they went, — the fashionable, the 
titled, the wealthy, and the plain, glad, as it 
seemed, to come, and certainly glad to go. 
One couj)le only remained a little beyond the 
allotted time. (N. B. that bride was remark- 
ably pretty.) They lingered on ; she was 
charmed with Beechgrove, and they talked of 
wintering there, and re-engaged the house. 
But I don't know how it was; she was a 
sweet pretty woman to be sure, but did not 
look over-wise; and it happened to her as to 
Cowley's Beauty in his " Chronicle," her 
reign was short — 

"One month, three days, and half an hour 
Judith held the sovereign power." 

Her husband whisked her off to Paris at the 
end of five weeks. 

They were succeeded by a man in the prime 
of life, and a woman in its very morning; an 
elegant but most melancholy pair, who brought 
with them no bridal favours, no gay carriages, 
no proud servants, no titles, no name. He 
was of a person splendidly beautiful — tall, 
stately, commanding; of a regalitj'- of port, 
and a haughtiness of aspect almost defying, 
as if expecting inquiry and determined to look 
it down. It was only when gazing at his fair 
companion, that his bright eye softened, and 
his demeanour changed into the most gentle 
expression of tenderness and submission. He 
appeared devoted to her ; and would read to 
her on the lawn, ride with her, or drive her in 
a little open chaise for hours together. She, 
on the other hand, although receiving his at- 



tentions with unalterable sweetness, seemed 
best pleased to glide away alone, given up to 
her own thoughts, — sad thoughts, alas! I fear 
they were ! — to her cheerless prospects and 
mournful recollections. vShe would walk with 
her bonnet in her hand, and her beautiful curls 
put back from her white temples, as if air 
were necessary to still their throbbing, — and 
she would so sigh ! Poor thing ! poor thing ! 
once she came to church, clDsely veiled, down- 
cast, and trembling. She had forgotten the 
key of her own pew, and was invited by the 
vicar's lady into hers. And she went in, and 
knelt in the lowest place, and sate out great 
part of the service. But the sermon was af- 
fecting ; it spake of female frailty ; of the 
woman taken in adultery; of sin and of for- 
giveness. She could not bear it, and left the 
church. vShe never entered it afterwards. 
Poor thing! guilt was there, but shame and 
repentance were there also. She was born 
for better things : and shrank from the eye as 
if looks were swords. 

Without any intention of watching this 
lovely downcast penitent — for most lovely she 
was ! — it so happened that I met her frequent- 
ly ; and although we never spoke, she grew 
so familiarized to my passing her in the lanes, 
as not to start and tremble at my appearance, 
like a fluttered dove, — as was usual with her, 
on the sight of strangers. She would even 
stop to fondle my greyhound, Mayflower, who, 
with the extraordinary instinct of her kind, 
had been attracted by her sweet countenance, 
and never failed to accost her. May and she 
were quite acquainted ; and she had even 
learnt her name. We used to meet almost 
every day ; especially in one spot, which soon 
became as much her favourite, as it had long 
been mine. 

About half a mile to the right of Beech- 
grove, a shady lane leads to a beautiful patch of 
woodland scenery, — the lingering remains of 
an ancient chase. Turfy sheep-walks inter- 
sect thick brakes of fern and holly, mingled 
with rich old thorns, and the light feathery 
birch, and surmounted by noble oaks and 
beeches, the growth of centuries. In one of 
the recesses of the wood, just opposite the 
deep clear pond, which lets the light so finely 
into this forest picture, stands a real cottage, 
rough, rude, irregular, mis-shapen ; with its 
hedged-in garden, and its well-stocked orchard; 
all evidently cribbed in from the waste, and 
sufficiently spacious to give an air of unusual 
comfort to the rural dwelling. The cart-shed, 
too, and the fagot-pile, and the old horse 
grazing before the door, indicate a considera- 
ble portion of rustic prosperity. 

In fact they are a thriving family. Charles 
North, the head of the house, is a jobbing gar- 
dener, whose services are in such request, that 
they are accorded somewhat in the manner of 
favours, and must be bespoken as long before- 
hand as the attendance of a first sinsrer at a 



82 



OUR VILLAGE. 



musical party. He is a fine athletic man, 
whose firm upright form, and bold, hale, lively 
visage contrast rather strangely with the pre- 
mature grey locks that hang around the latter. 
In manner, he is singularly agreeable, full of 
shrewdness and good humour, very merry, and 
a little arch : perceiving, instantly, the weak- 
nesses of those with whom he converses, and 
humouring them as much from pliability of 
temper, and a natural sympathy, as from views 
of interest. The rogue is my factotum ; and 
sees at a glance which hyacinth to prefer, and 
which geranium to admire. Good gardener 
as he is, I doubt if this be not the great secret 
of Charles North's popularity. Popular he 
is, that is certain ; perhaps the most popular 
person of my acquaintance : quite good enough 
to please the wise, and not too good to alarm 
the gay ; for the rest, an excellent husband 
and excellent father, a thoroughly sober and 
industrious man, except now and then an out- 
break at tide-times, which commonly lasts for 
a day or two, and leaves him more ardently 
laborious than ever. One of the most envia- 
ble persons whom I have ever encountered, is 
Charles North in his blue apron. 

He however is very seldom seen at his plea- 
sant home. He trudges forth, whistling, at 
four o'clock every morning, and comes back, 
still whistling, about seven at night. The cot- 
tage at the wood-side is quite populous enough 
without him. To say nothing of his ailing 
wife, who is what in a lady would be called 
nervous; there were, at the time of which I 
speak, thirteen goodly children, from twenty 
years old to eight months. Shall I give a 
catalogue] — Yes. First, an eldest son, a 
baker, (for one of the protuberances which 
make the dwelling so picturesque, is a huge 
oven) Charles North, junior, — tall and vigor- 
ous as his father, — a staid sober youth, who, 
by dint of the small-pox and a miraculous 
gravity, might pass for the father of the fami- 
ly himself. Then an eldest sister, stout and 
steady ; a home-keeping Martha North, acting 
as regent during her mother's illnesses, which 
know no pause ; deputy mistress and deputy 
servant of the whole house. Then a fine open- 
countenanced girl, her father in petticoats, par- 
cel pickle, and parcel coquette, — who puts her 
hair in curl-papers, and flirts with one half of 
the parish, and romps with the other, as she 
carries her brother's bread round the country, 
— sole driver of the old white horse : we have 
not a prettier black-eyed lass in the village 
than Sally North. Then Tom, who goes to 
work with his father, and is, at a word, Sally 
in breeches. Then there were four or five 
urchins, names unknown, who attended Sun- 
day seminaries, some for charity, some for 
pay. Then three or four others, sex unknown, 
imps in tattered frocks, dirty, noisy, healthy, 
and happy, who dabbled by the side of the 
pond with the ducks and geese, or helped the 
pigs to find acorns in the wood. Last of all, 



the baby, — a rosy smiling brat, clean amidst 
all the dirt, and placid amidst all the uproar, 
who lived out of doors, like a gi])sy, and 
might be seen in its little pink frock, stretch- 
ing its round hardy limbs on the turf, or sitting 
in infantine state with its back propped against 
a tree, from morning to night, the general pet 
and plaything of the family. 

This infant was evidently the attraction 
which drew the fair tenant of Beechgrove to 
this secluded spot. May and I used to dive 
into the recesses of the wood, scenery where 
you may almost realize the delicious creations 
of " Comus," and "As You Like It;" but 
she always paused at the cottage, always as 
near as possible to the bal)y. It was a child 
that, for mere childish beauty, would have 
been remarked amongst thousands. The 
square vigorous form ; the dimpled hands and 
feet, and elbows, so firm, so mottled, of so 
pure a carnation; the fair open forehead, with 
little rings of brown hair curling round it; 
the large bright blue eye; the delicate fea- 
tures; and the sweet look of content, the pas- 
sionlesss composure, which give a dignity to 
infant loveliness, would have made Mary 
North a model for Sir Joshua. No one ever 
passed without admiring the child, but on no 
one did her beauty produce such an effect as 
on this unhappy lady. She could not pass : 
she seemed to intend it sometimes ; but al- 
ways stopped, and returned to her old station 
near the cottage. 

Her object was, evidently, Mary. At first, 
she tried to talk to Mrs. North, to Martha, to 
the little ones that dabbled round the pond ; 
but the effort was visibly painful ; and she 
soon desisted from it ; content to hang over 
the little girl, or sit on the grass by her side, 
sometimes crying, sometimes with a heart- 
broken look, as if her tears were gone. The 
child's name, if accidentally pronounced, al- 
ways occasioned a convulsive shuddering; and 
one day, Mrs. North, unable to resist the curios- 
ity excited by these extraordinary proceedings, 
said to her, " I fancy, ma'am, for so young as 
you look, that you must have had a little Mary 
of your own !" — " Once," was the answer, 
with a burst of bitter grief, " once !" " It's a 
sad afTiiction," pursued Mrs. North, "to 
bury a baby, especially the first. I lost mine, 
poor innocent ! but I have thousiht, since, how 
much happier siie is than my Mary would be, 
if I was to die now, and leave her motherless 
in the wide world." " Oh my Mary ! my 
Mary! my child! my child!" cried the un- 
happy lady, and fell to the ground in strong 
and obstinate convulsive fits. 

She was conveyed home; and came no 
more to the cottage by the wood-side. In a 
few days, Beechgrove was again vacant, and 
she was gone; leaving for Mrs. North a little 
green purse containing eighteen guineas, and 
some silver, and a small slip of paper on which 
was written, " For your Mary, from a mother 



EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. 



83 



who kft her child !" — Poor thing! poor thing! 
we have never heard of her since. 

Mary North is now a rosy prattler, the life 
and joy of her humble home, the loveliest and 
gayest creature that ever lived. But, better 
than playing with her doll, better even than 
base-ball, or sliding or romping, does she like 
to creep of an evening to her father's knee, 
and look at the well-hoarded purse, (not a 
shilling has been taken out.) and gaze, with 
a mysterious feeling of awe at her little heart, 
on the slip of uneven writing; and hear, for 
the hundredth time, the story of the poor lady 
who was so good to Mary when she was a 
baby, — the beautiful lady of Beechgrove. 



EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. 

THE FRENCH TEACHER. 

It is now more than twenty years since I, 
a petted child of ten years old, born and bred 
in the country, and as shy as a hare, was sent 
to that scene of bustle and confusion, a Lon- 
don school. what a change it was ! What 
a terrible change ! The good old nurse, and 
the sweet gentle mamma, and the dear, dear 
papa, who in their several ways seemed to 
have no other object than that of spoiling me 
from morning to night, — to leave them and 
my own dear home for this strange new place, 
and these strange new people, — what a 
change ! And so many of them ! and chil- 
dren too ! Men and women I could have en- 
dured : but I had been a solitary child, and 
hated nothing so much as the din, the laugh- 
ter, the shrill voices, and rapid motions of 
children. They fairly made me dizzy. I 
shall never forget the misery of the first two 
days, blushing to be looked at, dreading to be 
spoken to, shrinking like a sensitive plant 
from the touch, ashamed to cry, and feeling 
as if I never could laugh again. I was broken- 
hearted. These disconsolate feelings are not 
astonishing, even in recollection : the wonder 
is, that they so soon passed away. But every 
body was good and kind. There was just at- 
tention enough from the heads of the house, 
and a meiciful neglect from the pupils. In 
less than a week the poor wild bird was tamed. 
I could look without fear on the bright happy 
faces ; listen without starting to the clear high 
Toices, even though they talked in French; 
began to watch the ball and the battledore ; 
and felt something like an inclination to join 
in the sports. In short I soon became an effi- 
cient member of the commonwealth ; as effi- 
cient as a quiet little girl of ten years old could 
be; made a friend, provided myself with a 
school-mother, a fine tall blooming girl, who, 
having attained the dignity of the first class 
and the mature age of fourteen, already thought 
herself a young woman, under whose power- 



ful protection I began to learn and unlearn, to 
acquire the habits and enter into the views of 
my companions, as well disposed to be idle 
as the best of them. 

Nobody was less thought of in this respect- 
able school than our respectable governess. 
She seldom came near us. Her post was to 
sit all day, nicely dressed, in a nicely fur- 
nished drawing-room, busy with some piece 
of delicate needle-work, receiving mammas, 
aunts, and godmammas, answering questions, 
and administering as much praise as she con- 
scientiously could, — perhaps a little more. 
In the school-room she ruled, like other rulers, 
by ministers and delegates, of whom the 
French Teacher was the principal. When I 
first arrived, this high post was filled by the 
daughter of an emigre of distinction, a gentle 
drooping creature, who looked downward like 
a columbine, and was totally unequal to con- 
tend with twenty light-hearted and boisterous 
girls. She was the prettiest piece of melan- 
choly that I have ever seen ; as pale as ala- 
baster, with large black eyes, that seemed 
made for tears, and a voice "far above sinrr- 
ing." I do not think she could chide; she 
did not know how. Nobody could help lov- 
ing a creature so mild and inoffensive; and 
there was something, with this gentleness, of 
purity and dignity, that ensured our respect — 
it clung to her like a garment. She did her 
duty scrupulously, as f'ar as instruction went, 
but left all other cares to the English Teacher, 
— a very different person, coarse and common 
as could be; a better sort of nursery maid; 
one who from pure laziness would rather do 
things herself than take the trouble to see that 
they were done by another. Under her fos- 
terage our evil habits throve apace: she put 
awa3S and hid, and lied for iis, till we became 
the most irregular and untidy generation that 
ever trod the floor of a school-room. All 
seemed fair in the sight of the governess ; and, 
whilst our drooping lily Mademoiselle L. re- 
mained, all was quiet. But these happy days 
could not last long. She left us in the short 
peace of Amiens to join her parents in an at- 
tempt to recover some part of their property, 
in which, I am happy to say, she was suc- 
cessful ; whilst with her unlucky pupils the 
reign of king Log was succeeded by that of 
king Stork. The new French Teacher came ; 
a tall, majestic woman, between sixty and se- 
venty, made taller by yellow slippers with j 
long slender heels, such as I have never seen 
before or since. I cannot imagine how she 
could walk in them, though her way of mov- 
ing scarcely deserved the name. Her mode 
of entering a room, or saluting a person, "s(;7^| 
abord,^^ as she called it, w'as a trip, a sort of 
quick mincing shuffle, ending in a low curtsy : 
her common motion was that of a snake, or a 
ghost, or her own long train, gliding quite in- 
audibly, in spite of her heels, whether on the 
Turkey carpet of the library, or the bare boards 



84 



OUR VILLAGE. 



of the dancing-room. Her face was almost 
invisible, being concealed between a mannish 
kind of neckcloth, that tied in her chin, and 
an enormous cap, whose wide flaunting strip 
hung over her cheeks and eyes, — to say no- 
thing of a huge pair of spectacles. What 
could be seen of the face was in a fine Roman 
style of beauty that answered to her figure; 
beautiful, in spite of age, and cap-strip, and 
neckcloth, and spectacles; lady-like, in spite 
of the high heels, the trip, the mantua-making 
vulgarity of scissors and pincushion dangling 
outside of her gown, and such a pair of pan- 
niers within as have seldom been seen in these 
degenerate days of reticules and work-bags. 
Such was the outward woman of Madame. 
Her inner qualities were speedily developed. 
We soon found that like " Goose Gibbie," she 
kept the hours of her flock ; went to bed at 
nine o'clock, and rose at six; and, instead of 
trying to lose the sight and sound of children 
in books and drawings, and running away 
from the very thoughts of us the moment 
school-hours were over, as poor Mademoiselle 
L. used to do, Madame was content to keep 
us company all the day long; was never tired 
of us, tiresome as we were; and made no 
other difference between school-time and play- 
time than that of exchanging scolding for talk- 
ing, long lessons for long stories. She super- 
intended our sports ; watched over the games 
of ball and battledore; reprimanded the awk- 
ward and the noisy ; and finally insisted on 
translating our old forfeits of " Peter Piper," 
and "I love my love with an A," into their 
Gallic counterpart, " Qui vtut vendre It corhil- 

This was sufficiently irksome ; but the 
worst was to come. Madame, all Parisian 
though she was, had the fidgety neatness of a 
Dutch-woman, and was scandalized at our 
untidy habits. Four days passed in distant 
murmurs ; an exercise book, found, to use her 
favourite word, " traincmt" about the room, 
was thrown into the fire, and a skipping-rope, 
which nearly overset her by entangling in her 
train, was tossed out of the window : but this 
was only the gathering of the wind before the 
storm. It was dancing-day ; we were all 
dressed and assembled, when Madame, pro- 
voked by some indication of latent disorder, 
some stray pinafore or pocket-handkerchief 
peeping from under the form that was meant 
to conceal it, instituted, much to our conster- 
nation, a general rummage through the house 
for things out of their places, which certainly 
comprised the larger half of our possessions. 
Every hole and corner were searched for con- 
traband goods, and the collected mass thrown 
together in one stupendous pile in the middle 
of the school-room ; a pile that defies descrip- 
tion or analysis. Bonnets, old and new, with 
strings and without, pelisses, tippets, parasols, 
unmatched shoes, halves of pairs of gloves, 
books tattered or whole, music in many 



parts, pincushions, petticoats, thimbles, frocks, 
sashes, dolls, portfolios, shuttlecocks, play- 
things, work-things, trumpery without end. 
The entire mass was to be apportioned amongst 
the different owners and then aflixed to their 
persons, after the manner of some of Mr. Lan- 
caster's punishments, though, to do Madame 
justice, the design, under her management, 
was altogether French. She had frenerously 
taken the most difficult part herself, and was 
much in the situation of the Princess in the 
Fairy Tale, who was put into a great hall full 
of feathers, and ordered to select from the 
mingled heap those which belonged to every 
separate bird. Poor Madame ! she was worse 
off than the princess — she had no good Genius 
to help her — she did not even know the plum- 
age of her little birds — sad refractory birds as 
ever beat their wings against a cage. Poor 
Madame! Article after article was fished up 
from the mass, and held out to be owned in 
vain ; not a soul would claim such dangerous 
property : gloves looked about for hands to 
wear them ; slippers were like the famous 
glass one, and fitted nobody ; bonnets wanted 
heads; dolls vi^ent a-begging. Poor Madame! 
Even when she found a name, it did her little 
service ; she had, to be sure, in ten years 
picked up some ten words of English, — but 
proper names ! she never came so near them 
in her life as old Bassompierre when he wrote 
Innimthorpe for Kensington. Even if she 
made a distant approach to the sounds in pro- 
nunciation, she would never have recognised 
them when written ; it was two to one against 
her hitting on the initial letter. Nevertheless 
she did succeed, by dint of lucky guesses and 
questions which could not be parried, in ap- 
portioning quite sufficient to form a style of 
decoration more novel than elegant, — an order 
of demerit. Dictionaries suspended from the 
neck en medaillon, shawls tied round the 
waist en ceinture, unbound music pinned to 
the frock en queue, formed a slight part of our 
adornment ; not one of us but had three or four 
of these appendages ; many had five or six. 
These preparations were intended to meet the 
eye of Madame's countryman, the French 
dancing-master, who would doubtless assist 
in supporting her authority, and in making us 
thoroughly ashamed. She did not know that 
before his arrival we were to pass an hour in 
an exercise of anotlier kind, standing on one 
leg like geese upon a cominon, or facing to 
right and left, under the command of a drill- 
sergeant. The man of scarlet was ushered in ; 
and it is difficult to say whether the professor 
of marching or the improver of discipline 
looked most astonished : the culprits, I am 
afraid, supported by numbers and amused by 
the ridiculous appearance of their corps, were 
not so much disconcerted as they should have 
been. Madame began a very voluble explana- 
tory harangue; but she was again unfortunate, 
— the sergeant did not understand French. 



THE FRENCH TEACHER. 



85 



She attempted to translate — " It is, Sare, que 
ces dames, dat dese Miss be des traineiises." 
This clear and intellio^ible sentence producing 
no other visible effect than a shake of the head, 
Madame desired the nearest culprit to tell "ce 
soldat /d" what she had said, and to inform 
her what he could possibly be come for. Our 
interpreter was puzzled in her turn, as much 
puzzled as Pistol's boy when bidden to con- 
strue " fer ferret and firk" to Monsieur le Fer. 
She had to find Enijlish for iraineuses (no 
dictionary word ! I believe Madame invented 
it expressly for our use,) and French for drill- 
sergeant. She got through her difficulties 
vastly well, called him of the red coat a walk- 
ing-master, and confessed frankly that we 
were in disgrace. The sergeant was a man 
of bowels; besides he hated the French ; he 
declared that " it made his blood boil to see 
so many free-born English girls domineered 
over by a natural enemy," and as he said this 
he eyed poor Madame as fiercely as if she had 
been a member of the Legion of Honour : 
finally he insisted that we could not march 
with such incumbrances; which declaration 
being done into French all at once by half a 
dozen eager tongues, the trappings were re- 
moved, and the experiment ended without any 
very sensible improvement. 

Inauspicious as the beginning was, in a 
short time we did improve; our habits became 
more reoular, we began to feel the comfort of 
order, and we began to like Madame. She 
lived with us and for us, like a family nurse, 
or a good old grandmamma (only that she did 
not spoil us) — she had no other occupation, 
no other thought, scarcely another friend in 
the world ; and she had herself an aptness to 
love which could not fail to attach young 
hearts. It was toucliing to see that respecta- 
ble woman homeless and desolate in her old 
age, clinginsf to children for society and com- 
fort, joining in their pursuits and amusements, 
and bringing down her own thoughts and feel- 
ings to their comprehension. Her youth of 
mind and simplicity of heart kept her happy: 
I -doubt whether grown people would have 
suited her so well. She entered thoroughly 
and heartily into our little schemes, and had 
more of her own than all the school put together. 
Never found mortal such pleasure in small 
surprises, innocent secrets, and mysterious 
gifts. Cherries dropped in our path like fairy 
favours ; sweetpeas and mignionette spring- 
ing up as if by magic in our little gardens; 
purses netted under the table and smuggled 
into our pockets no one knew how ; birth-day 
Jc!es gotten up as secretly as state conspiracies 
— these M'ere her delights. She was cross 
sometimes, and strict enough always ; but we 
loved Madame, and Madame loved us. I 
really think she would have been one of the 
happiest creatures in the world, but for a 
strange aversion which she unluckily took to 
a very charming young lady, a woman of 



genius and a poetess, who succeeded to the 
functions of the stupid English Teacher. The 
dislike was mutual. Never were two better 
haters. Their relative situation had probably 
something to do with it; and yet it was won- 
derful that two such excellent persons should 
so thoroughly detest each other. Miss R.'s 
aversion was of the cold, phlegmatic, con- 
temptuous, provoking' sort ; she kept aloof 
and said nothing : Madame's was acute, fiery, 
and loquacious ; she not only hated Miss R., 
but hated for her sake knowledge, and litera- 
ture, and wit, and, above all, })oetry, which 
she denounced as sometliing fatal and con- 
tagious, like the plague, I shall never forget 
her horror when she detected one of her 
favourites in the act of translating a stanza 
ofTasso into something that looked like verse; 
if she had caught her committing forgery, her 
lamentations could not have been more in- 
dignantly pathetic. What would she say 
now ? 

I have already mentioned Avith honour Ma- 
dame's high heels. They were once put to 
an unexpected use. She had been ill, and 
had gone into lodgings on the other side of 
London, to be near her favourite physician. 
We soon found a relaxation of discipline ; our 
poetess piqued herself upon managing us in a 
different way from her rival (she never sus- 
pected that we managed her); besides which 
she had a most comfortable habit of abstrac- 
tion, and seldom saw what passed before her 
eyes. The business of the school went on as 
usual: but our amusements were left to our- 
selves, and a dramatic fury raged high amongst 
us. Our first performance was Pizarro, that 
delight of children. In this choice we had 
one trifling difficulty, the absence of the printed 
play; but most of the actors had seen the 
piece, and we managed it by memory and in- 
vention. I should like to see a variorum edi- 
tion of our Pizarro. The Spanish hero him- 
self had never seen the -tragedy; but he was 
a very clever little Irish girl, not more than a 
foot shorter than Elvira, and, being well in- 
structed in the spirit of the part, blustered 
through the tyrant very creditably, excepting 
one mistake, that of regularly ordering the 
soldiers to shoot Rolla three scenes before his 
time. The error was pardonable. Evefy body 
sympathised w-ith Pizarro in thinking the 
sooner Rolla was out of pain the better. His 
sufferings were exquisite. He was a fine 
well grown personable girl, but labou ring- 
under such a melanchol}' want of words and 
ideas, that he felt and inflicted in a higher de- 
gree the sort of distress which is so often 
caused by stammering ; we could no more 
prevail on him to relinquish his impracticable 
part, than a stammerer can be persuaded to 
abandon the unutterable word. Elvira we 
chose for her especial gift in scolding, her 
natural shrewishness ; and she did not disap- 
point us; she acted like a virago born, the 



86 



OUR VILLAGE. 



pride and olory of the play. As to Cora, I 
did her myself, after an exceedingly original 
fashion. I recollect one trait. I did not like 
going mad ; it was troublesome, and I did not 
well know how to go about it, — fainting was 
much easier; so I fainted, and had the plea- 
sure of being ])alled by the arms across the 
room, with my heels dragging along the floor, 
by one of our stage footmen ; an operation in 
which I found so much amusement, that I got 
a part of the audience (the little girls, the de- 
mure and the stupid,) to encore my swoon. 

Our next perfomxance was Feudal Times, 
induced by the mistake of a silly maid, who 
had smuggled that pageant into the house in- 
stead of Pizarro. W'e performed this enter- 
tainment to the letter, only leaving out the 
songs, the scenery, and the processions. Al- 
together Feudal Times did not go off like Pi- 
zarro ; the zest of suspense and imexpected- 
ness was wanting; every body knew what 
was to come next; no delightful blunders, no 
happy mistakes, no tragedy in our comedy, 
and far too little comedy in our tragedy ; it 
was as dull as a lesson, and the run would 
have been short. We had already begun to 
turn our attention to a stray copy of Deaf and 
Dumb, when an unlucky accident put an en- 
tire stop to our dramatic career. Li the me- 
lancholy of Feudal Times one part seemed 
indispensable to the story. The heroine, a 
lady Claribel, is picked up out of a moat by 
a certain fisherman called Walter, into v\jhich 
moat she had been precipitated by the same 
Walter's sawing asunder a draw-bridge, which 
her oppressor, the baron, was defending against 
her lover. This we contrived almost as no- 
tably as the wall and moonshine were man- 
aged in Bottom's play, by tying together two 
long high forms, which Walter, seated tailor- 
fashion in a short low form, turned topsj'-tnr- 
vy, to resemble a boat, divided with a knife, 
catching hoVd, at the same time, of the lady 
! Claribel, and pushing off with her to her lover, 
' who stood on the chalked line, which we call- 
I ed the bank. Four afternoons was this ma- 
[ nceuvre adroitly performed : on the fifth, an 
over-eager combatant lost his balance, and fell 
over just as the bridge was sawing asunder ; 
in falling he caught at the baron's white frock, 
who, overset in his turn, clung to the bridge, 
and down they came, vassal, baron, and bridge, 
■ together with the fair lady Claribel, full on 
I the unlucky boat and the unfortunate boatman. 
j Tlie crash was tremendous. An universal 
I scream from actors and spectators soon brought 
I Miss R. to the scene, and disturbed the tran- 
! quil course of Mrs. * * *'s embroidery. The 
mischief was less than might have been ex- 
pected ; a few bruises, one broken form, and 
two torn frocks; but the fright, the din, and 
the clatter, made too deep an impression to be 
I overcome; the drama w^as instantly proscribed, 
Feudal Times thrown on the fire, and Deaf 
I and Dumb put under lock and key. 



When once, however, the theatrical fever is^ 
thoroughly excited, it is not easily allayed, | 
especially if heightened by a prohibition. We 
were just on the point of actual rebellion, and 
had contrived a plot for regaining Deaf and : 
Dumb, when a turn was given to our ideas by 
one of the confederates going to the opera, 
and coming back with her head full of a Scot- 
tish divertisement and the ballet of Orpheus 
and Eurydice. We hesitated a long time 
which to choose ; to have one we were deter- 
mined. A ballet is not a play; there was no 
edict against dancing; and as the Grecian and 
Scottish parties ran high, we boldly resolved 
to blend the two stories into one. " Rather im- 
probable, to be sure," said our manager, " but 
not impossible. No reason on earth why Or- 
pheus might not go to Scotland in search of 
Eurydice; we must make that understood in 
the bills. The ballet will be quite as intelligi- 
ble one way as the other." Quite. The union 
of twenty plots would not have puzzled our bal- 
let mistress ; the confusion of her brain defied 
increase. I cannot attempt a minute detail of 
our performance. Venus — for we enlisted the 
whole corps of gods and goddesses in our ser- 
vice — Venus, a black-haired brown gipsy, ra- 
ther quick-witted than beautiful, slid about in 
a pasteboard car, which she pushed forward 
much as a child manages a go-cart, driving 
cruelly over her paper doves, and stooping! 
every moment to pick them up and set them 
flying again. Cupid, the a'-devaiit Pizarro, 
was the charm of the piece, full of grace and 
playfulness : he managed his shining wings 
with great address, and his bow and arrows 
still better. One of his feats was the demo- 
lition of a pasteboard fortress, which we had 
erected across one corner of the room, just 
large enough to contain the Scottish heroine, 
and ingeniously contrived to keep together by 
strings held in her hand, which she dropped 
as soon as cupid drew his bow, and sprang 
away from her prison. This piece of machine- 
ry was our principal attempt in that line; but 
we had made great advances in costume since 
the luckless night when the baron was brought 
to the ground by a pull at his white frock. 
Our highland lasses had muslin aprons bound 
with tartan ribands, the right Highland dress 
of the Opera House ; Jupiter had a rich pe- 
lisse ; and Pluto a beard — a fine tuft of bear- 
skin, docked by our manager from her own 
fur tippet. This conscious splendour inspired 
us with a desire for a more numerous audience. 
We invited two or three young ladies of the 
neighbourhood, who came to take lessons in 
dancing ; Miss R., too, we asked, the parlour 
boarders, and the good old house-keeper. The 
e-vening arrived, the spectators were seated, 
unexpectedly reinforced by Mrs. * * *, in high 
good humour; and we danced on in triumph- 
ant confusion, till we came to the grand scene 
of the infernal regions. We had been at some 
. loss as to the management of the classical 



WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. 



87 



Hell. Even our undoubting manager was 
posed. P'ire seemed to our simple apprehen- 
sions a necessary element. The furies must 
have torches. No dispensing with that en- 
gine of horror. Accordingly we erected a 
sort of artificial rock-work, composed of tables, 
stools, and trunks of unequal height, over 
which was flung a large covering of canvass. 
Towards the centre of this machine we placed 
a saucer full of burning spirits of wine, emit- 
ting much such a flame as I have seen issue 
at Christmas from a minced-pie floated with 
burning brandy. Our orchestra was playing 
"The^Soldier Tired;" the whole dramatis 
personae, gods and mortals, Greeks and Scots, 
were assembled on the stage ; Orpheus was 
casting his memorable look back on Eurydice; 
and tlie furies were lighting their torches at 
the blazing spirits — when the folding doors 
flew back, and Madame appeared in the open- 
ing, muffled in white drapery, motionless for 
a moment, and then glided gently in, like an- 
other Castle Spectre. One of the Furies, in 
astonishment at this apparition, dropped her 
torch, and set fire to the canvass-covering, 
just as Madame reached the rock-work. The 
flame caught her eye, and she dexterously 
whisked off her yellow slipper, and tapped 
out the fire with its slender heel. I still seem 
to hear the quick clear sound of those taps. 
She then gracefully resumed her shoe and her 
tripping motion, and glided up to Mrs. ***, 
with her usual mincing pace. So ended our 
ballet. We crowded round our dear old 
friend, and thought no more of Orpheus and 
Eurydice. 



WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. 

THE COPSE. 

April IRth. — Sad wintry weather; a north- 
east wind ; a sun that puts out one's eyes, 
without affording the slightest warmth ; dry- 
ness that chaps lips and hands like a frost in 
December; rain that comes chilling and ar- 
rowy like hail in January; nature at a dead 
pause; no seeds up in the garden; no leaves 
out in the hedge-rows; no cowslips swingino- 
their pretty bells in the fields ; no nightingales 
in the dingles; no swallows skimming round 
the great pond ; no cuckoos (that ever I should 
miss that rascally sonnetteer!) in any part! 
Nevertheless there is something of a charm 
in this wintery spring, this putting-back of the 
seasons. If the flower-clock must stand still 
for a month or two, could it choose a better 
time tlian that of the primroses and violets'? 
I never remember (and for such gands my 
memory, if not very good for aught of wise or 
useful, may be trusted) such an aftluence of 
the one or such a duration of the other. Prim- 
rosy is the epithet which this year will retain 



in my recollection. Hedge, ditch, meadow, 
field, even the very paths and highways, are 
set with them ; but the chief habitat is a cer- 
tain copse, about a mile off, where they are 
spread like a carpet, and where I go to visit 
them rather oftener than quite comports with 
the dignity of a lady of mature age. I am 
going thither this very afternoon, and May 
and her company are going too. 

This Mayflower of mine is a strange ani- 
mal. Instinct and imitation make in her an 
approach to reason which is sometimes almost 
startling. She mimics all that she sees us 
do, with the dexterity of a monkey and far 
more of gravity and apparent purpose ; cracks 
nuts and eats them ; gathers currants and 
severs them from the stalk with the most deli- 
cate nicety ; filches and munches apples and 
pears, is as dangerous in an orchard as a 
school-boy ; smells to flowers ; smiles at meet- 
ing ; answers in a pretty lively voice when 
spoken to, (sad pity that the language should 
be unknown !) and has greatly the advantage 
of us in a conversation, inasmuch as our mean- 
ing is certainly clear to her ; — all this and a 
thousand amusing prettinesses, (to say no- 
thing of her canine feat of bringing her game 
straight to her master's feet, and refusing to 
resign it to any hand but his) does my beau- 
tifnl greyhound perform untaught, by the mere 
effect of imitation and sagacity. Well, May, 
at the end of the coursing season, having lost 
Brush, our old spaniel, her great friend, and 
the blue greyhound Mariette, her comrade 
and rival, both of which four-footed worthies 
were sent out to keep for the summer, began 
to find solitude a weary condition, and to look 
abroad for company. Now it so happened 
that the same suspension of sport which had 
reduced our little establishment from three 
dogs to one, had also dispersed the splendid 
kennel of a celebrated courser in our neigh- 
bourhood, three of whose finest young dogs 
came home to " their walk" (as the sporting 
phrase goes) at the collar-maker's in our vil- 
lage. May, accordingly, on the first morning 
of her solitude (she had never taken the slight- 
est notic,e of her neighbours before, although 
they had sojourned in our street upwards of a 
fortnight,) bethought herself of the timely re- 
source offered to her by the vicinity of these 
canine beaux, and went up boldly and knocked 
at their stable door, which was already very 
commodiously on the half-latch. The three 
dogs came out with much alertness and gal- 
lantry, and May, declining apparently to enter 
their territories, brought them off to her own. \ 
This manoeuvre has been repeated everj'^ day, I 
with one variation ; of the three dogs, the first | 
a brindle, the second a yellow, and the third j 
a black, the two first only are now admitted ' 
to walk or consort with her, and the last, poor i 
fellow, for no fault that I can discover, except 
May's caprice, is driven away, not only by I 
the fair lady, but even by his old companions i 



OUR VILLAGE. 



— is, so to say, sent to Coventry. Of her 
two permitted followers, the yellow gentle- 
man, Saladin by name, is decidedly the fa- 
vourite. He is, indeed. May's shadow, and 
will walk with me whether I choose or not. 
It is quite impossible to get rid of him unless 
by discardinor Miss May also ; — and to accom- 
plish a walk in the country without her, would 
be like an adventure of Don Quixote without 
his faithful 'squire Sancho. 

So forth we set. May and I, and Saladin 
and the brindle; May and myself walking 
with the sedateness and decorum befitting our 
sex and age (she is five years old this grass, 
rising six) — the young things, for the soldan 
and the brindle are (not meaning any disre- 
spect) little better than puppies, frisking and 
frolicking as best pleased them. 

Our route lay for the first part along the 
sheltered quiet lanes which led to our old 
habitation ; a way never trodden by me with- 
out peculiar and home-like feelings, full of the 
recollections, the pains, and pleasures of other 
days. But we are not to talk sentiment now ; 
— even May would not understand that maud- 
lin language. We must go on. What a win- 
tery hedge-row this is for the eighteenth of 
April ! Primrosy to be sure, abundantly span- 
gled with those stars of the earth, — but so 
bare, so leafless, so cold ! The wind whistles 
through the brown boughs as in winter. Even 
the early elder shoots, which do make an ap- 
proach to springiness, look brown, and the 
small leaves of the woodbine, which have 
also ventured to peep forth, are of a sad pur- 
ple, frost-bitten, like a dai.-y-maid's elbows 
on a snowy morning. The very birds in this 
season of pairing and building, look chilly 

and uncomfortable, and their nests ! " Oh 

Saladin ! come away from the hedge ! Don't 
you see that what puzzles you and makes you 
leap up in the air is a redbreast's nest 1 Don't 
you see the pretty speckled eggs ] Don't you 
hear the poor hen calling as it were for help 1 
Come here this moment, sir!" And by good 
luck Saladin (who for a paynim has tolerable 
qualities) comes, before he has touched the 
nest, or before his playmate the brindle, the 
less manageable of the two, has espied it. 

Now we go round the corner and cross the 
bridge, where the common, with its clear 
stream winding between clumps of elms, as- 
sumes so park-like an a])pearanco. Who is 
this approaching so slowly and majestically, 
this S(|uare bundle of petticoat and cloak, this 
road-wagon of a woman ? It is, it must be, 
Mrs. Sally Mearing, the completest specimen 
within my knowledge of farmeresses (may I 
be allowed that innovation in language 1) as 
they were. It can be nobody else. 

Mrs. Sally Mearing, when I first became 
acquainted with her, occupied, together with 
her father (a superannuated man of ninety,) a 
large farm very near our former habitation. It 
had been anciently a great manor-farm, or 



court-house, and was still a stately substan- 
tial building, whose lofty halls and spacious 
chambers gave an air of grandeur to the com- 
mon offices to which they were applied. 
Traces of gilding might yet be seen on the 
panels which covered the walls, and on the i 
huge carved chimney-pieces, which rose al- j 
most to the ceilings ; and the marble tables, 
and the inlaid oak staircase, still spoke of the ; 
former grandeur of the court. Mrs. Sally cor- j 
responded well with the date of her mansion, • 
although she troubled herself little with its j 
dignity. She was thoroughly of the old school, | 
and had a most comfortable contempt for the [ 
new ; rose at four in winter and summer, j 
breakfasted at six, dined at eleven in the fore- 
noon, supped at five, and was regularly in bed 
before eight, except when the hay-time or the 
harvest imperiously required her to sit up 
till sunset, — a necessity to which she submit- 
ted with no very good grace. To a deviation 
from these hours, and to the modern iniquities 
of white aprons, cotton stockings, and mus- 
lin handkerchiefs, (Mrs. Sally herself always 
wore check, black worsted, and a sort of yel- 
low compound which she was wont to call 
sttsi/,) together with the invention of drill 
plough and threshing machines, and other 
agricultural novelties, she failed to attribute 
all the mishaps or misdoings of the whole 
parish. The last-mentioned discovery, espe- 
cially, aroused her indignation. Oh to hear 
her descant on the merits of the flail, wielded 
by a stout right arm, such as she had known 
in her youth (for by her account there was as 
great a deterioration in bones and sinews as 
in the other implements of husbandry,) was 
enough to make the very inventor break his 
machine. She would even take up her favour- 
ite instrument, and thresh the air herself, by 
way of illustrating her argument, and, to say 
truth, few men in these degenerate days, could 
have matched the stout brawny muscular limb 
which Mrs. Sally displayed at sixty-five. 

In spite of this contumacious rejection of all 
agricultural improvements, the world went 
well with her at Court-farm. A good land- 
lord, an easy rent, incessant labour and unre- 
mitting frugality, and excellent times, insured 
a regular though moderate profit; and she 
lived on, grumbling and prospering, flourish- 
ing and complaining, till two misfortunes be- 
fell herat once — her father died, and her lease 
expired. The loss of her father, although a 
bedridden man, turned of ninety, who could 
not in the course of nature, have been expect- 
ed to live long, was a terrible shock to a 
daughter, who was not so much younger as 
to be without fears for her own life, and who 
had besides been so used to nursing tlie good 
old man, and looking to his little comforts, 
that she missed him as a mother would miss 
an ailing child. 'J'he expiration of the lease 
was a grievance and a puzzle of a dilTerent 
nature. Her landlord would have willingly 



WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. 



89 



retained his excellent tenant, but not on the 
terms on which she then held the land, which 
had not varied for fifty years : so poor Mrs. 
Sally had the misfortune to find rent rising 
and prices sinking both at the same moment — 
a terrible solecism in political economy. Even 
this, however, I believe she would have en- 
dured rather than have quitted the house 
where she was born, and to which all her 
ways and notions were adapted, had not a 
priggish steward, as much addicted to improve- 
ment and reform, as she was to precedent and 
established usages, insisted on binding her by 
lease to spread a certain number of loads of 
chalk on every field. This tremendous inno- 
vation, for never had that novelty in manure 
whitened the crofts and pightels of Court- 
Farm, decided her at once. She threw the 
proposals into the fire, and left the place in a 
week. 

Her choice of a habitation occasioned some 
wonder and much amusement in our village 
world. To be sure, upon the verge of seventy, 
an old maid may be permitted to dispense with 
the more rigid punctilio of her class, but Mrs. 
Sally had always been so tenacious on the 
score of character, so very a prude, so deter- 
mined an avoider of the "men folk," (as she 
was wont contemptuously to call them,) that 
we were all conscious of something like 
astonishment, on finding that she and her little 
handmaid had taken up their abode in the one 
end of a spacious farm-house belonging to the 
bluflf old bachelor, George Robinson, of the 
Lea. New farmer Robinson was quite as no- 
torious for his aversion to petticoated things, 
as Mrs. Sally for her hatred to the unfeathered 
bipeds who wear doublet and hose, so that 
there was a little astonishment in that quarter 
too, and plenty of jests, which the honest far- 
mer speedily silenced, by telling all who 
joked on the subject that he had given his 
lodger fair warning, that, let people say what 
they would, he was quite determined not to 
marry her ; so that if she had any views that 
way, it would be better for her to go else- 
where. This declaration, which must be ad- 
mitted to have been more remarkable for frank- 
ness than civility, made, however, no ill 
impression on Mrs. Sally. To the farmer's 
she went, and at his house she still lives, with 
her little maid, her tabby cat, a decrepit sheep- 
dog, and much of the lumber of Court-Farm, 
which she could not find in her heart to part 
from. There she follows her old ways and 
her old hours, untempted by matrimony, and 
unassailed (as far as I hear) by love or scan- 
dal, with no other grievance than an occa- 
sional dearth of employment for herself and 
her young lass, (even pewter dishes do not al- 
ways want scouring,) and now and then a 
twinge of the rheumatism. 

Here she is, that good relique of the olden 
time — for, in spite of her whims and preju- 
dices, a better and a kinder woman never 



lived — here she is, with the hood of her red 
cloak pulled over her close black bonnet of 
that silk which once (it may be presumed) 
was fashionable, since it is still called mode, 
and her whole stout figure huddled up in a 
miscellaneous and most substantial covering 
of thick petticoats, gowns, aprons, shawls, 
and cloaks — a weight which it requires the 
strength of a thresher to walk under — here she 
is with her square honest visage and her loud 
frank voice ; — and we hold a pleasant disjoint- 
ed chat of rheumatisms and early chickens, 
bad weather, and hats with feathers in them; 
— the last exceedingly sore subject being in- 
troduced by poor Jane Davies, (a cousin of 
Mrs. Sally,) who, passing us in a beaver bon- 
net on her road from school, sto|)ped to drop 
her little curtsy, and was soundly scolded for 
her civility. Jane, who is a gentle, humble, 
smiling lass, about twelve years old, receives 
so many rebukes from her worthy relative, 
and bears them so meekly, that I should not 
wonder if they were to be followed by a 
legacy : I sincerely wish they may. Well, 
at last we said good-bye; when, on inquiring 
my destination, and hearing that I was bent 
to the ten-acre copse, (part of the farm which 
she ruled so long,) she stopped me to tell a 
dismal story of two sheep-stealers who sixty 
years ago were found hidden in that copse, 
and only taken after great difficulty and re- 
sistance, and the maiming of a peace-officer. 
— " Pray don't go there. Miss ! For mercy's 
sake don't be so venturesome ! Think if they 
should kill you !" were the last words of Mrs. 
Sally. 

Many thanks for her care and kindness ! 
But without being at all fool-hardy in general, 
I have no great fear of the sheep-stealers of 
sixty years ago. Even if they escaped hang- 
ing for that exploit, I should greatly doubt 
their being in case to attempt another. So on 
we go : down the short shady lane, and out 
on the pretty retired green, shut in by fields 
and hedge-rows, which we must cross to reach 
the copse. How lively this green nook Is to- 
day, half covered with cows and horses and 
sheep ! And how glad these frolicsome grey- 
hounds are to exchange the hard gravel of the 
high road for this pleasant short turf, which 
seems made for their gambols ! How beauti- 
fully they are at play, chasing each other 
round and round in lessening circles, darting 
off at all kinds of angles, crossing and recross- 
ing May, and trying to win her sedateness in- 
to a game at romps, turning round on each 
other with gay defiance, pursuing the cows 
and the colts, leaping up as if to catch the 
crows in their flight; — all in their harmless 
and innocent — "Ah wretches! villains! ras- 
cals ! four-footed mischiefs ! canine plagues ! 
Saladin! Brindle!" — They are after the sheep 
— "Saladin, I say I" — They have actually 
singled out that pretty spotted lamb — " Brutes, 
if 1 catch you ! Saladin, Brindle !" — We shall 



8* 



M 



90 



OUR VILLAGE. 



be taken \ip for sheep-stealing presently our- 
selves. They have chased the poor little lamb 
into a ditch, and are mounting guard over it, 
standing at bay — "Ah wretches, I have you 
now ! for shame. Saladin ! Get away, Brindle ! 
See how good May is. Off with you, brutes ! 
For shame ! For shame '" and brandishing a 
handkerchief, which could hardly be an effi- 
cient instrument of correction, I succeeded in 
driving away the two puppies, who after all 
meant nothing more than play, although it 
was somewhat rough, and rather too much in 
the style of the old fable of the boys and the 
frog=;. May is gone after them, perhaps to 
scold them ; for she has been as grave as a 
judge during the whole proceeding, keeping 
ostentatiously close to me, and taking no part 
whatever in the mischief. 

The poor little pretty lamb ! here it lies on 
the bank quite motionless, frightened I believe 
to death, for certainly those villains never 
touched it. It does not stir. Does it breathe ? 
Oh yes, it does! It is alive, safe enough. 
Look, it opens its eyes, and, finding the coast 
clear and its enemies far away, it springs up 
in a moment and gallops to its dam, who has 
stood bleating the whole time at a most re- 
spectful distance. Who would suspect a 
lamb of so much simple cunning 1 I really 
thought the pretty thing was dead — and now 
how glad the ewe is to recover her curling 
spotted little one ! How fluttered they look ! 
Well! this adventure has flurried me too; 
between fright and running, I warrant you, 
my heart beats as fast as the lamb's. 

Ah ! here is the shameless villain Saladin, 
the cause of the commotion, thrusting his slen- 
der nose into my hand to beg pardon and make 
up! "Oh wickedest of soldans ! Most ini- 
quitous pagan ! Soul of a Turk !" — but there 
is no resisting the good-humoured creature's 
penitence. I must pat him. " There ! there ! 
Now we will go to the copse, I am sure we 
shall find no worse malefactors than ourselves 
— shall we, May 1 — and the sooner we get out 
of sight of the sheep the better ; for Brindle 
seems meditating another attack, .^llnns, mes- 
sieurs, over this gate, across this meadow, and 
here is the copse." 

How boldly that su])erb ash-trne with its 
fine silver bark rises from the bank, aiul what 
a fine entrance it makes with the holly beside 
it, vvhicli also deserves to be called a tree ! 
But here we are in the copse. Ah ! only one 
half of the underwood was cut last year, and 
the other is at its full growth: hazel, briar, 
woodbine, bramble, forming one impenetrable 
thicket, and almost uniting with the lower 
branches of the elms, and oaks, and beeches, 
which rise at regular distances over-head. No 
foot can penetrate that dense and thorny en- 
tangloment ; but there is a walk all round by 
the side of the wide sloping bank and copse 
carpeted with primroses, whose fresh and 
balmy odour impregnates the very air. Oh 



how exquisitely beautiful ! and it is not the 
primroses only, those gems of flowers, but 
the natural mosaic of which they form a part: 
that net-work of ground ivy, with its lilac 
blossoms and the subdued tint of its purplish 
leaves, those rich mosses, those enameled 
wild hyacinths, those spotted arums, and above 
all those wreaths of ivy linking all those 
flowers together with chains of leaves more 
i)eautiful than blossoms, whose white veins 
seem swelling amidst the deep green or splen- 
did brown ; — it is the whole earth that is so 
beautiful. Never surely were primroses so 
richly set, and never did primroses better de- 
serve such a setting. There they are of their 
own lovely yellow, the hue to which they 
have given a name, the exact tint of the but- 
terfly that overhangs them (the first I have 
seen this year ! can spring really be coming 
at lastl) — sprinkled here and there with tufts 
of a reddish purple, and others of the purest 
white, as some accident of soil affects that 
strange and inscrutable operation of nature, 
the colouring of flowers. Oh how fragrant 
they are, and how pleasant it is to sit in this 
sheltered copse, listening to the fine creaking 
of the wind amongst the branches, the most 
unearthly of sounds, with this gay tapestry 
under our feet, and the wood-pigeons flitting 
from tree to tree, and mixing their deep note 
of love with the elemental music. 

Yes ! spring is coming. Wood-pigeons, 
butterflies, and sweet flowers, all give token of 
the sweetest of the seasons. Spring is com- 
ing. The hazel stalks are swelling and put- 
ting forth their pale tassels; the satin palms 
with their honeyed odours, are out on the wil- 
low, and the last lingering winter berries are 
dropping from the hawthorn, and making way 
for the bright and blossorny leaves. 



THE TOUCHY LADY. 

One of the most unhappy persons whom it 
has been my fortune to encounter, is a pretty 
woman of thirty, or thereabout, healthy, 
wealthy, and of good repute, with a fine 
house, a fine family, and an excellent hus- 
band. A solitary calamity renders all these 
blessings of no avail: — the gentlewoman is 
touchy. This affliction has given axolourto 
her whole life. Her biography has a certain 
martial dignity, like the liistory of a nation ; 
she dates from battle to battle, and passes hei 
days in an interminable civil war. 

The first person who, long before she could 
speak, had the misfortune to offend tiie young 
lady, was her nurse; then in quick succes- 
sion four nursery maids, who were turned 
away, poor things! because Miss Anne could 
not abide them ; then her brother Harr)S by 
being born, and diminishing her importance ; 



THE TOUCHY LADY. 



then three governesses; then two writing-; 
masters; then one music mistress; then a 
whole school. On leaving school, affronts 
multiplied of course ; and she has been in a 
constant miff with servants, tradespeople, re- 
lations and friends ever since; so that al- 
though really pretty (at least she would be so 
if it were not for a standing frown and a 
certain watchful defying look in her eyes,) 
decidedly clever and accomplished, and par- 
ticularly charitable, as far as giving money 
goes, (your ill-tempered woman has often that 
redeeming grace.) she is known only by her 
one absorbing quality of touchiness, and is 
dreaded and hated accordingly by every one 
who has the honour of her acquaintance. 

Paying her a visit is one of the most for- 
midable things that can be imagined, one of 
the trials which in a small way demand the 
greatest resolution. It is so difficult to find 
what to say. You must make up your mind 
to the afiair as you do when going into a 
shower bath. Differing from her is obviously 
pulling the string; and agreeing with her too 
often or too pointedly is nearly as bad : she 
then suspects you of suspecting her infirmity, 
of which she has herself a glimmering con- 
sciousness, and treats you with a sharp touch 
of it accordingly. But what is there that she 
will not suspect? Admire the colours of a 
new carpet, and she thinks you are looking at 
some invisible hole ; -praise the [)attern of a 
morning cap, and she accuses you of thinking 
it too gay. She has an ingenuity of perverse- 
ness which brings all subjects nearly to a 
level. The mention of her neighbours is evi- 
dently tahoa, since it is at least .twenty to one 
but she is in a state of affront with nine-tenths 
of them ; her ow^n family are also tuhoo for the 
same reason. Books are particularly unsafe. 
She stands vibrating on the pinnacle where 
two fears meet, ready to be suspected of blue- 
stockingism on the one hand, or of ignorance 
and frivolity on the other, just as the work 
you may chance to name happens to be recon- 
dite or popular; nay sometimes the same pro- 
duction shall excite both feelings. " Have 
you read Hajji Baba," said I to her one day last 
winter, "Hajji Baba the Persian" — "Real- 
ly, Ma'am, I am no orientalist." — "Hajji 
Baba the clever Persian tale]" continued 
I, determined not be daunted. "I believe. 
Miss M." rejoined she, "that you think I 
have nothing better to do than to read novels." 
And so she snip-snaps to the end of the visit. 
Even the Scotch novels, which she does own 
to reading, are no resource in her desperate 
case. There we are shipwrecked on the rocks 
of taste. A difference there is fatal. She 
takes to those delicious books as personal pro- 
perty, and spreads over them the prickly shield 
of her protection in the same spirit with which 
she appropriates her husband and her chil- 
dren ; is huffy if you prefer Guy Mannering 
to the Antiquary, and quite jealous if you pre- 



sume to praise Jeanie Deans ; thus cutting off 
his Majesty's lieges from the most approved 
topic of discussion among civilized people, a 
neutral ground as open and various as the 
weather, and far more delightful. But what 
did I say ? The very weather is with her no 
prudent word. She pretends to skill in that 
science of guesses commonly called weather- 
wisdom, and a fng-, or a shower, or a thunder- 
storm, or the blessed sun himself, may have 
been rash enough to contradict her bodements, 
and put her out of humour for the day. 

Her own name has all her life long been a 
fertile source of misery to this unfortunate 
lady. Her maiden name was Smytlie, Anne 
Smythe. Now Smythe, although perfectly 
genteel and unexceptionable to look at, a pat- 
tern appellation on paper, was in speaking, 
no way distinguishable from the thousands of 
common Smiths who cumber the world. She 
never heard that " word of fear," especially 
when introduced to a new acquaintance, with- 
out looking as if she longed to spell it. Anne 
was bad enough; people had housemaids of 
that name, as if to make a confusion ; and her 
grandmamma insisted on her omitting the final 
e, in which important vowel was seated all it 
could boast of elegance or dignity ; and once 
a brother of fifteen, the identical brother Har- 
ry, an Etonian, a pickle, one of that order of 
clever boys who seem born for the torment of 
their female relatives, " foredoomed their sis- 
ter^s soul to cross," actually went so far as to 
call her Nancy ! She did not box his ears, 
although how near her tingling fingers' ends 
approached to that consummation, it is not my 
business to tell. Having suffered so much 
from the perplexity of her equivocal maiden 
name, she thought herself most lucky in pitch- 
ing on the thoroughly well-looking and well- 
sounding appellation of Morley for tiie rest of 
her life. Mrs. Morley — nothing could be bet- 
ter. For once there was a word that did not 
affront her. The first alloy to this satisfaction 
was her perceiving on the bridal cards, Mr. 
and Mrs. B. Morley, and hearing that close to 
their future residence lived a rich bachelor 
uncle, till whose death that fearful diminuti6n 
of her consequence, the Mrs. B. must be en- 
dured. Mrs. E. ! The brow began to wrin- 
kle — but it was the night before the wedding, 
the uncle had made some compensation for 
the crime of being born thirty years before his 
nephew in the shape of a superb set of emer- 
alds, and by a fortunate mistake, she had taken 
it into her head that B. in the present case, 
stood for Basil, so that the loss of dignity 
being compensated by an increase of elegance, 
she bore the shock pretty well. It was not 
till the next morning during the ceremony, 
that the full extent of her misery burst upon 
her, and she found that B. stood not for Basil, 
but for Benjamin. Then the veil fell off; 
then the full horror of her situation, the affront 
of being a Mrs. Benjamin, stared lier full in 



92 



OUR VILLAGE, 



the face ; and certainly but for the accident of 
beinjj struck dumb by indignation, she never 
would have married a man so ignobly christ- 
ened. Her fate has been even worse than 
then appeared probable; for her husband, an 
exceeding popular and convivial person, was 
known all over his own country by the familiar 
diminutive of his ill-omened appellation; so 
that she found herself not merely a Mrs, Ben- 
jamin, but a Mrs. Ben., the wife of a Ben 
Morley, junior, esq. (for the peccant uncle 
was also godfather and namesake) the future 
mother of a Ben Morley the third. — Oh the 
Miss .Smith, the Anne, even the Nancy, shrunk 
into nothing when compared with that short 
word. 

Neither is she altogether free from misfor- 
tunes on her side of the house. There is a 
terrible mesallioiice in her own family. Her 
favourite aunt, the widow of an officer with 
five portionless children, became one fair morn- 
ing the wife of a rich mercer in Cheapside, 
thus at a stroke gaining comfort and losing 
caste. The manner in which this affected 
poor Mrs, Ben Morley is inconceivable. She 
talked of the imhappy crmnection, as aunts 
are wont to talk when nieces get paired at 
Gretna Green, wrote a formal renunciation of 
the culprit, and has considered hersplf insulted 
ever since if any one mentions a silk gown in 
her presence. Another affliction, brougrht on 
by her own family, is the production of a farce 
by her brother Harrv, (born for her plague) 
at Covent Garden Theatre. The farce was 
damned, as the author (a clever young Tem- 
plar) declares most deservealy. He bore the 
catastrophe with great heroism ; and celebrated 
its downfall by venting sundry good puns and 
drinking an extra bottle of claret; leaving to 
Anne, sister Anne, the pleasant employment 
of fuming over his discomfiture — a task wliich 
she performed cn7i amore. Actors, manager, 
audience and author, seventeen newspapers 
and three rnagazines, had the misfortune to 
displease her on this occasion ; in short the 
whole town. Theatres and newspapers, cri- 
tics and the drama, have been banished from 
her conversation ever since. She would as 
lieve talk of a silk-mercer. 

Next after her visiters, her correspondents 
are to be pitied; they had need look to their 
P's and Q's, tiieir spelling and their station- 
ary. If you write a note to her, be sure that 
the paper is the best double post, hot-pressed, 
and gilt-edjpd ; that your j)pn is in good or- 
der; that your " dear Madams" have a proper 
mixture of regard and respect; and that your 
folding and sealings are unexceptionable. vShe 
IS of a sort to faint at the absence of an en- 
velope, and to die of a wafer. Note, above 
all, tliat your address be perfect; that your 
to be not forgotten ; that the offending licnja- 
min be omitted ; and that the style and title 
of her mansion, Shawford Manor House, be 
set forth in full glory. And when this is 



achieved, make up your mind to her taking 
some inexplicable affront after all. Thrice 
fortunate would he be who could put twenty 
words together without affronting her. Be- 
sides, she is great at a scornful reply, and 
shall keep up a quarrelling correspondence 
with any lady in Great Britain, Her letters 
are like challenges ; and but for the protection 
of the petticoat, she would have fought fifty 
duels, and have been either killed or quieted 
long ago. 

If her husband had been of her temper, she 
would have brought him into twenty scrapes, 
but he is as unlike her as possible : a good- 
humoured rattling creature, with a perpetual 
festivity of temper, and a propensity to motion 
and lau<rhter, and all sorts of merry mischief, 
like a schoolboy in the holidays, which feli- 
citous personage he resembles bodily in his 
round ruddy handsome face, his dancing black 
eyes, curling hair, and light active figure, the 
youngest man that ever saw forty. His pur- 
suits have the same happy juvenility. In the 
summer he fishes and plays cricket; in the 
winter he hunts and courses; and what with 
grouse and partridges, pheasants and wood- 
cocks, wood-pigeons and flappers, he contrives 
pretty toleral)ly to shoot all the year round. 
Moreover, he attends revels, races, assizes, 
and quarter-sessions ; drives stage-coaches, 
patronizes plays, is steward to concerts, goes 
to every dance within forty miles, and talks 
of standing for the county ; so that he has no 
time to quarrel with his wife, or for her, and 
affronts her twenty times an hour simply by 
giving her her own way. 

To the popularity of this universal favour- 
ite, for the restless sociability of his temper 
is invaluable in a dull country neighbourhood, 
his wife certainly owes the toleration which 
bids fair to render her incorrigible. She is 
fast approaching to the melancholy condition 
of a privileged person, one put out of tlie pale 
of civilized society. People have left off be- 
ing angry with her, and begin to shrug up 
their shoulders and say its her way, a species 
of placability which only provokes her the 
more. For my part, I have too great a desire 
to obtain her good opinion to think of treating 
her in so shabby a manner ; and as it is mor- 
ally certain that we shall never be friends 
whilst we visit, I intend to try the effect of 
non-intercourse, and to brpak with her ouf- 
ri<rht. If she reads this article, which is very 
likely, for she is addicted to new publications, 
and thinks herself injured if a book be put 
into her hands with the leaves cut, — if she 
reads only half a page she will inevitably 
have done with me for ever. If not, there can 
hardly be any lack of a sufllcient quarrel in 
her company ; and then, when we have ceased 
to speak or to curtsy, and fairly sent each other 
to Coventry, there can be no reason why we 
should not be on as civil terms as if the one 
lived at Calcutta, and the other at New York. 



JACK HATCH. 



93 



JACK HATCH. 

I PIQUE myself on knowing by sight, and 
by name, almost every man and boy in our 
parish, from eight years old to eighty — I can- 
not say quite so much for the women. They 
— the elder of them at least — are more within 
doors, more hidden. One does not meet them 
in the fields and highways ; their duties are 
close housekeepers, and live under cover. The 
girls, to be sure, are often enough in sight, 
" true creatures of the element," basking in 
the sun, racing in the wind, rolling in the dust, 
dabbling in the water, — hardier, dirtier, noisier, 
more sturdy defiers of heat and cold, and 
wet, than boys themselves. One sees them 
quite often enough to know them ; but then 
the little elves alter so much at every step of 
their approach to womanhood, that recognition 
becomes difficult, if not impossible. It is not 
merely growing, boys grow; — it is positive, 
perplexing and perpetual change : a butterfly 
hath not undergone more transmogrifications 
in its progress through life, than a village 
belle in her arrival at the age of seventeen. 

The first appearance of the little lass is 
something after the manner of a caterpillar, 
crawling and creeping upon the grass, set 
down to roll by some tired little nurse of an 
eldest sister, or mother with her hands full. 
There it lies — a fat, boneless, rosy piece of 
health, aspiring to the accomplishment of 
walking and talking; stretching out its chub- 
by limbs; scrambling and sprawling ; laugh- 
ing and roaring ; there it sits, in all the dig- 
nity of the baby, adorned in a pink-checked 
frock, a blue spotted pinafore, and a little 
white cap, tolerably clean, and quite whole. 
One is forced to ask if it be boy or girl ; for 
these hardy country rogues are all alike, open- 
eyed, and weather-stained, and nothing fear- 
ing. There is no more mark of sex in the 
countenance than in the dress. 

In the next stage, dirt-encrusted enough to 
pass for the crysalis, if it were not so very un- 
quiet, the gendor remains equally uncertain. 
It is a fine, stout, curly-pated creature of three 
or four, playing and rolling about, amongst 
grass or mud, all day long; shouting, jump- 
ing, screeching — the happiest compound of 
noise and idleness, rags and rebellion, that ever 
trod the earth. 

Then comes a sunburnt gipsy of six, begin- 
ning to grow tall and thin, and to find the 
cares of the world gathering about her ; with 
a pitcher in one hand, a mop in the other, an 
old straw bonnet of ambiguous shape, half 
hiding her tangled hair ; a tattered stutf petti- 
coat, once green, hanging below an equally 
tattered cotton frock, once purple ; her long- 
ing eyes fixed on a game of base-ball at the 
corner of the green, till she reaches the cottage 
door, flings down the mop and pitcher, and 
darts oflF to her companions, quite regardless 



of the storm of scolding with which the mo- 
ther follows her runaway steps. 

So the world wags till ten ; then the little 
damsel gets admission to the charity school, 
and trips mincingly thither every morning, 
dressed in the old-fashioned blue gown, and 
white cap, and tippet, and bib and apron of 
that primitive institution, looking as demure 
as a nun, and as tidy ; her thoughts fixed on 
button-holes, and spelling-books, those ensigns 
of promotion ; despising dirt and base-ball, 
and all their joys. 

Then at twelve, the little lass comes home 
again, uncapped, untippeted, unschooled; — 
brown as a berry, wild as a colt, busy as a 
bee — working in the fields, digging in the gar- 
den, frying rashers, boiling potatoes, shelling 
beans, darning stockings, nursing children, 
feeding pigs, — all these employments varied 
by occasional fits of romping, and flirting, and 
idle play, according as the nascent coquetry, 
or the lurking love of sport, happens to pre- 
ponderate; merry, and pretty, and good with all 
her little faults. It would be well if a country 
girl could stand at thirteen. Then she is 
charming. But the clock will move forward, 
and at fourteen she gets a service in a neigh- 
bouring town; and her next appearance is in 
the perfection of the butterfly state, fluttering, 
glittering, inconstant, vain, — the gayest and 
gaudiest insect that ever skimmed over a vil- 
lage green. And this is the true progress of 
a rustic beauty, the average lot of our country 
girls; so they spring up, flourish, change and 
disappear. Some indeed marry and fix amongst 
us, and then ensues another set of changes, 
rather more gradual, perhaps, but quite as 
sure, till grey hairs, wrinkles,and linsey-wool- 
sey, wind up the picture. 

All this is beside the purpose. If woman 
he a mutable creature, man is not. The wear- 
ers of smock frocks, in spite of the sameness 
of the uniform, are almost as easily distin- 
guished by an interested eye, as a flock of 
sheep by the shepherd, or a pack of hounds 
by the huntsman : or to come to less afl'ront- 
ing similes, the members of the House of 
Commons by the Speaker, or the gentlemen 
of the bar by the Lord Chief Justice. Tiiere 
is very little change in them from early boy- 
hood. "The child is father to the man" in 
more senses than one. There is a constancy 
about them ; they keep the same faces, how- 
ever ugly ; the same habits, however strange ; 
the same fashions however unfashionable ; 
they are in nothing new-fangled. Tom Coper, 
for instance, man and boy, is and has been ad- 
dicted to posies, — from the first polyanthus to 
the last China rose, he has always a nosegay 
in his button hole ; George Simmons may be 
known a mile off, by an eternal red waistcoat ; 
Jem Tanner, summer and winter, by the smart- 
est of all smart straw hats ; and Joel Brent, 
from the day that he left off petticoats, has al- 
ways, in every dress and every situation, look- 



94 



OUR VILLAGE. 



cd like a study for a painter — no mistakinof 
him. Yes ! I know every man and boy of 
note in the parish, with one exception, — one 
most signal exception, which " haunts and 
startles and waylays" me at every turn. I do 
not know, and I begin to fear that I never shall 
know .Tack Hatch. 

The first time I had occasion to hear of this 
worthy, was on a most melancholy occur- 
rence. We have lost — I do not like to talk 
about it, but I cannot tell my story without — 
we have lost a cricket match, been beaten, 
and soundly too, by the men of Beech-hill, a 
neighbouring parish. How this accident hap- 
pened, I cannot very well tell; the melancholy 
fact is sufficient. The men of Beech-hill, 
famous players, in whose families cricket is 
an hereditary accomplishment, challenged and 
beat us. After our defeat, we began to com- 
fort ourselves by endeavouring to discover 
how this misfortune could possibly have be- 
fallen. Every one that has ever had a cold, 
must have experienced the great consolation 
that is derived from puzzling out the particu- 
lar act of imprudence from which it sprang, 
and we on the same principle, found our af- 
fliction somewhat mitigated by the endeavour 
to trace it to its source. One laid the cata- 
strophe to the wind — a very common scape- 
goat in the catarrhal calamity — which had, as 
it were, played us booty, carrying our adver- 
sary's balls right and ours wrong; another 
laid it to a certain catch missed by Tom Wil- 
lis, by which means Farmer Thackum, the 
pride and glory of the Beech-hillers, had two 
innings ; a third to the aforesaid Thackum's 
remarkable manner of bowling, which is cir- 
cular, so to say, that is, after taking aim, he 
makes a sort of chassee on one side, before he 
delivers his ball, which pantomimic motion 
had a great effect on the nerves of our eleven, 
unused to such quadrilling; a fourth imputed 
our defeat to the over-civility of our umpire, 
George Gosseltine, a sleek, smooth, silky, 
soft-spoken person, who stood with his little 
wand under his arm, smiling through all our 
disasters — the very image of peace and good 
humour; whilst their umpire. Bob Coxe, a 
roystering, roaring, bullying blade, bounced, 
and hectored, and blustered from his wicket, 
with the voice of a twelve-pounder; the fifth 
assented to this opinion, with some extension, 
asserting that the universal impudence of their 
side took advantage of the meekness and mo- 
desty of ours, (N. B. it never occurred to our 
modesty, that they might be the best players) 
which flattering persuasion appeared likely to 
prevail, in fault of a better, when all on a sud- 
den, the true reason of our defeat seemed to 
burst at once from half a dozen voices, re- 
echoed like a chorus by all the others — "It 
was entirely owing to the want of Jack Hatch ! 
How could we think of playing without Jack 
Hatch !" 
This was the first I heard of him. My in- 



quiries as to this great player were received 
with utter astonishment. " Who is Jack 
Hatch 1" " Not know .lack Hatch !" There 
was no end to the wonder — " not to know him 
aro-ued myself unknown." "Jack Hatch — 
the best cricketer in the parish, in the county, 
in the country ! Jack Hatch, who had got 
seven notches at one hit ! Jack Hatch, who 
had trolled, and caught out a whole eleven ! 
Jack Hatch, who besides these marvellous 
gifts in cricket, was the best bowler and the 
best musician in the hundred, — could dance a 
hornpipe and a minuet, sing a whole song- 
book, bark like a dog, mew like a cat, crow 
like a cock, and go through Punch from be- 
ginning to end ! Not know Jack Hatch !" 

Half ashamed of my non-acquaintance with 
this admirable Crichton of rural accomplish- 
ments, I determined to find him out as soon 
as possible, and I have been looking for him 
more or less, ever since. 

The cricket-ground and the bowling-green 
were of course, the first places of search ; but 
he was always just gone, or not come, or he 
was there yesterday, or he is expected to-mor- 
row — a to-morrow which, as far as I am con- 
cerned, never arrives ; — the stars were against 
me. Then I directed my attention to his other 
acquirements ; and once followed a ballad- 
singer half a mile, who turned out to be a 
strapping woman in a man's great-coat; and 
another time pierced a whole mob of urchins 
to get at a capital Punch — when behold, it was 
the genuine man of puppets, the true squeak- 
ery, the " real Simon Pure," and Jack was as 
much to seek as ever. 

At last I thought that I had actually caught 
him, and on his own peculiar field, the cricket- 
ground. We abound in rustic fun, and good 
humour, and of course in nick-names. A 
certain senior of fifty, or thereabout, for in- 
stance, of very juvenile habits and inclina- 
tions, who plays at ball, and marbles, and 
cricket, with all the boys in the parish, and 
joins a kind merry buoyant heart to an aspect 
somewhat rough and care-worn, has no other 
appellation that ever I heard but " Uncle;" I 
don't think, if by any strange chance he were 
called by it, that he would know his own 
name. On the other hand, a little stunted 
pragmatical urchin, son and heir of Dick 
Jones, an absolute old man cut shorter, so 
slow, and stiff, and sturdy, and wordy, passes 
universally by tlie title of " Grandfather" — I 
have not the least notion that he would answer 
to Dick. Also a slim, grim-looking, white- 
headed lad, whose hair is bleached, and his 
skin browned by the sun, till he is as hideous 
as an Indian idol, goes, good lack ! by the pas- 
toral misnomer of the " Gentle Shepherd." 
Oh manes of Allan Ramsay ! the Gentle Shep- 
herd ! 

Another youth, regular at cricket, but never 
seen except then, of unknown parish, and 
parentage, and singular uncouthness of person, 



EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. 



95 



dress, and demeanour, rough as a badger, 
ragged as a colt, and sour as verjuice, was 
known, far more appropriate!}', by the cog- 
nomen of" Oddity;" Him, in ray secret soul,- 
T pitched on for Jack Hatch. In the first 
place, as I had in the one case a man without 
a name, and in the other a name without a 
man, to have found these component parts of 
individuality meet in the same person, to have 
made the man to fit the name, and the name 
fit the man, would have been as pretty a way 
of solving two enigmas at once, as hath been 
heard of since Qidipus his day. But besides 
the obvious convenience and suitability of this 
belief, I had divers other corroborating reasons. 
Oddity was young, so was Jack; — Oddity 
came uj) the hill from leaward, so must Jack; 
— Oddity was a capital cricketer, so vv'as Jack ; 
— Oddity did not play in our unlucky Beech- 
hill match, neither did Jack ; — and, last of all, 
Oddity's name was Jack, a fact I was fortunate 
enough to ascertain from a pretty damsel who 
walked up with him to the ground one even- 
ing, and who on seeing him bowl out Tom 
Coper, could not help exclaiming in a solilo- 
quy, as she stood a few yards behind us, 
looking on with all her heart, " Well done, 
Jack !" That moment built up all my hopes ; 
the next knocked them down. I thought I 
had clutched hinn, but willing to make assur- 
ance doubly sure, I turned to my pretty neigh- 
bour, (Jack Hatch too had a sweetheart) and 
said in a tone half affirmative, half interrog-a- 
tor}', "That young man who plays so well is 
Jack Hatch ?"— " No, ma'am. Jack Bolton !" 
and Jack Hatch remained still a sound, a 
name, a mockery. 

Well ! at last I ceased to look. for him, and 
might possibly have forgotten my curiosity, 
had not every week produced some circum- 
stance to relumine that active female passion. 

I seemed beset by his name, and his pre- 
sence, invisibly as it were. Will of the wisp 
is nothing to him; Puck, in that famous Mid- 
summer Dream, was a quiet goblin compared 
to Jack Hatch. He haunts one in dark places. 
The fiddler, whose merry tones come ringing 
across the orchard in a winter's night from 
Farmer White's barn, setting the whole village 
a dancing, is Jack Hatch. The whistler, who 
trudges homeward at dusk up Kibe's lanes, 
out-piping the nightingale, in her own month 
of May, is Jack Hatch. And the indefatigable 
learner of the bassoon, whose drone, all last 
harvest, might be heard in the twilight, issu- 
ing from the sexton's dwelling on the Little 
Lea, " making night hideous," that iniquitous 
practiser is Jack Hatch. 

The name meets me all manner of ways. I 
have seen it in the newspaper for a prize of 
pinks ; and on the back of a warrant on the 
charge of poaching; — N. B., the constable 
had my luck, and could not find the culprit, 
otherwise I might have had some chance of 
seeing him on that occasion. Things the 



most remote and discrepant issue in Jack 
Hatch. He caught Dame Wheeler's squirrel ; 
the Magpie at the Rose owes to him the half 
dozen phrases with which he astounds and 
delights the passers-by; the very dog Tero, 
— an animal of singular habits, who sojourns 
occasionally at half the houses in the village, 
making each his home till he is affronted — 
Tero himself, best and ugliest of finders — a 
mongrel compounded of terrier, cur, and 
spaniel — Tero, most remarkable of ugly dogs, 
inasmuch as he constantly squints, and com- 
monly goes on three legs, holding up first 
one, and then the other, out of a sort of quad- 
rupedal economy to ease those useful mem- 
bers — Tero himself is said to belong of right 
and origin to Jack Hatch. 

Every where that name meets me. 'Twas 
but a few weeks ago that I heard him asked 
in church, and a day or two afterwards T saw 
the tail of the wedding procession, the little 
lame clerk handing the bridemaid, and a girl 
from the Rose running after them with pipes, 
passing by our house. Nay, this very morn- 
ing, some one was speaking — Dead ! what 
dead 1 Jack Hatch dead ] — a name, a shadow, 
a Jack o' lantern ! Can Jack Hatch die ] Hath 
he the property of mortality'? Can the bell 
toll for him 1 Yes ! there is the coffin and the 
pall — all that I shall ever see of him is there ! 
— There are his comrades following in decent 
sorrow — and the poor pretty bride, leaning on 
the little clerk — My search is over — Jack 
Hatch is dead ! 



EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. 

MY SCHOOL-FELLOWS. 

"Five pupils were my stint, the other 
I took to compliment his mother." 

Pleader's Guide. 

All the world knows what a limited num- 
ber of pupils means ; our stint was twenty ; 
and really, considering the temptations of great 
girls, very great girls, too old to learn, as par- 
lour-boarders ; and little jrirls, very little girls, 
too young to learn, as pets, we kept to it vastly 
well. We were not often more than thirty ; 
principally because the house would not, with 
a proper regard to health and accommodation 
— points never forgotten by our excellent-in- 
tentioned governess — conveniently contain a 
greater number. If the next house could have 
been procured, we should soon have increased 
to fifty; and. indeed, might have gone on gra- 
dually multiplying till we had travelled half 
round the square: for Mrs. S. had always a 
difliculty in saying no — that ugliest of mono- 
syllables — and the task was not rendered easier 
when she was beset by the mingled tempta^ 
tions of interest, flattery, and aflfection. It 



96 



OUR VILLAGE. 



was best as it was ; we were quite enough, 
even thouoh, early in my abode, a lucky ac- 
cident incident to the state ridded us of those 
anomalous personages, the parlour-boarders. 

An old pupil ha%'ing arrived at the presenta- 
tion age, seventeen, and her guardians not 
knowing exactly what to do with her, she 
was continued in H. P. upon that footing. I 
shall never forget the difference that one day 
made in this fair damsel. Translated on a 
sudden from the school-room to the drawing- 
room ! preferred at once over the heads of her 
fellows ! I never saw such a change. Per- 
haps zparvenu of the French Revolution might 
be something like it, or a boy officer in his 
first regimentals, or a knight of the last edi- 
tion, or an author the night of a successful 
play, or a court beauty in her birth-day plumes, 
or any other shuttlecock pate, giddy with hap- 
piness and vanity. She was no worse, poor 
thing, than most girls of seventeen oreigliteen; 
that transition state when learning is laid aside 
and knowledge not come; she was ostenta- 
tiously idle always, and affrontingly gracious, 
or astoundingly impertinent by fits and starts 
— patronised one day and forgot the next. 
No IM. P. freshly elected for an independent 
borough, ever experienced a more sudden loss 
of memory. There was nothing remarkable 
in this : but unluckily nature never intended 
our ^oox parvenue for a lady of consequence. 
She was born to be a child all her days ! and, 
which v/as much worse, to look like one; — 
the most insignificant little fair-haired girl that 
ever lived. Dress did nothing for her; her 
very milliner gave her up in despair. Gowns 
turned into frocks when tied round her slim 
straight waist ; — caps, turbans, feathers, muffs, 
all artificial means of giving age, and size, 
and importance, failed in this unfortunate case. 
Never did a faded beauty take so much pains 
to look like a girl, as she did to look like a 
woman. I believe that she would have con- 
sented to be dressed like her grandmother, if 
it would have made her seem as old. But all 
was in vain ; time only could cure her obsti- 
nate youlhfulness of form and expression, and 
time travelled rather slower with the idle girl 
than he had been used to do with the busy 
one ; so that, after a few days' display of her 
gay plumage, she wearied of her airs and her 
finery, and withdrew as much as possible from 
her old companions, to partake of the larger 
society and more varied amusements amongst 
which she began to be introduced. Three 
months after, she reappeared in the school- 
room quite a diflferent creature, absent, pen- 
sive, languishing, silly beyond her usual silli- 
ness, and in great want of a sympathising 
friend. She soon found one of course ; every 
"Tilburina, mad in white satin," may make 
sure of a " confidante mad in white dimity." 
She soon found a friend, a tall, sleepy-eyed 
girl, as simple as herself — and then the closet- 
ings, the note-writings, the whisperings, the 



mystery, the importance ! The whole school 
was on tiptoe to find out the secret, and the 
confidante was in great danger of telling, 
when, luckily for her reputation, the secret 
told itself. One fine niuht, when the moon 
shone brightly, the fair Tilburina set off for 
Gretna Green. After this we had no more 
parlour-boarders. 

But although we had no more parlour- 
boarders, we were fertile in great girls, — 
young ladies sent from the country for " im- 
provement," as the milliners say, who, after 
a seven years' apprenticeship in some provin- 
cial fashion-shop, come up to the capital to be 
finished : (alas ! they generally found that they 
had to begin) — or the desperately naughty and 
the hopelessly dull, banished from home to be 
out of the way, and to try what school would 
do; — or the luckless daughters of the newly 
wealtiiy, on whom the magic air of a London 
seminary was expected to work as sudden a 
transformation as the wand of Cinderella's 
fairy godmother. They were the most to be 
pitied. How often, during the fiery ordeal of 
the first half-year, they must have wished 
themselves poor again ! — The most interest- 
ing of these unfortunate rich people were three 
sisters from Orkney, the youngest past sixteen, 
whose mother had unexpectedly succeeded to 
the large inheritance of an Indian cousin. 
They were gentlewomen born and bred, these 
Minnas and Brendas of the Shetland islands, 
though as wild and unformed and as much 
used to liberty as their country ponies. Un- 
accomplished they were of course, but they 
could never have been thought ignorant any 
where but in a London school. The mistake 
lay in sending them there, amongst a tribe of 
little pedants, with all the scaffolding of learn- 
ing about them. The eldest bore the transi- 
tion pretty well. She had health too delicate 
to enjoy in all its license her natural freedom; 
and had lived two or three years with an aunt 
in Edinburgh, so that she was become in a 
manner reconciled to civilization ; beside she 
had a natural taste for elegance and refine- 
ment, and gave her whole attention and free 
will to the difficult task of beginning at twenty 
to conquer the rudiments of French and Italian, 
and music and drawing. The second sister 
weathered the storm almost equally well, 
though in a different manner. She was so 
overflowing with health and spirits, so fear- 
less and uncaring, so good humouredly open 
in confessing her deficiencies, and so wisely 
regardless of lectures "and exhortations, that 
she won her way through the turmoil of les- 
sons and masters, without losing an atom of 
her hardihood and buoyancy. To be sure she 
learned nothing ; but there was no great harm 
in that. — Tier youngest sister was not so for- 
tunate — Oh, that charming sister Anne ! They 
were all fine tall young women, but Anne was 
something more. I never saw any thing so 
lovely as her bright blooming complexion, her 



EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. 



97 



glittering blue eyes, and her light agile form, 
when in some cold windy morning that re- 
minded her of Orkney, she would bound across 
the garden, with her hat in her hand, and her 
brown curling hair about her shoulders, for- 
getting in the momentary enjoyment, where 
she was and all around her. That blessed 
oblivion could not last long; and then came 
the unconquerable misery of shame and fear 
and shyness, a physical want of liberty and 
fresh air, and a passionate and hopeless long- 
ing for her early home. She pined and with- 
ered away like a wild bird in a cage, or a 
hardy mountain plant in a hot-house ; and 
without any definite complaint, was literally 
dying under the united influence of confine- 
ment, and smoke, and the French grammar. — 
They carried her into the country, first to Rich- 
mond, then to Windsor Forest; but trees and 
quiet waters had no power over her associa- 
tions. They talked of a journey to Italy, — 
that was worse still ; she loathed the " sweet 
breath of the south." At last they were wiser ; 
they took her home : and the sweet Anne, re- 
stored to her old habits and her own dear 
island, recovered. Nothing else could have 
saved her. 

A complete contrast to these fair Zetlanders 
might be found in another triad of sisters, old 
settlers in H. P., — short, dark, lively girls, 
who knew the school as men are sometimes 
said to know the town, and knew nothing else ; 
were clever there and there only. Their fa- 
ther, a widower and a man of business, sent 
them from home mere infants, and, providing 
kindly and carefully for their improvement 
and comfort, seldom sought to be pleased or 
troubled with their company. This was no 
hardship to these stirring spirits, who loved 
the busy stage on which they played such ca- 
pital parts, foremost everywhere, especially 
in mischief, first to be praised and last to be 
found out. They were as nearly alike in age 
and stature, as three sisters born at three dif- 
ferent times, well could be, — any two of them 
might have passed for twins ; and having in 
common a certain readiness of apprehension, 
a quickness of memory, and an extraordinary 
pliability of temper, as well as the brown 
complexion, the trim small figure and quick 
black eye, they usually passed for fac-similes 
of one another in mind and person. There 
were differences, however, in both. Catha- 
rine, the eldest, was by far the most perfact 
specimen of school craft. She was a manoju- 
vrer such as it did one good to see ; got places 
and prizes nobody knew how ; escaped by a 
miracle from all scrapes ; was a favourite at 
once with the French teacher and the English ; 
was idle, yet cited for industry ; naughty, yet 
held up as a pattern of good conduct; tho- 
roughly selfish, and yet not disliked. She 
was, in short, a perfect stateswonian ; wound 
the whole school round her finger ; and want- 
ed nothinij of art but the art to conceal it. 



N 



Even that point she might have compassed, 
had not her features and voice stood in her 
way — a lurking slyness in her smile and eye, 
and a sort of falsetto tone in her speech. But 
she did no harm, and meant none. She drove 
straight to her objects, but she took care not I 
to overset the passers-by. Charlotte, the next ! 
sister, was not content with this negative 
merit; she had all the address of her elder- 
born, and made a more generous use of it; 
got praises and prizes for herself, and par4ons | 
and holidays for all the world. Hers was j 
real popularity — nobody could help loving j 
Charlotte. She was like Catharine, too; but, 
it was such a pretty likeness, with her laugh- 
ing gipsy face, and her irresistible power of 1 
amusing. She was a most successful and 
daring mimic, made no scruple of taking peo- 1 
pie off to their faces, and would march out of i 
the room after Mrs. S * * *, or poor Madame, 
with the most perfect and ludicrous imitation : 
of the slow measured step of the one, and the 
mincing trip of the other, the very moment 
after she had coaxed them out of some favour. 
Nevertheless, we all loved Charlotte; besides 
her delightful good humour, she used her in- 
fluence so kindly, and was sure to take the 
weaker side. We all loved Charlotte. Jane, 
la cadetie, more resembled Catharine, only her 
ambition was of a lower flight. She was a 
cautious diplomatist, and aimed less at success 
than at safety, had a small quiet party amongst 
the younger fry, was the pet of the house- 
maids, and won her way by little attentions, 
— by mending gloves, making pincushions, 
drawing patterns, and running on errands, in 
which last accomplishment she had an alert- 
ness so surprising, that Madame used to say 
she dazzled her eyes. In spite of her oblig- 
ingness, nobody thought of loving Miss Jane ; 
but she got on astonishingly well without it, 
and managed her wisers and betters by falling 
in with their ways. 

All our sisters were not so much alike. 
One pair was strikingly diflTerent. The eldest, 
the favourite of a very silly mother, was a 
beauty, poor child, and subject to all the dis- 
cipline which growing beauties are fated to 
endure. Oh the lacing, the bracing, the bon- 
neting, the veiling, the gloving, the staying 
within for fear of sun or wind or frost or fog ! 
Her mamma would fain have had her wear a 
mask to preserve her complexion, and so much 
dreaded the sweet touch of the air, that her 
poor victim seldom got out of doors, and had 
little other exercise than dancing and the 
dumb-bells. I am sure she would" have given 
" all the worlds that people ever have to give," 
to be plain. Morally speaking, perhaps it was 
well for her that beauty should come in the 
shape of so disagreeable a consciousness ; it 
effectually preserved her from vanity. She 
was a most genuine, kind-hearted, natural 
girl, thoroughly free from conceit or preten- 
sion of any kind. Her sister Julia had enough 



OUR VILLAGE. 



for both. Miss Julia was the pet of a father, 
who was, though in a different line, quite as 
silly as his wife ; and having a tolerable me- 
mory, a plodding spirit of application, and an 
unbounded appetite for applause, was in train- 
ing for a learned lady, a blue stocking in em- 
bryo. What an insufferable little pedant it 
was, with its studies and its masters, more in 
number than the instructors of the bourgeois 
genlilhomme, its dictionaries of arts and sci- 
ences, and its languages without end ! Words ! 
words ! words ! nothing but words ! One idea 
would have put her out. It was a pity, too, 
for she was a good-natured and well-meaning 
person, only so grave and dull and formal. 
However precious her learning might have 
been, "Me would have bought it dearly, for it 
cost her her youthfulness, — at thirteen she 
was old. Neither did this incessant diligence 
tell as one might have expected with her mas- 
ters ; they praised her of course, and held her 
up as an example to the clever and the idle; 
but I don't think they would have been much 
charmed to have had many such pupils. Cer- 
tainly she was the least in the world of a 
goose ; always troublesome in asking stupid 
questions, and more troublesome still in not 
understanding the answers. Once, indeed, she 
made a grand display of science anxl erudition. 
Mr. Walker came to give us a course of lec- 
tures, and Miss .Tulia pulled out a little square 
red book, and made notes — notes in a sort of 
hieroglyphic, which she was pleased to call 
short-hand; incomprehensible notes — notes 
that may sometimes have been paralleled since 
at the Royal Institution, but which nobody 
had ever dreamed of in our school. Oh ! the 
glory of those pot-hooks and hangers ! As if 
purposely to enhance her reputation, one of 
her class-fellows, who was in a careless idle 
way something of a rival to Miss Julia, hap- 
pened to be an egregious coward, hated guns 
and gunpowder, squibs and crackers, and all 
those iniquitous shocks and noises which are 
at once sudden and unexpected. She had 
sitten out, with grief and pain, by help of 
ducking her head, shutting her eyes, and put- 
ting her fingers in her ears, two or three pop- 
gun lectures on chemistry and mechanics : but 
when the electricity came, she could bear it 
no longer: she fairly ran away, escaped un- 
perceived in the melee, and esconoed herself 
under her own bed, where she might have re- 
mained undetected till doomsday, had not the 
unforeseen vigour of a cleanly housemaid, fresii 
from the country, fairly unearthed her, actually 
swept her out. Think, what a contrast ! What 
a triumph ! Courage, and short-hand notes 
of lectures, on the one side ; cowardice, igno- 
rance, and running away on the other I Miss 
Julia was never so tall in her life. The eclat 
of the little square book even consoled her, 
when, in the week after this adventure, a prize, 
for which she had been trying all the half- 
year, was wrested from her by the runaway. 



Besides the usual complement of languid 
EasLlndians, and ardent Creoles, we had our 
full share of foreigners. Of one charming 
Italian girl, much older than myself, I remem- 
ber little hut the sweet sighing voice, the 
graceful motions, and the fine air of the head. 
I always tiiink of her when I look at the Car- 
toons; — Raphael must have studied from sijch 
women. She left school shortly after my ar- 
rival there, and was succeeded by an exqui- 
sitely pretty Anglo-Portuguese, whom, from 
her name, her aversion to roast pig — stranfje 
antipathy ! — and her regularly spending Satur- 
day at home, we suspected (for it was not 
avowed) to be a Jewess. Be that as it may, 
she was the most splendid piece of natural 
colouring that ever I beheld. An ivory com- 
plexion, with cheeks and lips like damask 
roses, black laughing eyes with long silky 
lashes, and rich clusters of black curls parting 
on her white brow. She was beauty itself. 
She soon went away too ; and then came the 
daughter of a crack-brained Austrian Baron, 
straight from Vienna. There was nothing re- 
markable in her face or person, except the 
tender expression of her large blue eyes: yet 
she was peculiar from her foreign dress and 
manner, and her ignorance of all languages 
save her native German, and so much Italian 
as might help her through the most ordinary 
wants and duties of the day. Above all, she 
was interesting from her gentleness, her mel- 
ancholy, and her early and disastrous fate. 
She died suddenly during the summer holi- 
daj'S. How many young hearts grieved for 
her, even amid the joys of home ; and how we 
missed her sweet patient looks, her few words 
— all words of kindness, it seemed as if she 
could learn no other — when we returned! 
We were not wise to grieve ; her short life 
had been a life of sorrow, and the grave was 
her best resting-place. It is not wise — but 
still, after a lapse of twenty years, it saddens 
me to think of her death. And tliere is an- 
other, and a far dearer school-fellow, a for- 
eigner, too, of whom I think almost as sadly ; 
for we are parted by such distance, that even 
now as I write I know not if she be alive or 
dead. I speak of the young countess C, sent 
from Russia for the advantage of an English 
education, began under a private governess, 
and concluded with us. She resembled the 
Greek drama in her pure and harmonious 
bftmty; and the gentle dignity of Irer manner 
sustained the inipression. Every body ad- 
mired her, though only one dared to love her; 
and the repaying that love by the most con- | 
stant and cordial affection allowed not much; 
intercourse beyond a general kindness and 
good-will with the rest of our little world. 
In truth, she had no time for intimacies; she 
had a hunger and a thirst for knowledge, such 
as I have never seen equalled ; knowledge of 
all sorts and degrees, from the most trifling 
womanly occupations — making gum-seals, 



EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. 



99 



imitating cameos, working; frills, up to the 
severest manly studies, mathematics, and the 
classics. I never saw any one so universally 
accomplished. Music, though she played well 
on many instruments, was perhaps the least 
striking of her acquirements; drawing and 
lansjuages the most so. Her English espe- 
cially was enchanting; you could just distin- 
guish her from a native by an originality, a 
raciness, a floating grace, like that which per- 
vades the letters of Mrs. Klopstock. Oh ! 
what a charming creature she was ! How 
thoroughly free from vanity and self-conceit ! 
her industry was astonishing: she used to 
apologise for it sometimes, as I sate by her 
side doing nothing. " Really," she would 
say, " she could not help it !" — as if her dili- 
gence had been a f\\ult, and my idleness a 
virtue. The dear, dear Sophia ! parting- from 
her was my first sorrow. 

Last on our roll of foreigners, came two 
French girls : one of them merely a fair speci- 
men of her pleasant nation — sprightly, good- 
humoured, amusing, and plain: the other a 
person of some note in this chropicle, being — 
and it is saying much — beyond all manner of 
competition the greatest dunce in the school. 

Zenobie de M had lost both her parents 

in the Revolution, and was under the care of 
an aunt, splendidly married, and living in Lon- 
don, in the very first world. She was a fine, 
striking, fashionable-looking girl, in the French 
style of beauty; rather large-boned, angular 
and high-shouldered ; but so light, erect, and 
agile, that the very defects of her figure seemed 
graces. Her face, though that too told her 
country, was pretty, in spite of a wide mouth 
and a cocked-up nose : pretty from its spark- 
ling expression — all smiles, and blushes, and 
animation : so were her manners. We had 
not a more agreeable and intelligent girl in 
the house; bow she could contrive to be a 
dunce I cannot imagine — but a dunce she was, 
in the most comprehensive sense of that ill- 
omened word. She could not spell two syl- 
lables in any language, could scarcely write 
her name, could not cast up three figures, 
could not construe the simplest sentence, could 
not read the notes in music, never could, and 
never did, learn the catechism. This seems 
incredible on recollection, and it seemed more 
so at the moment. Nothing but a school 
could have brought the fact fully out ; ^d 
even with the proofs hourly before our eyes, 
we could not help thinking sometimes that we 
must have done her injustice. Her ingenuity 
in evading the pains and penalties of duncical- 
ness was very great. She had a dexterous 
way of excusing any error in speech, by plead- 
ing her English education for a French fault, 
or her French birth for a mistake in English; 



so that she claimed to speak both languages 
with the allowance of a foreigner. She spoke 
them, as she played the piano, entirely by ear, 
with great elegance, but incorrectly. In all 
sports, or light accomplishments, she was un- 
rivalled. Skipping-ropes and battledores, and 
tambourines, and castanets, in her graceful 
hands, were her own delight, and the delight 
of all beholders. But the triumph of triumphs 
for Zenobie was dancing-day ; to see her, and 
her countryman the dancing-master — he teach- 
ing, and she executing, such pirouettes and 
entrechats as none but French heels could 
achieve — both looking down with a very visi- 
ble contempt on " English awkwardness with 
two left legs." Those Mondays and Wednes- 
days must pretty well have compensated for 
the mortifications of the rest of the week ; and 
she needed some compensation : for, with all 
the splendour of her home, and the elegance 
of her appearance, it was evident that she was 
neglected. The mother's heart and the mo- 
ther's eye were wanting ; you might tell that 
she was an orphan. She abounded in trinkets 
and nicknacks, and fashionable frippery ; but 
no comforts, no indulgences, no garden-bon- 
net, no warm pelisse, no cakes or fruit, no 
shillings oj half-crowns, no consideration for 
her gentlewomanljr spirit ! I never shall for- 
get the generous pleasure with which she 
shared half a dozen oranges — the rare present 
of some titled friend — between those, who 
from ha])pier circumstances had been enabled 
to be kind to her. Oh ! she was very deso- 
late, very forlorn ! How often, when we were 
going home for the holidays, with smiling 
mothers and fathers, so impatient that they 
would scarcely allow time for an adieu, I have 
seen her black eyes full of tears as she antici- 
pated the hours, or days, or weeks, that she 
must wait till an insolent waiting-maid should 
have leisure or will to remember her. Poor 
Zenobie ! she left us suddenly to return to 
Paris with her aunt. The last time I heard 
of her she was a celebrated beauty at the court 
of Napoleon. I don't know what has become 
of her since the change of dynasty, but I hope 
she is about the court still — it is just what she 
is fit for; she was made for feathers and long- 
trains, and smiling, and graciousness, and 
dancing, and small-talk; she ought to be at 
court; a court life would so become her; and 
she would become it like a diamond necklace, 
polished and glittering and precious alike from 
the fashion and the material. I hope she is 
still at court. 

We are now fairly at the end of our foreign 
list. There are two or three more British 
worthies for whom we must find a niche in 
another place, along with our English teacher 
and our authorised play. 



100 



OUR VILLAGE, 



WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. 

THE WOOD. 



April 20th. — Spring is actually come now, 
with the fulness and almost the suddenne:5s 
of a northern summer. To-day is completely 
April ; — clouds and sunshine, wind and show- 
ers; hlossoms on the trees, {rrass in the fields, 
swallows by the ponds, snakes in the hedcre- 
rows, ni!2;htingales in the thickets, and cuckoos 
every where. My young friend Ellen G. is 
going with me this evening to gather wood 
sorrel. She never saw that most elegant plant, 
and is so delicate an artist that the introduc- 
tion will be a mutual benefit; Ellen will gain 
a subject worthy of her pencil, and the pretty 
weed will live ; — no small favour to a flower, 
almost as transitory as the gum cistus ; dura- 
tion is the only charm which it wants, and 
that Ellen will give it. The weather is, to 
be sure, a little threatening, but we are not 
people to mind the weather when we have an 
object in view; we shall certainly go in quest 
of the wood-sorrel, and will take May, pro- 
vided we can escape May's follower; for, 
since the adventure of the lamb, Saladin has 
had an affair with a gander, furious in de- 
fence of his goslings, in which rencontre the 
gander came off conqueror; and as geese 
abound in the wood to which we are going 
(called by the country people the Pinge,) and 
the victory may not always incline to the right 
side, I should be very sorry to lead the Sol- 
dan to fight his battles over again. We will 
take nobody but May. 

So saying, we proceeded on our way through 
winding lanes, between hedge-rows tenderly 
green, till we reached the hatch-gate, with the 
white cottage beside it embosomed in fruit- 
trees, which forms the entrance to the Pinge, 
and in a moment the whole scene was before 
our eyes. 

" Is not this beautiful, Ellen 1" The answer 
could hardly be other than a glowing rapid 
" Yes !" — A wood is generally a pretty place ; 
but this wood — Imagine a smaller forest, full 
of glades and sheep-walks, surrounded by ir 
regular cottages with their blooming orchards, 
a clear stream winding about the brakes, and 
a rovid intersecting it, and giving life and light 
to the picture; and you will have a faint idea 
of the Pinge. Every step was opening a 
new point of view, a fresh combination of 
glade and path and thicket. The accessories 
too were changing every moment. Ducks, 
geese, pigs, and children, giving way, as we 
advanced into the wood, to sheep and forest 
ponies; and they again disaj.pearing as we 
became more entangled in its mazes, till we 
heard nothing but the song of the nightingale, 
and saw only the silent flowers. 

What a piece of fairy land ! The tall elms 
overhead just bursting into tender vivid leaf, 
with here and there a hoary oak or a silver- 



barked beech, every twig swelling with the 
brown buds, and yet not quite stripped of the 
tawny foliage of Autumn ; tall hollies and 
hawthorn beneath, with their crisp brilliant 
leaves mixed with the white blossoms of the 
sloe, and woven together with garlands of 
woodbines and wild briars; — what a fairy 
land ! 

Primroses, cowslips, pansies, and the re- 
gular open-eyed white blossom of the wood 
anemone (or to use the more elegant Hamp- 
shire name, the windflower) were set under 
our feet as thick as daisies in a meadow ; but 
the pretty weed we came to seek was coyer ; 
and Ellen began to fear that we had mistaken 
the place or the season. — At last she had her- 
self the pleasure of finding it under a brake of 
holly — " Oh look ! look! I am sure that this 
is the wood-sorrel ! Look at the pendent white 
flower, shaped like a snow-drop and veined 
with purple streaks, and the beautiful trefoil 
leaves folded like a heart, — some, the young 
ones, so vividly yet tenderly green that the 
foliage of the elm and the hawthorn would 
show dully at their side, — others of a deeper 
tint, and lined, as it were, with a rich and 
changeful purple! — Don't you see them]" 
pursued my dear young friend, who is a de- 
lightful piece of life and sunshine, and was 
half inclined to scold me for the calmness 
with M'hich, amused by her enthusiasm, I 
stood listening to her ardent exclamations — 
"Don't you see them] Oh how beautiful! 
and in what quantity ! what profusior. ' See 
how the dark shade of the holly sets off the 
light and delicate colouring of the flower ! — 
And see that other bed of them springing 
from the rich moss in the roots of that old 
beech tree ! Pray let us gather some. Here 
are baskets." So quickly and carefully we 
began gathering, leaves, blossoms, roots and 
all, for the plant is so fragile that it will not 
brook separation ! — quickly and carefully we 
gathered, encountering divers petty misfor- 
tunes in spite of all our care, now caught by 
the veil in a holly bush, now hitching our 
shawls in a bramble, still gathering on, in 
spite of scratched fingers, till we had nearl}'' 
filled our baskets and began to talk of our de- 
parture : — 

" But where is May ] May ! May ! No 
going home without her. May ! Here she 
comes galloping, the beauty !" — (Ellen is al- 
most as fond of May as I am.) — " What has 
she got in her mouth ] that rough, round, 
brown substance which she touches so ten- 
derly! What can it be ! A bird's nest? 
Naughty May !" 

" No ! as I live, a hedgehog ! Look, Ellen, 
how it has coiled itself into a thorny ball ! 

Off with it May ! Don't bring it to me !" 

And May, somewhat reluctant to nart with 
her prickly prize, however troublesome of car- 
riatre, whose change of shape seemed to me 
to have puzzled her sagacity more than any 



THE VICAR'S MAID, 



101 



event I ever witnessed, for in grpneral she has i man thrown as he grave the final stroke round 
perfectly the air of understandintr all that is the root; and how wonderful is the effect of 
oroinir forward — May at last dropt the hedje- that supple and apparently powerless saw, 
hocrf continuing however to pat it with her hending like a riband, and yet overmastering 
delicate cat-like" paw, cautiously and daintily that giant of the woods, conrjueriiig and over- 
applied, and caught back suddenly and rapid- throwing that thing of life ! Now it has passed 
ly after every touch, as if her poor captive had half through tlie trunk, and the woodman has 
been a red-hot coal. Finding that these pats begun to calculate which way the tree will 
entirely failed in solving the riddle, (for the fall ; he drives a wedsje to direct its course; 
hedgrehog shammed de<Ki, like tlie lamb the — now a few more movements of the noiseless 
otiiel- day, and appeared entirely motionless), saw; and then a lar<jer wedge. See how the . 
she gave him so spirited a nudge with her [ branches tremble ! Hark how the trunk i)egins , 
pretty black nose, that she not only turned j to crack"! Another stroke of the huge hammer ; 
him over, but sent him rolling some little way ] on the wedge, and the tree quivers, as with a | 
along the turfy path, — an operation which mortal agony, shakes, reels, and falls. How 
that^sairacious quadruped endured with the slow and solemn and awfuMt is ! How like 
most perfect passiveness, the most admirable to death, to human death in its grandest form ! 1 
non-resistance. No wonder that May's dis- . Ca?sar in the Capitol, Seneca in the bath, 
cernment was at fault: I myself, if I had not { could not fall more sublimely than that o-ik. 
been aware of the trick, should have said that | Even the heavens seem to syirifiathise with 
the ugly rough thing which she was trundling 1 the devastation. The clouds have gathered 
aloncr^ like a bowl or a cricket-ball, was an , into one thick low canopy, dark and vapoury 



inanimate substance, something devoid of sen- 
sation and of will. At last my poor pet tho- 
roughly perplexed and tired out, fairly relin- 
quished the contest, and came slowly away, 
turning back once or twice to look at the ob- 
ject of her curiosity, as if half inclined to re- 
turn and try the event of another shove. The 
sudden flight of a wood-pigeon effectually di- 
verted her attention; and Ellen amused her- 
self by fancying how the hedgehog was scut- 
tling away, till our notice was also attracted 
by a very different object. 

We had nearly threaded the wood, and were 
approaching an open grove of magnificent 
oaks on the other side, when sounds other 
than of nightingales burst on our ear, the deep 
and frequent strokes of the woodman's axe, 
and emersfing from the Pinge we discover the 
havoc which that axe had committed. About 
twenty of the finest trees lay stretched on the 
velvet turf. There they lay in every shape 
and form of devastation : some, hare trunks 
stripped ready for the timber carriage, with 
the bark built up in long piles at the side; 
some with the spoilers busy about them, 
stripping, hacking, hewing; others with their 
noble branches, their brown and fragrant 
shoots all fresh as if they were alive — ma- 
jestic corses, the slain of to-day ! The grove 
was like a field of battle. The young lads 
who were stripping the bark, the very children 
who were picking up the chips, seemed awed 
and silent, as if conscious that death was 
around them. The nightingales sang faintly 
ai.d interruptedly — a few low frightened notes 
like a requiem. 

Ah ! here we are at the very scene of mur- 
der, the very tree that they are felling: they 
have just hewn round the trunk with those 
slaughtering axes, and are about to saw it 
asunder. After all it is a fine and thrilling 
operation, as the work of death usually is. 
Into how grand an attitude was that young 

9* 



as the smoke which overhangs London ; the 
settincr sun just gleaming underneath with a 
dim and bloody glare, and the crimson rays 
spreading upwards with a lurid and portentous 
grandeur, a subdued and dusky glow, like the 
light reflected on the sky from some vast con- 
flagration. The deep flush fades away, and 
the rain begins to descend ; and we hurry 
homeward rapidly yet sadly, forgetful alike 
of the flowers, the hedgehog, and the wetting, 
thinking and talking only of the fallen tree. 



THE VICAR'S MAID. 

About three years ago, our neighbouring 
village, the little hamlet of Aberleigh. receiv- 
ed one of the greatest blessings which can 
befall a country parish, in the shape of an 
active, pious, and benevolent Vicar. Chaucer 
shall describe him for me, for I prefer the real 
words of the old poet, to the more elaborate 
and ornamented version of Dryden : 

"A good man ther v»as of relipioim 
That was a poure parsone oCa loiin ; 
But riche he was o( holy thought, and werk; 
He was also a leined man, a clerk, 
That Cristes gospel Irewely wolde prech; 
His parishens devoutly wolde he teche ; 
Benigne he was and wonder dihgent 
And in adversile ful patient; 
And swiclie he was yproved often sithes 
Fid loth were him to ciirsen for his tithes, 
But rather wolde he geven out of doute 
L'Tito his poure parishens aboute 
Of his ofTring, and eke of his substance; 
He conde in litel thing have sufllsance. 
Wide was his parish, and houses ier asonder, 
But he ne left nought for no rain ne thonder 
In sikeness and in mischief to visile 
Tlie feuest in his parish moche, and lite 
Upon his fete, and in his hand a staff: 
This noble ensample to his shepe he yaf. 



102 



OUR VILLAGE. 



That firs! he wrought and afterward he taught; 

Out nflhe gospel he the wordes caught. — 

And lliough Up. holy were, and vertuous, 

He was to sini'ul men not dispitous ; 

jSIe of his spociie dangerous ne digne, 

But in his tecliing discrele and benigne. 

To drawen folk lo heven with fairnesse, 

By good ensample was his bnsinesse; 

But it' were any persone obstinat, 

\\'hal so he were of highe or low eslat, 

liiu) woide he suibben sharply for the nones. 

A better preest I trowe thai no wher non is, 

Ffe waited afic-r no pompe ne reverence, 

A'e maked him no spiced conscience; 

But Cristes lore aiid his aposlles tv\elve 

He taught, but first he folwed it hirnselve." 

Prologue to the Canterbury Tales. 

8uch was Mr. Mansfield. And he broufjht 
to Aberleiffh a still greater blessing than the 
Roman Catholic Priest of Chaucer could do, 
(although, by the way, the old bard was a 
follower of Wickliffe, the herald of the Re- 
formation) in a wife, as good as himself: two 
lively promising girls; and a rosy, frank- 
hearted boy, quite worthy of such parents. 
One shall seldom see together a finer family, 
for our " gode parsone" was not only " lite of 
foot," a man in the prime of life, full of vigour 
and activity, but united the intellectual coun- 
tenance of the scholar, to the elegance and 
polish of a gentleman. Mrs, Mansfield was 
remarkably pretty; and the young people had 
about them all the glow and the brightness 
of their fresh and happy age. But the beauty 
of the vicarage, the beauty of the parish, was 
a female servant who accompanied them, their 
maid Mary. She was five or six and twenty, 
and looked as inuch ; of n.iddle height, and 
middle size, rather inclining to the fullness 
and luxuriance of womanhood ; fair, bloom- 
ing, smiling, and bright-eyed, yet with an ex- 
pression so chastised, so perfected by modesty, 
that no one could look on her without being 
sure that she was as good as she was lovely. 
Her voice, and dress, and manner too, were 
all in keeping with her sweet face, gentle, 
quiet, and retiring. In short she had not 
been a week in the village, before all the 
neighbours were asking each other — " Have 
you seen the vicar's pretty maid ?" 

The home which received this delightful 
family was every way worthy of its inhabit- 
ants. A country parsonage is generally in 
itself and its associations a happy mixture of 
the unpretending and the comfortable; and of 
all parsonages Aberleigh is the most beauti- 
ful. It stands amidst a labyrinth of green 
lanes, running through a hilly and richly- 
wooded country, whose valleys are threaded 
by the silver Loddon. On one side is the 
magnificent wreck of a grand, but deserted 
mansion-house, built with porch and pinnacle, 
and rich gothic windows, in the style of Eliz- 
abeth's day: on the other the old village 
church ; its tower fancifully ornamented with 
brick-work, and the church-yard ])lanted with 
brovid flowering limes, and funeral yew-trees; 



leading up to the church, a short avenue of 
magnificent oaks ; and behind the avenue, and 
divided from a lane by a considerable space, 
partly lawn, partly court, and partly flower- 
garden, stands the vicarage. 

The house is a low irregular building, co- 
vered to the very roof with creeping shrubs, 
roses, woodbine, jessamine, clematis, and myr- 
tles, flowering into the very chamber windows, 
— such myrtles as were never before seen in 
this part of England. One of them died in 
the hard winter, twelve years ago, and a chair 
and a stool were iriade of the wood. It took 
no polish, but still it had a pretty look and a 
pretty name; that English myrtle, it almost 
sounded like a contradiction. The garden is 
just suited to the house; large squares of fine 
turf with beds and borders of flov/ers divided 
by low box hedges, so thick and broad and 
level, that yon might walk on them two 
abreast ; with a long piece of water, in one 
compartment, stocked with gold and silver 
fish ; a tall yew-hedge, fencing off the kitchen 
garden, and a sun-dial rising from the green 
turf opposite the house, — that voiceless moni- 
tor, whose silence is so eloquent, and whose 
gliding finger realizes, and perhaps suggested 
the sublime personification of Wordsworth — 
" Time the Shadow." 

The Mansfields were exceedingly struck 
with their new habitation. They had hitherto 
resided on the coast of Sussex, the South 
Downs ; so that accustomed to those green 
hills, and the fertile but unsheltered plains 
beyond them, the absolute nakedness of the 
land, and the vast and bare expanse of the 
ocean, they were almost as much unaccus- 
tomed to trees as a negro to snow, and first 
wondered at, then complained of, and at last 
admired our richly-wooded valleys, and the 
remains of old chases, and bits of wild forest 
scenery in which we abound. The artless- 
ness with which these feelings were con- 
fessed, added a fresh charm to this interesting 
family. There is always something very at- 
tractive in the ignorance of any particular sub- 
ject which we sometimes meet with amongst 
clever and cultivated people. Their questions 
are so intelligent, so poignant, so (to use a 
bold phrase) full of answers. They instruct 
our knowledge, and make us feel far more 
sensibly that which we teach. It was the 
pleasantest tiling in the world, to walk through 
Aberleigh Wood with Clara Mansfield and 
Evelyn's Sylva, showing her, by the help of 
that delightful book, the differences of form 
and growth, and bark and foliage; sometimes 
half puzzled myself by some freak of nature, 
or oftener forgetting our avowed object in ad- 
miration of the pictorial beauty, the vffried 
colouring, the play of light and shadow, and 
the magical perspective of that delightful spot. 

The young people caught my enthusiasm, 
and became almost as completely foresters as 
the half-wild ponies, who owned the nanie. 



THE VICAR'S MAID. 



103 



or the still wilder donldes, whom we used to 
meet in the recesses of the wood, and whose 
picturesque forms and grouping, added the in- 
terest of life and motion to the landscape. 

All the family became denizens of Aber- 
leig-h wood, except Mary, who continued a 
perfect Nereide, constant to the coast to a de- 
gree that rendered her quite unjust to our in- 
land scener}'. She languished under the re- 
verse disease of a Calenture, pined for the 
water, and was literally, in a new sense of the 
word, sea-sick. To solace her malady, she 
would sometimes walk across the park to the 
Loddon, especially at sun-set ; for to hear 
Mary, any one would have thought that that 
bright luminary never did make a set worth 
talldng of, except when he could look at him- 
self in a watery mirror; and then, when she 
reached the Loddon, provoked at the insuffi- 
ciency of the spectacle, she would turn back 
without vouchsafing a second glance, although 
it is but justice to that poetical river to de- 
clare, that at Aberleigh bridge it is as broad, 
as glassy, and as beautiful a stream as ever 
the sun showed his face in, with much of the 
character of a lake; but Ullswater. or Winan- 
dermere, would have fared equally ill with 
Mary; nothing but the salt sea could content 
her. 

It was soon obvious that our inland beaux 
were no better suited to her taste than our in- 
land scenery. Half the young men in the 
village offered her suit and service. First, 
George Ellis the farrier, a comely youth, and 
well to do in the world, who kept an appren- 
tice, and a journeyman, a horse and cart, two 
greyhounds, three spaniels, and one pointer, 
being indeed, by many degrees, the keenest 
sportsman in these parts ; — George Ellis prof- 
fered to make her mistress of himself, his 
household, his equipatre, and his stud ; but 
was civilly rejected. The next candidate who 
presented himself was Ben Appleton, the son 
of a neiohbouring farmer; Ben Appleton is a 
wag, and has a face and figure proper to the 
vocation : a shape tall, stout, and square, that 
looks stiff and is active; with a prodigious 
power of putting himself into all manner of 
out-of-the-way attitudes, and of varying and 
sustaining this pantomime to an extent that 
really seems inexhaustible. The manner in 
which he can, so to say, transpose that sturdy 
form of his, put his legs where his arms should 
be, and his arms in the place of his legs, walk 
on his hands, stand on his head, tumble, hop, 
and roll, micrht raise some envy in Grimaldi 
himself. His features are under the same 
command. Originally I suspect him to have 
been good-looking; but who can ever say that 
he has seen Ben Appleton's real face 1 He 
has such a roll of the eye, such a twist of the 
nose, such a power of drawing to either ear 
that broad mouth, filled with strong white 
teeth. His very talk is more like a piece of 
1 laugh, than the speech of an ordinary man ; 



and his actions have all the same tendency — 
full of fun, with a dash of mischief. But Ben 
is a privileged person, an universal favourite ; 
and Mary, never dreaming of such a catastro- 
phe as his falling in love, used to contemplate 
his tricks from afar, with something of the 
same amusement which she might have felt 
in watching a kitten or a monkey. For a long 
time he made his addresses with impunity; 
unsuspected and unrepelled ; no one believed 
him in earnest. At last, however, Ben and 
his case became serious, and then IMary be- 
came serious too : he received a firm though 
gentle dismissal, and looked grave for a whole 
week. Next came Aaron Keep the shoe- 
maker, the wisest man in the parish, noted all 
over the country for his knowledge of the 
stars, and judgment in the weather, and al- 
most as notorious for his aversion to matri- 
mony and his contempt for women, Aaron 
was said to have been jilted in his youth, 
which soured a kindly temper and put mis- 
trust into his heart. Him, even him, did 
Mary's beauty and Mary's modesty vanquish. 
He who had been abusing the sex for the last 
forty years actually made her an offer. I sup- 
pose the happiest moment in his life must 
have been that in which she refused him. 
One can fancy him trembling over the narrow- 
ness of his escape, like the man who did not 
fall over Dover Cliff — but the offer was made. 
The cause of all this obduracy at last ap- 
peared. A young sailor arrived at the vicar- 
age, whom the most graphical of our poets 
shall assist me in describing : 

"Fresh were his features, his attire was new; 
Clean was his linen, and his jacket blue ; 
Of finest jean his trowsers, lisht and trim, 
Brushed the large buckle at the silver rim." 

Crabbe. 

He arrived at the vicarage towards the end of 
winter, and was introduced by Mary to mine 
hostess of the Eight Bells as her halif-brother ; 
although Mary was so little used to telling 
fibs, that her blushes, and downcast looks and 
smiles between, in short, the whole pervading 
consciousness would have betrayed her, as 
Mrs. Jones, the landlady, observed, to any one 
who had but half an eye; to say nothing of 
Miss Clara's arch look as she passed them. 
Never was half-brother so welcomed ; and in 
good truth he was well worthy of his wel- 
come. 

Thomas Clere was an exceedingly fine 
young man, of six or seven and twenty, with 
a head of curly black hair, a sun-burnt com- 
plexion, a merry, open countenance, and a 
bluff hearty voice that always sounded as if 
transmitted through a speakingf-trumpet. He 
established himself at the Eight Bells, and 
soon became very popular in that respectable 
hostelry. Besides his good humour, his libe- j 
rality, and his sea jokes, next to Irish jokes i 
always the most delightful to rustic ears, per- 1 
haps because next to Irish, the least intelligi- | 



104 



OUR VILLAGE, 



ble — your country bumpkin loves a conun- i 
drum, and laughs heartiest at what he does 
not understand ; besides these professional 
qualifications, Thomas was eminently obliginsj 
and tolerably handy ; offered his assistance in 
every emertrency, and did more good, and less 
harm than most amateur helpers, who, gene- 
rally speaking, are the greatest hindrances un- 
der the sun. Thomas was really useful. To 
be sure, when engaged in aiding Mary, a few 
casualties did occur from pre-occupation ; once, 
for instance, they contrived to let down a 
whole line of clothes which he had been as- 
sisting to hang out. Neither party could ima- 
gine how the accident happened, but the wash- 
ing was forced to be done over again. Another 
time, they, between them, overset the milk- 
bucket, and the very same day so over-heated 
the oven, that a whole batch of bread, and 
three apple-pies were scorched to a cinder. 
But Thomas was more fortunate with other 
coadjutors. He planted a whole patch of cab- 
bages in a manner perfectly satisfactory, and 
even made a very decent cucumber-bed in 
mine host's garden. He churned Mrs. Jones's 
butter as well as Mary herself could have done 
it. He shaped bats, and cut wickets for the 
great boys, plaited wicker baskets for the 
younger ones, and even dug a grave for the 
sextoness, an old woman of eighty, the widow 
of a former sexton who held that office (cor- 
ruptly, as our village radicals were wont to 
say) in conjunction with that of the pew-open- 
er, and used to keep the children in order by 
one nod of her grey head, and to compound 
for the vicar every Sunday a nosegay of the 
choicest flowers of the season. Thomas, al- 
though not very fond of the job, dug a grave, 
to save sixpence for poor Alice. Afterwards 
this kindness was thought ominous. 

No wonder that our seaman was popular. 
The only time he got into a scrape at Aber- 
leigh, was with two itinerant showmen, who 
called themselves sailors, but who were, 
Thomas was sure, "nothing but land-lubbers," 
and who were driving about an unhappy por- 
poise in a wheelbarrow, and showing it at 
two-pence a head, under the name of a sea pig. 
Thomas had compassion on the creature of his 
own element, who was kept half alive by con- 
stant watering, and threatened to fight both the 
fellows unless they promised to drive it in- 
stantly back to the sea; which promise was 
made and broken, as he might have expected, 
if a breach of promise could ever enter into a 
sailor's conception. Our sailor was too frank 
even to maintain his Mary's maidenly artifice, 
and had so many confidants, that before Mr. 
Mansfield published the banns of marriage be- 
tween Thomas Clerc and Mary Howell, all 
the parish knew that they were lovers. 

At last the wedding-day came. Aaron Keep 
left his work to take a peep at the bride, and 
Ben Appleton paid her the high compliment 
of playing no trick either on her or the bride- 



groom. How beautiful she looked in her neat 
and delicate dress, her blushes and her smiles! 
The young ladies of the vicarage, with whose 
family she had lived from childhood, went to 
church with her, and every body cried as usual 
on such occasions. Clara, who had never 
been at a wedding before, had resolved against j 
crying; but tears are contagious things, and 
poor Clara's flowed, she did not well know 
why. This too was afterwards thought an ill 
omen. 

Thomas and Mary had hired a room for a 
week in a neighbouring town, after which she 
was to return for a while to her good master 
and mistress ; and he was to go to sea again 
in the good merchant-ship, the Fair Star. To 
go to sea again for one last voyage, and then 
to return rich, quite rich for their simple wish- 
es, (Thomas's savings already yielded an in- 
come of twelve shillings a week) set up in 
some little trade, and live together all the rest 
of their lives — such were their humble plans. 
They found their short honeymoon, passed in 
a strange place, and in idleness, a little long, 
I fancy, in spite of true love, as greater peo- 
ple have done before them. Yet Mary would 
willingly have remained even under the sad 
penalty of want of occupation, rather than part 
with Thomas for the sea, which now first be- 
gan to appear formidable in her eyes. But 
Thomas had promised, and must go on this 
one last voyage to Canada ; he should be home 
in six months, six months would be soon gone, 
and then they would never part again. And 
so he soothed, and comforted, and finally 
brought her back to the vicarage, and left her 
there ; and she, when the trial came, behaved 
as well as possible. Her eyes were red, to 
be sure, for a week or two, and she would 
turn pale when praying for " those who travel 
by land or by water," but still she was calm, 
and cheerful, and apparently happ}^. 

An accident about six weeks after their sepa- 
ration, first disturbed her tranquillity. !She 
contrived, in cutting a stick to tie up a tree 
carnation belonging to her dear Miss Clara, 
to lacerate very considerably the third finger 
of her left hand. The injury was so serious, 
the surgeon insisted on the necessity of saw- 
ing off the ring, the wedding-ring! She re- 
fused. The hurt grew worse and worse. Still 
Mary continued obstinate, in spite of Mrs. 
Mansfield's urgent remonstrances; at length 
it came to the point of sawing off thfe ring or 
the finger, and thpn, and not till then, not till 
Mr. Mansfield had called to aid all the au- 
thority of a master, did she submit — evidently 
with more reluctance and more pain than she 
would have felt at an am{)utation. The finger 
got well, and her kind mistress gave her her 
ovvn mother's wedding-ring to su|>ply the place 
of the severed one, — but it would not do; a 
superstitious feeling had seized her, a strange 
vague remorse; she spoke of her compliance 
as sinful ; as if by divesting herself of the 



THE VICAR'S MAID, 



1U5 



s}*mbol, she had broken the marriage tie. 
Our gfood vicar reasoned with her, and Clara 
laughed, and she listened mildly and sweetly, 
but without effect. Her spirits were gone; 
and a fear, partly superstitious, partly perhaps 
inevitable, when those whom we love are ab- 
sent, and in danger, had now seized Mary 
Clere. 

The summer was wet and coin, and unu- 
sually windy, and the pleasant rustling of that 
summer breeze amongst the lime-trees, the 
very tapping of the myrtles against the case- 
ment, as they waved in the evening air, would 
send a shiver through her whole frame. She 
strove against this feeling, but it mastered her. 
I met her one evening at the bridge, (for she 
had now learned to love our gentle river) and 
spoke to her of the water-lilies, which, in their 
pure and sculptural beauty, almost covered the 
stream. "Yes, Ma'am," said poor Mary, 
"but they are melancholy flowers for all their 
prettiness ; they look like the carved marble 
roses over the great tomb in the chancel, as 
if they were set there for monuments for the 
poor creatures that perish by the waters" — 
and then with a heavy sigh she turned away, 
happily for me, for there was no answering 
the look and the tone. 

So, in alternations, of " fear and trembling 
hope," passed the summer; her piety, her 
sweetness, and her activity continued una- 
bated, perhaps even increased ; and so in truth 
was her beauty; but it had changed its cha- 
racter. She was thinner, paler, and far, far 
sadder. So in augmented fear passed the au- 
tumn. At the end of August be was to have 
returned ; hut August was gone, — and no news 
of him. September crept slowly away, and 
still no word of Thomas. Mary's dread now 
amounted to agony. At length, about the 
middle of October, a letter arrived for Mr. 
Mansfield. Mary's eye caught the post-mark, 
it was that of the port from whence her hus- 
band sailed. She sank down in the little hall, 
not fainting, but unable to speak or move, and 
bad only strength to hold out the letter to 
Clara, who ran to her on hearing her fall. It 
was instantly opened, and a cry of inexpres- 
sible horror announced the news. The good 
ship Fair Star was missing. She had parted 
companjf from several other vessels on her 
homeward voyage, and never been heard of 
since. All hope was over, and the owner of 
the Fair Star, from whom the letter came, en- 
closed a draft for the wages due to the de- 
ceased. Poor Mary ! she did not bear that 
fatal word. The fatal sense had smitten her 
long before, as with a sword. She was car- 
ried to bed in a state of merciful suspension 
of suffering, and passed the night in the heavy 
and troubled sleep that so often follows a stun- 
nmg blow. The next morning she awoke. 
Who is so happy as not to know that dreadful 
first-waking under the pressure of a great sor- 
row 1 — the vague and dizzying sense of misery 

O 



we know not why? the bewildering confusion 
of memory 1 the gradual recollection 1 and then 
the full and perfect woe that rushes in such a 
flood over the heart] who is so happy as not 
to know this bitterness'? — Poor Mary felt it 
sorely, suffocatingly : but she had every sup- 
port-that could be afforded. Mr. Mansfield 
read to her, and prayed with her. His excel- 
lent family sootlied her and wept with her. 
And for two days she seemed submissive and 
resigned. On the third, she bego-ed to see the 
fatal letter, and it acted with the shock of 
electricity. "Missing! only missing! He 
was alive — she was sure he was alive." And 
this idea possessed her mind, till hope became 
to her a worse poison than her old torturer, 
fear. She refused to put on the mourning 
provided for her, refused to remain in the tran- 
quillity of her own apartment; and went about 
talking of life and happiness, with the very 
look of death. A hundred times a day she 
read that letter, and tried to smile, and tried 
to believe that Thomas still lived. To siieak 
of him as dead seemed to her raised feelings, 
like murder. She tried to foster the faint 
spark of hope, tried to deceive herself, tried 
to prevail on others: but all in vain. Her 
mind was evidently yielding under this tre- 
mendous struggle; this perpetual and never- 
ceasing combat against one mighty fear. The 
sense of her powerless suspense weighed her 
heart down. When I first saw her, it seemed 
as if twenty years of anguish and sickness 
had passed over her head in those ten days-; 
she was shrunken, and bent, and withered, 
like a plant plucked up by the roots. Her 
soft pleasant voice was become low, and 
hoarse, and muttering ; her svA'eet face hag- 
gard and ghastly ; and yet she said she was 
well, tried to be cheerful, tried to smile — oh, 
I shall never forget that smile ! 

These false spirits soon fled ; but the mind 
was too unsettled, too infirm for resignation. 
She wandered about night and day ; now 
weeping over the broken wedding-ring; now 
haunting the church-yard, sitting on the grave, 
his grave. Now hanging over the brimming 
and vapoury Loddon, pale as the monumental 
lilies, and seeming to demand from the waters 
her lost husband. She would stand there in 
the cold moonlight, till suddenly tears or 
prayer would relieve the vexed spirit, and 
slowly and shiveringly the poor creature would 
win home. She could still pray, and that was 
comfort : but she prayed for him ; the earthly 
love clung to her and the earthly hope. Yet 
never was wifely affection more ardent, or 
more pure ; never sufferer more gentle than 
that fond woman. 

It was now winter; and her sorrows were 
evidently drawing near their close, when one 
evening returning from her accustomed wan- 
dering, she saw a man by the vicarage door. 
It was a thick December twilight, and in the 
wretched and tattered object before her, sick, 



106 



OUR VILLAGE. 



and bent, and squalid, like one who comes 
from a devourintj shipwreck or a long cap- 
tivity, who but Mary could have recognised 
Thomas Clerel Her heart knew him on tlie 
instant, and with a piercingr cry of joy and 
thankfulness, she rushed into his arms. The 
cry alarmed the whole family. They hasten- 
ed to share the joy and the surprise, and to 
relieve poor Thomas of his fainting burden. 
Both had sunk together on the snowy ground; 
and when loosened from his long embrace, the 
happy wife was dead ! — the shock 'of joy had 
been fatal ! 



1\I A R I A N N E . 

I Have had a very great pleasure to-day, al- 
though to make my readers fully comprehend 
how great a one, I must go back more years 
than I care to think of. When a very young 
girl, I passed an autumn amongst my father's 
relatives in a northern county. The greater 
part of the time was spent with his favourite 
cousin, the lady of a rich baronet, who was on 
the point of setting out on an annual visiting 
tour, as the manner is in those hospitable re- 
gions where the bad roads, the wide distances, 
and the large mansions, render an occasional 
sojourn so much preferable to the brief and 
formal interchange of mere dinner-parties. Sir 
Charles and lady C. were highly pleased at 
the opportunity which this peregrination of 
friendsiiip and civility afforded, to show me a 
fine country, and to introduce me to a wide cir- 
cle of family connections. 

Our tour was extensive and various. My 
cousins were acquainted, as it seemed to me, 
wilh every one of consequence in the county, 
and were themselves two of the most popular 
persons it contained, — he from character, for 
never was any man more unaffectedly good 
and kind, — she from manner, being one of the 
pleasantest women that ever lived, — the most 
lively and good-humoured, and entertaining, 
and v/ell-bred. In course, as the young re- 
lative and companion of this amiable couple, 
I saw the country and its inlia'bitants to great 
advantage. I was delighted with every thing, 
and never more enchanted than when, after 
journeying from house to house for upwards 
of a month, we arrived at the ancient and 
splendid baronial castle of the Earl of G. 

Now I had caught from Sir Walter Scott's 
admirable poems, then in their height of fash- 
ion, as well as from the older coTloctions of 
Percy and Ritson, with -which I had been fa- 
miliar almost from the cradle, a perfect en- 
thusiasm for all that savoured of feudal times; 
and one of the chief pleasures which I had 
promised myself in my northern excursion 
w^as the probability of encountering some re- 
lics of those picturesque but unquiet days. 



Hitherto these expectations had been disap- 
pointed. Halls, places, houses, granges, 
lodges, parks, and courts out of number, we 
had visited ; but neither in the north nor in 
the south had I yet been so happy as to be the 
inhabitant of a castle. This too was a genuine 
Gothic castle, towered and turreted, and bat- 
tlemented, and frowning, as heart could de- 
sire; a real old castle, that had still a moat, 
and had once exhibited a draw-bridge; a 
castle that had certainly existed in the " old 
border day," and had in all probability under- 
gone as many sieges as Branksome itself, in- 
asmuch as it had, during its whole existence, 
the fortune to belong to one of the noblest and 
most warlike names of the " Western War- 
denry." Moreover, it was kept up in great 
style, had spears, bows, and stags' horns in 
the hall, painted windows in the chapel, a 
whole suit of armour in the picture gallery, 
and a purple velvet state-bed, gold-fringed, 
coroneted, and plumed, covered with a purple 
quilt to match, looking just like a pall, and 
made up with bolsters at each end, — a sym- 
metry which proved so perplexing to the 
mayor of the next town, who with his lady 
happened to sleep there on some electioneer- 
ing, fairly got in at different ends, and lay the 
whole night head to foot.* I was not in the 
coroneted bed, to be sure; I do not think I 
should much have relished lying under that 
pall-like counterpane and those waving fea- 
thers ; but I was in a castle grand and roman- 
tic enough even to satisfy the romance of a 
damsel under seventeen, and I was enchanted ; 
the more especially as the number of the fa- 
mily party promised an union of the modern 
gaietjs which I was far from disliking, with 
the ancient splendour for which I sighed. But, 
before I had been four-and-twenty hours with- 
in those massive walls, I began to experience 
" the vanity of human wishes," to wonder 
what was become of my raptures, to yawn I 
did not know why, to repeat to myself over 
and over again the two lines of Scott that 
seemed most d-propos to my situation, 

"And all in high baronial pride 
A life botli dull and dignified ;" — 

in short, to find out that stupid people will be 
stupid any-where, even in a castle. I will 
give after my fashion a slight outline, a sort 
of pen-and-ink drawing of the party round the 
dining table; and by the time th-ey have 
scanned it, my readers, if they do not yawn 
too, will at least cease to wonder at my so- 
lecism in good-breeding. 

We will begin at the earl, a veteran nearly 
seventy years of age, a tall lank figure with 
an erect military carriage, a sharp weather- 
beaten face, and a few grey hairs most exactly 
powdered and bound together in a slender 

♦This accident actually befell the then mayor of 
N. at Alnwick castle, some years back. 



MARIANNE, 



107 



fjupue beliind. — His talk was very like his 
persoa, lon<r and thin; prosing most unmerci- 
fully about the American war, and telling in- 
terminable zig-zag stories, which set compre- 
hension at defian(;e. For the rest, he was an 
excellent person, kind to his family and civil 
to his gnests; he never failed to take wine 
with lady C. at dinner, and regularly every 
morning made me in the very same words a 
flonrishing compliment on my rosy cheeks. 

Next in order came the countess, tall, and 
lean like her husband, and (allowing for dif- 
ference of sex and complexion, his skin re- 
sembling brickdust in colour, and hers being 
of the sort of paleness usually called sallow,) 
not unlike him in countenance. In their 
minds and manners there was also a similari- 
ty, yet not without some difference. Dulness 
in him showed itself in dead speech, in her 
in dead silence. Stiff and cold as a poker 
was my lady. Her fixed, settled, unsmiling 
silence hung over the banquet like a cloud, 
chilling and darkening all about her. Yet 
they say she was warm-hearted, and (which 
would seem extraordinary if we did not fre- 
quently meet with instances of the same ap- 
parent contradiction) was famous for episto- 
lary composition, dealt out words in writing 
with astonishing fluency and liberality, and 
was celebrated far and near for tiiat most in- 
tolenible waste of paper which is commonly 
known by the name of a sensible letter. 

Then came the goodly offspring of this 
noble couple, that is to say, the three youngest ; 
for the elder branches of this illustrious house 
were married and settled in distant homes. 
The honourable Frederic G., the only son who 
remained in the paternal mansion, Avas a di- 
plomatist in embryo, a rising young man. His 
company they were, not likely to enjoy long, 
since he was understood to be in training for 
the secretaryship to a foreign embassy. He 
liad recently come into parliament for a neigh- 
bouring borough, and his maiden speech (I 
wonder who wrote it!) had created a prodigi- 
ous sensation in the family circle. On the 
glory of that oration, the echo of his fame, he 
lived then, and has lived (as far as I know) 
ever since. I can only say that I never heard 
him utter more than a monosyllable at a time 
during the ten days that we breakfasted, dined, 
and supped in company — ineffable coxcomb ! 
and I have not heard of his speaking in the 
house of commons from that time to tliis. 
There he sits, single-speech G. Of his elder 
sister, the lady Matilda, 1 can say no more 
than that she was reckoned one of the finest 
harp-players in England — a musical automa- 
ton, who put forth notes instead of words, and 
passed her days in alternate practisings for 
the purpose of subsequent exhibition (which 
fatiguing exercise was of course a continual 
and provoking struggle with a host of stringed 
difficulties), and in the exhibitions themselves, 
in which also to my ears the difficulties seem- 



ed to have the best of the battle. Then fol- 
lowed her sister, the lady Caroline, an intelli- 
gent-looking )'^oung woman, and no musician 
— but alack ! the fair damsel was in love, and 
on the very point of marriage. Her lover 
Lord B. (who may as well fall into this divi- 
sion, since he vt'as domesticated in the house 
and already considered as a son,) was also 
pleasant-looking, — but then he was in love too. 
Of course this couple, although doubtless very 
good company for each other, went for nothing 
with the rest of the party, of whose presence 
indeed they, to do them justice, seemed gene- 
rally most comfortably unconscious. 

Next came the appendages to a great house, 
the usual official residents. First appeared 
Mr. M. the family chaplain, a great mathema- 
tician, whose very eyes seemed turned inward 
as if contemplating the figures on his brain. 
Never was man so absent since the one de- 
scribed by La Bruyere, He once came down 
to dinner with the wrong side of his waistcoat 
outward ; and, though he complained of the 
difficulty of buttoning it, could not discover 
the reason ; and he has been known more than 
once to walk about all the morning, and even 
to mount the pulpit, with one white leg and 
one black (like the discrepant eyes of my friend 
the Talking Gentleman), in consequence of 
having forgotten to draw a silk stocking over 
his gauze one. He seldom knew the day of 
the month, often read a wrong lesson, and was 
pretty sure to forget his sermon ; otherwise a 
most kind and excellent creature, whom for 
very pity nobody could think of disturbing 
when he appeared immersed in calculation, 
which was always. Secondly came Miss R., 
some time governess and present companion ; 
what a misnomer! the errantest piece of still 
life I ever encountered, pale, freckled, red- 
haired, and all over small. Thirdly entered 
Dr. S., the fi\mily physician, a stern oracular 
man, with a big wig and a tremendous frown. 
Two red-faced gentlemen, des vieux mililaires, 
who drank my lord's wine and listened to his 
stories, completed this amusing assembly. 

There was another person who never ap- 
peared at the dining-table, but whose presence, 
during the tv/o or three hours that she spent 
in the saloon ifi the morning, and about the 
same time which she passed in the drawing- 
room after dinner, distressed and annoyed me 
more than all the party put together. This 
was the honourable Mrs. G., the earl's mother, 
(the title had descended to him from an uncle) 
a lady in her ninety-second yeaT, and suffi- 
ciently vigorous to justify the expectation that 
she might live to see a hundred. She was a 
tall, spare, tough-looking woman, with a long 
bony face, dim staring eyes, and an aspect al- 
together corpse-like and unearthly. Her dress 
was invariably of black silk with a very long 
waist,- a point-lace kerchief, or rather tippet, 
and a very small short rounded apron of the 
same costly material. On her head she w^re 



108 



OUR VILLAGE. 



a lace cap and lappets surmonnted with a sort , vealed in three words, since that amounted to 
of shepherdess hat of black silk, fastened on ] nothinsf more than her having lived ever since 
with two enormous pins with silver tops. This \ she could recollect at G. Castle, sometimes in 
dress wliich, in o-av colours and on a youncr i the nursery and the library, sometimes in the 

... '^ ■' 111 1 __ '_ 1 1 , ' i.:_jr„i ._J u.. „11 1 



and handsfime woman, would have been very 
pretty, cmly served to make Mrs. G. appear 
more ohastiy, more like a faded picture which 
had stepped out of its frame. She was a per- 
petual memento mori ; a skull and cross-bones 
would hardly have been more efficacious in 
mortifying the vanity of youth. This, how- 
ever, i could have endured : it was an evil in j 
common ; hut the good lady had experienced j 
the partial loss of faculty and memory so fre- 
quent at her advanced age, and, having nnfor- 
tunatelv mistaken me for her great grand-child, 
the eldest daughter of Lord G.'s eldest son, 
she couiu by no means be turned aside from 
the notion which had so unaccountably seized 
her imagination, and treated me exactly as a 
doting, scolding great-grandmamma would be 
likely to treat her unlucky descendant, — a 
process which so thoroughly disconcerted me, 
a shy shamefaced girl, that, after I had under- 
gone about six hours of hugging and lecturing 
from my pretended ancestress, I was fain to 
keep my room to avoid her intolerable perse- 
cution. In this dilemma the countess sudden- 
ly proposed to turn me over to Marianne; and 
a young lady about my own age, whom I had 
not before seen, made her appearance. Oh 
what a difference between her and the other 
inhabitants of the castle ! What a lovely airy 
creature it was ! 

"A danriug shapo, nn iniage gay, 
To haunt and startle and waylay ;" 

light and bounding as a fawn, with a wild 
fanciful beauty in her bright black eyes, in the 
play of her features, and the brilliancy of her 
dark yet glowing complexion ! A charming 
creature in mind and in person, was Miss Ma- 
rianne. — for by tiiat name alone she was intro- 
duced to me, — almost equally charming in the 
high spirits whose elasticity harmonized with 
her animated beauty, or in the tender and pen- 
sive melancholy which so often checkered her 
gayer mood. 

"We became almost immediately intimate — 
happy privilege of youthful companionship ! — 
and had speedily told each other our whole 
histories, as two young ladies meeting in an 
old castle ought to do. My story, I am sorry 
to say, was very little worthy of such a situa- 
tion and opportunity for display. Nothing 
could be less romantic than the ease and com- 
fort and indulgence in which my life had 
hitherto passed, nothing less adapted to a he- 
roine than the secure and affluent middle sta- 
tion in which my hap])y lot then seemed to be 
fixed. My tale was told in two or three brief 
sentences. The history of my fair coinpanion 
was not so quickly dispatched. What she 
knew of herself might indeed have been re- 



housekeeper's room, kindly treated by all, and 
taught by fits and snatches as she came in 
their way : so that her education, partly con- 
ducted by the young lady's governess, partly 
by the young gentleman's tutor, and soiinetimes 
even by Lady G.'s maid, bore a very strong) 
resemblance to that ingenious exercise of fe-' 
male patience called patch-work, where you 
meet with bits of every thing and nothing- 
complete. The two most extraordinary cir- 
cumstances were her want of a surname (for 
she had never been called by any other appel- 
lation than Marianne) and the sedulous care 
with which, although living in the same house, 
she had been concealed from my sm'-disante 
great-grandmother Mrs. G. The loss of facul- 
ty which occasioned that mistake was of re- 
cent occurrence, as the venerable lady had till 
within a few months been remarkable for the 
accuracy and clearness of her perceptions ; and 
Marianne related fifty stories to prove the care 
with which her very existence was guarded 
from Mrs. G.'s knowledge, — the manner in 
which she had been crammed into closets, 
stowed under sofas, smuggled behind screens, 
or folded into window-curtains, at the first tap 
of the old lady's Italian heel, — and the me- 
naces which were thrown out against the ser- 
vants, if any should presume to name her in 
Mrs. G.'s presence. One unlucky footman 
had actually been discharged on the spot, for 
want of invention and presence of mind and 
fluency of lying: when questioned as to the 
arranger of the flowers in their vases (an art 
in which she excelled,) he stainnnered, and 
looked as if going to say Miss Marianne; for 
which piece of intended truth (an uncommon 
fault in a London footman !) the poor lacquey 
was dismissed. 

Now if either of us had possessed the 
slightest knowledge of the world, these cir- 
cumstances would hardly have failed to sug- 
gest Marianne's true origin. W^e should im- 
mediately have conjectured her to be the 
illegitimate offspring of some near connection 
of the family; — in fact she was the daughter 
of Lord G.'s second and favourite son, long 
since deceased, by a beautiful Italian singer 
who died in childbed of poor Marianne; hut 
this was the last conjecture that woiild have- 
entered either of 9ur silly heads. — I, indeed, 
not yet seventeen, and carefully brought up, 
had hardly heard that such things were, and 
Marianne, although older and less guarded 
from the knowledge of fashionable wicked- 
ness, had, when left to choose her own stu- 
dies, read too many novels, in which the he- 
roines emerged froin similar obscurity to high 
rank and brilliant fortune, not to have con- 
structed a romance on that model for her own 
benefit. Indeed she had two, in one of which 



MARIANNE. 



109 



she turned out to be a foreign princess, in the 
other the daughter of an English duke. 

I remember being a little startled, when 
after I had given all my faith to the Russian 
legend (for the emperor Paul was the poten- 
tate on whom she had pitched for her papa — 
pretty choice !) she began to knock down her 
own castle in the air, for the sake of rebuild- 
ing it on an English foundation, I could 
readily imagine that she had one father, but 
could not quite comprehend what she should 
want with two : besides, having given up my 
mind to the northern romance, I did not like 
to be disturbed by a see-saw of conjectures, 
good for nothing but to put one out. I was 
of a constant disposition, and stuck to the 
princess Rusty-Fusty version of the story so 
pertinaciously, that I do not even know what 
duke she had adopted for her English father. 
Any one might have been proud of her; for, 
with all this nonsense, the offspring of an 
equivocal situation and a neglected education, 
she was a sweet and charming creature, kind 
and generous and grateful, with considerable 
quickness of talent, and a power of attaching 
those with whom she conversed, such as I 
have rarely seen equalled. I loved her dear- 
ly, and except the formal meals which we 
shared with the rest of the family, spent nearly 
the whole of my visit with her alone, strolling 
through the park or the castle in the morn- 
ings, and in the evenings sitting over the fire 
deep in girlish talk, or turning over the books 
in the old library with a less girlish curiosity. 
Oh how sorry we were to part ! I saw no- 
body in the whole north like Marianne. 

, In a few months, however, I returned into 
the south, and in a very few more the kind 
cousins, with whom I had visited G. Castle, 
were removed from me by death. My other 
relatives in that county fell gradually off: 
some died ; some went to reside abroad ; and 
some were lost to me by the unintended 
estrangement which grows out of a long sus- 
pension of intercourse ; so that my pleasant 
northern tour, unconnected with any previous 
or subsequent habits or associations, seemed 
an insulated point in my history, a brilliant 
dream called up to recollection at pleasure 
like some vivid poem, or some rare and gor- 
geous tapestry, rather than a series of real 
events burnt into the mind and the memory 
by the stransre and intense power of personal 
feelings. Eighteen years had elapsed since 
I had seen or heard of Marianne. I knew in- 
deed that the good earl and countess had died 
shortly after my visit, and that their aged mo- 
ther must in the course of nature have passed 
away lonu ago. But of her own destiny I had 
heard nothing; and, being absorbed in new 
occupations and nearer friends, I had, I fear, 
ceased even to guess. The curiosity and won- 
der excited by her situation had long ceased 
(for wonder and curiosity are very young feel- 
ings,) and the interest produced by her cha- 
_ 



racter was dormant, though not extinct. In 
short, the black-eyed beauty of G. Castle was 
fairly forgotten, till my good stars led me this 
morning to B. to witness for the first and last 
time of my life, the ascent of a balloon. 

Is there any one of my readers who has not 
seen this spectacle ] If such there be, it may 
perhaps be necessary to say how much duller 
than most sights (and almost all sights un- 
connected with art are dull) that dangerous 
toy is ; how much the letting off a boy's kite 
excels it in glee, and vies with it in utility; 
the science of balloons being, as far as I know, 
nearly the only discovery of this chemical and 
mechanical age, (when between steam-engines 
and diving-bells, man contrives to have pretty 
much his own way with the elements) which 
has continued to stand altogether still, as cum- 
bersome, as unmanageable, and almost as ugly 
as the original machine of Montgolfier. Nev- 
ertheless the age is also a staring age, and we 
poor country people who know no better, are 
easily taken in, so that the announcement of 
this aeronautic expedition (for so it was called 
in the programme) drew at least ten thousand 
gazers into the good town of B. and amongst 
the rest my simple self. 

The day was showery by fits, and we 
thought ourselves very fortunate in being able 
to secure a commodious window in a large 
room just overlooking the space where the 
balloon was filling. At first we looked at 
that flagging flapping bag of tri-coloured silk, 
made dingy by varnish, and dingier still by 
the pack-thread net-work which enclosed it, 
giving it, when nearly filled, sometliing of the 
air of a canteloupe melon. A thousand yards 
of silk, they said, were wasted in that un- 
sightly thing, enough (as a calculating milli- 
ner of my acquaintance, indignant at such 
misapplication of finery, angrily observed) to 
have made a hundred dresses with trimmings 
and tippets. We looked at the slow filling 
ball till in our weariness we thought it be- 
came emptier, and then we looked at a pret- 
tier sight, — the spectators. They consisted 
for the most part of country people, spread all 
the way down the large space to the meadows, 
perched on the church-tower, on the side of 
the F. hill, on trees, on wagons, on the church- 
yard wall. Nothing was visible but heads 
and upturned faces, and here and there a little 
opening made by habitual deference for horse- 
men and carriages, in that grand and beautiful 
living mass, a pleased and quiet crowd. Then 
we looked at the peaceful landscape beyond, 
the Thames winding in its green meadows 
under the fine range of the 0**shire hills, 
shut in on one side by the church with its 
magnificent Gothic tower, on the other by the 
before-mentioned eminence crowned with trees 
as with a plume. Then a sudden shower put 
motion in the crowd ; flight and scrambling 
and falling ensued ; numerous umbrellas were 
expanded : and the whole scene resembled 



110 



OUR VILLAGE. 



those processions which one has sometimes 
seen on Indian paper, and became quite ori- 
entnl. 

At last, however, we were tired of grazing 
without, and tarnpd our attention within doors. 
The room was full of fluctuating company, all 
strnnrre to us except the lady of the house; 
and tlie party nearest to us, our next-window 
neighbours, naturally engaged us most. The 
party in question consisted of a gentleman and 
lady in the very morning of life, who, placed 
in an old-fashioned dow seat, were sedulously 
employed in guarding and caressing a beauti- 
ful little girl about three years old, who stood 
between them infinitely amused at the scene. 
They were, as our hostess informed us, a 
young couple of large fortune newly settled 
in the neighbourhood, and seemed of that 
happy order of beings, handsome, smiling, 
and elegant, to whom every occupation is 
graceful. Certainly nothing could be prettier 
or more becoming than the way in which they 
talked to their lovely little girl. Another 
lady, evidently belonging to the party, stood 
near them, occasionally bending to the fre- 
quent questions of the child, or making a po- 
lite reply to the animated observations of her 
father, but constantly declining his offered 
seat, and apparently taking as little interest 
in the scene as well might be. 

This indifference to an object which was 
exciting the rapturous attention of some thou- 
sands of spectators kept me so comfortably in 
countenance, that it excited a strong desire to 
discover as much as I could without rudeness 
of a person, whose opinions on one point, 
seeming to accord so remarkably with my 
own, gave assurance, as I modestly thought, 
of a sensible woman. 

The lady was tall and slender, and dressed 
with that remarkable closeness and quietness, 
that entire absence of fashion or pretension, 
which belong almost exclusively to govern- 
esses or the serious. A snow-white dress en- 
tirely untrimmed, a plain but nicely fitting 
dove-coloured spencer, a straw cottage bon- 
net, and a white veil a good deal over the face, 
might have suited either caste; but there was 
something in that face which inclined for the 
governess, or rather against the devotee. It 
was a pale thin countenance, which had evi- 
dently seen thirty summers, with features 
which had lost their bloom and roundness, 
but still retained their delicate symmetry, 
lighted up by a pair of black eyes inexpres- 
sibly intelligent — saucy, merry, dancing, talk- 
ing! Oh those eyes! Whenever a gentle- 
man said sometliing learnedly wrong about 
hydrogen or oxygen, or air-valves or gasome- 
ters, or such branches of learning, or a lady 
vented something sentimentally silly about 
sailing amongst the stars, those black eyes 
flashed into laughter. Of a certainty they did 
not belong to one of the serious, or they would 
have been kept in better order ; I had there- 



fore quite decided in favour of the governess, 
and had begun to puzzle myself to remember 
in whose head beside that of the younger 
Mina (that most intoresting of all the Spanish 
patriots, who was in London during the hun- 
dred days, and was afterwards most barbar- 
ously shot in Mexico), I had seen such a pair 
of dancing lights, when the whole truth flashed 
upon me at a word. " Marianne" — began the 
pretty mamma of the pretty child, and in a 
moment I too had exclaimed " Marianne !" 
had darted forward, and seized both her hands, 
and in less than a minute we were seated in 
the remotest corner of the room, away from 
the bustle and the sight, the gazers and the 
balloon. It was turned off, I believe, — at 
least I have a faint recollection of certain 
shouts which implied its ascent, and remem- 
ber being bored by a sentimental young lady 
to come and look at it "sailing like an eagle 
along the sky." But neither Marianne nor I 
saw or thought of the spectacle. We were in 
the midst of old recollections and old plea- 
sures, now raining questions on each other, 
now recurring delightedl}' to our brief com- 
panionship, and smiling half ashamed and 
half regretfully on the sweet illusion of that 
happy time. 

Alas for my beautiful princess of G. Cas- 
tle ! — Here she was, no longer young, fair, or 
blooming, a poor nursery governess ! Alas for 
my princess! Sixteen years of governessing, 
sixteen years passed in looking at the world 
through the back windows, might well have 
dimmed that brilliant beauty, and tamed that 
romantic imagination. — But I had not con- 
versed with her five minutes before I found 
that her spirit had lost none of its buoyancy, : 
that under all her professional demureness she j 
was still, as her black eyes promised, one of | 
the airiest and sprightliest creatures in the 
world. She glanced rapidly, but with great 
feeling, over the kindness she had experienced 
from the whole family on the death of lord and 
lady G., and then, in a style of light and play- 
ful gaiety, indescribably graceful and attrac- 
tive, proceeded to give me the history of her 
successive govcrnesships, touching with a 
pencil inimitably sportive, the several humours 
and affectations which she had encountered in 
her progress through the female world. " I 
was never," said she in conclusion, "so hap- 
pily situated as I am at present. The father 
and mother are charming people, and my little 
Emma" (by this time the child had joined us, 
and was nestling in Marianne's lap) " is the 
most promising pupil I ever had in my life. 
In little more than four months she has learned 
three letters and three (piarters. I should like 
to see her through the alphabet — but yet" — 
and here she broke off with a smile and a 
blush, and a momentary depression of her 
sparkling eyes, that again brought before me 
the youthful beauty of G. Castle, and irresis- 
tibly suggested the idea of a more suitable 



EARLY RECOLLECTIONS, 



111 



termination to the romance than it had origin- 
ally promised. Such blushes have only one 
meaning. Findino- that she still paused, I 
ventured to finish the sentence. " Bat yet you 
will leave this promising- pupil?" — "Yes." — 
"Not, however, for a similar situation?" — 
"No." — "And who is the happy man?" — 
" A very old friend. Do you remember Mr. 
M., the chaplain at the castle?" — "What! the 
great mathematician with the scratch wig, who 
saw without seeing, and heard without hear- 
ing, who wore his waistcoat the wrong way, 
and went to chapel with one white stocking 
and one black ? Is he le futur ?" Marianne 
laughed outright. " Mis son ! his son ! He 
must have been at Cambridge when you were 
with us, for he also is a great mathematician, 
altliough I promise you he wears his waistcoat 
with the right side outward, and his legs are 
both of one colour. We have been waiting 
for a college living; and now" — and again 
she broke off and blushed and smiled ; and 
again that smiling blush of modesty and plea- 
sure and love brought back for a moment the 
fleeting beauty of seventeen; and even in that 
moment the show was over, the crowd dis- 
persed, and we parted.* 



EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. 

THE ENGLISH TEACHER. 

Miss R., the English teacher, to whom poor 
Madame took so unfortunate an aversion, was 
one of the most charming women that I have 
ever known. The pretty word " sfraziosa," by 
which Napoleon loved to describe Jftsephine, 
seemed made for her. She was full of a deli- 
cate grace of mind and person. Her little 
elegant fisjure, and her fair mild face, lighted 
up so brilliantly by her large hazel eyes, cor- 
responded exactly with the soft gentle manners 
which were so often awakened into a delight- 
ful playfulness, or an enthusiasm more charm- 
ing still, by the impulse of her quick and ar- 
dent spirit. To be sure she had a slight touch 
of distraction about her (distraction French, 
not distraction English), an interesting ab- 
sence of mind. She united in her ow^n person 
all the sins of forgetfulness of all the young 
ladies ; mislaid her handkerchief, her shawl, 
her gloves, her work, her music, her drawing, 
her scissors, her keys ; would ask for a book 
when she held it in her hand, and set a whole 
class hunting for a thimble, whilst the said 
thimble was quietly perched upon her finger. 

* Not however for another period of eighteen years. 
Before the summer was gone, I had the pleasure of 
visiting her at her pretty rectory, of seeing with my 
own eyes that a great mathematician may wear 
stockings to match, and of witnessing the quiet gaiety, 
the heartfelt happiness of the dear and charming Ma- 
rianne. 



Oh ! with what a pitying scorn our exact and 
recollective Frenchwoman used to look down 
on such an incorrigible shatterbrain ! But she 
was a poetess, as Madame said, and what 
could you expect better ! 

In spite of this misfortune, she was univer- 
sally liked and respected ; I, for my own part, 
loved Miss R. even better than Madame; 
though I had some temptations to dislike her, 
she having, to my sorrow, undertaken the pe- 
culiar charge of my education for the last two 
years of my stay at school (from thirteen to 
fifteen,) which she followed up with extraor- 
dinary rigour; so that instead of passing half 
hours and whole hours, half days and whole 
days, at the side of my beautiful countess, in 
the full enjoyment of my dearly beloved idle- 
ness, I found myself, to my unspeakable dis- 
composure, getting by rote (an o})eration which 
I always detested) sundry tedious abridgments 
of heraldry, botany, biography, mineralogy, 
mythology, and at least half a dozen " olo- 
gies" more, compiled by herself for my ex- 
press edification. I gave her fair warning that 
I should forget all these wise things in no 
time, and kept my word ; but there was no 
escaping the previous formality of learning 
them. Oh ! dear me ! I groan in spirit at the 
very recollection. I was even threatened with 
the Latin grammar. All her instructions, how- 
ever, were not administered in so unpalatable 
a form. To fill up any nook of time which 
the common demands of the school and her 
private lessons mio-ht leave vacant, we used 
to read together, chiefly poetry. With her I 
first became acquainted with Pope's Homer, 
Dryden's Virgil, and the Paradise Lost. Those 
were moments of intense gratification ; she 
read capitally, and was a most indulgent hearer 
of my remarks and exclamations : suffered me 
to admire Satan, and detest Ulysses, and rail 
at the pious jEneas as long as I chose. After 
these master poets we turned to some peculiar 
favourites of her own, Akenside, whom I could 
not understand then (neither can I now), and 
Young, whom I could not read. Three weary 
evenings did we consume over his first three 
nights; but the lecture was so dismal, so af- 
flicting, and my impatience and ennui were so 
contagious, that at last we fairly gave him up. 
I have never opened the Night Thoughts 
since ; the bare recollection of that attempt is 
enough. 

Beside the readings. Miss R. compensated 
in another way for the pain and grief of rtiy 
unwilling a])plication : she took me often to 
the theatre ; whether as an extra branch of 
education, or because she was herself in the 
height of a dramatic fever, it would be invidi- 
ous to inquire. The effect iriay be easily fore- 
seen ; my enthusiasm soon equalled her own; 
we began to read Shakspeare, and read no- 
thing else. There was of course a great dif- 
ference in kind between her pleasure and mine ; 
her's was a critical, mine a childish enjoy- 



112 



OUR VILLAGE. 



ment; she loved fine actin|ff, and I loved the 
play. Perhaps I loved the written drama 
more than she did ; for her admiration was 
given rather to the great actor than to the au- 
thor; slie thought more of John Kemble than 
of Shakspeare — it was a real passion for the 
stage. She never saw our great school-room 
without longing to turn it into a theatre. Two 
events, which happened in my last half-year, 
most unexpectedly realized her wish — though 
the accomplishment fell far short of her ex- 
pectations. Madame, poor Madame, the de- 
termined enemy of poetry and private theatri- 
cals, left us ; she returned to France, and we 
never saw her again ; and, just at the same 
time, a young lady arrived from the country, 
so difl'erent from all other country consign- 
ments, that our prejudices melted before her 
like snow in the sunshine. 

Eliza M. was a tall, full-formed, noble- 
looking girl of sixteen, with an expressive 
open countenance, and a fine frankness of 
manner. Her conversation was singularly 
engaging and original, — fresh, ardent, elo- 
quent, like that of a clever boy; — manly, not 
masculine. No one could be in her company 
five minutes without being convinced of her 
great powers and of their high cultivation. 
To add to our astonishment (for we had really 
the impertinence to think most places of edu- 
cation within the bills of mortality, and all 
beyond them, mere dens of ignorance,) to 
crush all our prejudices at once, she was just 
come from a country school, where her very 
last act had been tlie representation of Comus. 
Here was a discovery ! In the existing state 
of Miss R.'s fancy, she became convinced that 
Eliza M. owed not only her graceful carriage 
and her fine elocution, but all her talents and 
accomplishments solely to the having sus- 
tained a part in this masque ; and she instant- 
ly resolved to new-model all her ])upils at a 
stroke in the same way. She immediately 
communicated her resolution to Eliza and my- 
self, and left us to consult Mrs. S. on the sub- 
ject. We remained together in high expecta- 
tion, turning over Milton's exquisite poem, 
casting the parts, spouting, admiring, and I, 
between whiles, a little regretting that, though 
tVie very finest thing in the world in its way, 
Comus was not Richard the Third. The re- 
gret was unnecessary ; we were not fated to 
act Comus. Miss R. returned from Mrs. S. 
with the appointed play, the only play which 
that worthy governess vi^ould hear of — the 
only play fit to be acted by young ladies — 
the Search after Happiness, a pastoral drama; 
and the respective idolaters of Milton and 
Shakspeare sate down to the perusal of Mrs. 
Hannah More. Do any of my readers know 
the piece 1 It is a dialogue in rhyme, moral, 
sensible, and well-intentioned, but not very 
dramatic, and not pastoral at all. The story 
may be shnitly told. Four fashionable young 
ladies, sufficiently tired of themselves and of 



the world, go forth into the fields one fine 
morning to seek a venerable elderly lady, 
Urania by name, through whose wisdom they 
expect to be made immediately good and hap- 
py. They have the usual scenic good fortune 
of meeting with the only human being who 
could proj)erly direct them, in the person of a 
certain young shepherdess, called Florella, a 
protegee of Urania, who leads them to her at 
once. She receives the distressed damsels 
kindly ; hears their several confessions, not of 
sins but of propensities ; for they have all, ac- 
cording to Pope's system, a " ruling passion ;" 
gives them good advice and a breakfast ; and 
the piece concludes. It had nearly come to 
an abrupt conclusion in our case. Critics of 
fifteen and sixteen are not remarkably toler- 
ant : and Mrs. Hannah More, though a forci- 
ble prose writer, is, without offence be it 
spoken, no great poet ! and measured with 
Milton — the Search after Happiness com- 
pared to Comus ! Alas for poor Miss R. ! 
within a quarter of an hour after assuming the 
managerial throne, she shared the fate of oiher 
managers, — her two principal actors threw up 
their parts. This fit of disgust was, however, 
rather violent than lasting. Our manager 
soothed and scolded, and reasoned and bribed ; 
and we, after picking this " Pastoral Drama" 
to pieces as thoroughly as ever children picked 
a daisy, began to relent ; listened to reason, 
and finally promised to try ; a condescension 
to which we were induced, partly by the co- 
gent argument that any play was better than 
none, and partly by the promise of real scene- 
ry, new dresses, and splendid decorations. 
The play was now generally announced ; read 
with prodigious applause, (it seemed that we 
two had exhausted the critical carping;) and 
cast in proper form. Eliza accepted Urania, 
stipulating that the speeches should be a good 
deal shortened, especially in the didactic parts ; 
and that the worthy lady should be made con- 
siderably younger. She declared that she 
would not even have acted Comus, if Comus 
had been an old woman ; and, above all, she 
demanded that one expression, which particu- 
larly affronted her, " the goodly dame," should 
be transmuted into " gentle fair," or some such 
elegancy. The four seekers after happiness 
were next to be disposed of. Cleora, the 
leader and talker of the party, fell to my share. 
This Cleora was a learned lady, a blue stock- 
ing of the very first water, and if intended by 
the author, as I suppose it was, for a lesson, 
was sadly thrown away in the present in- 
stance. God knows there was small danger 
of my aspiring after too much knowledge! 
What a pity that Miss Julia, maker of notes, 
writer of short-hand, reporter of lectures, 
should have left school ! She would have 
played Cleora to the life. Siie should have 
staid on purpose, and I dare say she would 
have staid, if she could have foreseen such an 
opportunity of exhibiting the universality of 



EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. 



113 

ing of them nearly overset our play. They 
had been overlooked at first, being- really too 
unimportant to attract attention, and remained 
for two or three days totally forgotten ; till 
Zenobie, our clever dunce, and Charlotte, one 
of our managing triad (her sister Catharine 
was ill or she would have manoeuvred for all 
three), took a fancy to act them, and imme- 
diately preferred a petition to that effect, 
which was readily granted. Nothing could 
equal the consternation of their mamma, elect, 
when she heard this intelligence. To be a 
mamma at all was bad enough ; but to have 
one daughter taller than herself, and another, 
who, though not so tall, looked like an old 
fairy, was not to be endured. She flew to 
Miss R. ; Miss R. was sorry, but she had 
promised. She remonstrated, coaxed, argued, 
threatened, talked of resigning — did resign; 
stiil no relaxation. The whole house was 
splil into factions ; all who knew anything of 
acting felt with poor Urania, that the group- 
ing required absolute children ; all who did 
not, sided with the popular favourites, Zeno- 
bie and Charlotte. At last, after the mana- 
ger's firmness and the prima donna's obstinacy 
had been well tried — after one whole day of 
turmoil and suspense — Charlotte's good-hu- 
mour decided the question. She prevailed on 
Zenobie to join her in withdrawing fheir re- 
quest; and Urania, well chidden for her pre- 
sumption, penitent, but triumphant, resumed 
her part, and at the end of a few days was 
even permitted to choose her children. And 
an excellent choice she made. Our sweet lit- 
tle Irish girl, the sometime Pizarro, who did 
every thing but grow, and at twelve years of 
age looked eight, as at eight she had wit 
enough for twelve-, played the eldest daugh- 
ter; whilst a rosy, curly-pated, laughing brat 
of six, a perfect picture of a child, just like 
one of Sir Joshua's, stepped down from the 
frame, lisped through the youngest to admira- 
tion. Nor were Charlotte and Zenobie forgot- 
ten. The three sisters formed a sort of cho- 
rus of shepherdesses in attendance on Florella, 
and sang and danced at the banquet ; whilst, 
at the end of their dance, Zenobie, exquisitely 
dressed, and armed with a superb garland of 
roses, darted forward and executed a pas seul. 
Such a pas seul! The French dancing-mas- 
ter declared that nothing like that had ever 
been seen in England. It was the only part 
of our play that was encored. 

And now we began to experience, in its 
fullest enchantment, the extraordinary power 
that acting possesses over the human fancy, 
— the total absorption, the artificial import- 
ance, the busy idleness ! The whole school 
was turned topsy-turvy ; nothing was thought 
of or talked of but our play; there was an 
entire pause and intermission of all lessons, 
an universal holiday. Those who did not act 
in the drama were wanted to act audience; 
and the making of paper flowers, the construc- 



her genius. Next came " the fair Euphelia," 
a pretty, vain, coquettish character, which, in 
right of beauty, was consigned to our beauti- 
ful countess. What a mistake was that, too ! 
No one could look at the pure and lofty style 
of her countenance without being convinced 
that vanity was to her an impossible fault ; 
proud she might be, vain she could not ! one 
should as soon have suspected the Apollo Bel- 
videre. The third lady errante, " the gentle 
Laurinda," was much better disposed of. — 
Never was a part more felicitously cast I Our 
Laurinda was a fine, showy girl, tall, plump, 
inert, and languishing, with a fair blooming 
complexion, light sleepy eyes, long flaxen 
hair, and a general comely silliness of aspect. 
Her speech had a characteristic slowness, an 
indolent drawl, all her words were dragged, 
as it were, so that those who did not know 
her were apt to accuse her of affectation. — 
Those who did, saw at once that she was a 
thoroughly well-meaning young person, with 
much good-humour and no want of sense, but 
with an entire absence of energy and applica- 
tion, a capacity of unlearning, a faculty of for- 
getting exactly suited to the part. She was, 
in short, the very Laurinda of the play. 

Last of the quartet w^as Pastorella, a ro- 
mantic nymph always in love. Truly she 
was well suited, too ; having fallen to the lot 
of a very lovely girl, quite an Asiatic beauty, 
who, though not in the least addicted to such 
silly pastime, had an oriental languor in her 
slow and graceful movements, and a depth of 
tenderness in her large black eyes, which gave 
a verisimilitude to her representation of the 
forlorn damsel. She was also an admirable 
musician, and Miss R. determined to call her 
sweet and passionate voice in aid of the illu- 
sion. So she was to sing some fervid Italian 
ditty to the accompaniment of her own harp ; 
which would have just the proper sentimental 
air (your romantic young lady always does 
accompany herself on the harp, especially out 
of doors) and to be drest as much like the he- 
roine of a novel as possible. Then came the 
shepherdess, Florella. We had a charming 
Florella ; a gentle, simple, country girl, whose 
round, slender figure, her golden hair, blue 
eyes, and glowing complexion,, her innocent 
voice, and engaging smile, might have suited 



■ " the prettiest low-born lass that ever 



Ran on the green sward. "- 



She seemed born to wear little white hats 
wreathed with flowers, and jackets laced tight- 
ly to her small trim waist, to weave chaplets, 
tie up nosegays, and twist garlands round her 
crook. 

Our dramatis personse now wanted only the 
two daughters of Urania to be complete. — 
These two daughters might almost have pass- 
ed pour des personnages muefs. They had 
scarcely ten lines between them; — anybody 
might have filled such parts, and yet the fiU- 



10* 



114 



OUR VILLAGE. 



tion of paste-board trellis-work, the painting 
and decorating of Urania's bower, the only 
part of the scenery we managed at home, (all 
the rest was hired from a private theatre) 
found full employment for little and great. 
The actresses were busy enough. Urania had 
her part to study and her dress ; or rather she 
had to reconcile these perplexing contradic- 
tions, — to submit her decorations to the sedate- 
ness of her character, and to take away some- 
what of age and gravity from her character to 
suit the elegance of her costume. Oh the 
coquetry of her point-lace cap ! and the pro- 
fusion and graceful folds of fine Indian mus- 
lin in which she was enveloped ! She looked 
as much like a splendid young bride, and as 
little like a reduced elderly gentlewoman, as 
could be. Besides these weighty and opposing 
considerations, Urania undertook the charge 
of teaching her daughters and the shepherdess 
Florella; and was extra-officially employed 
in giving hints to all parties, from the harp 
mistress, who composed our songs, down to 
the shoemaker who furnished our sandals, — 
from the manager rehearsing, down to Laurin- 
da, trying to learn. The fair Euphelia, too, 
had a double difficulty to encounter, her dig- 
nity and the th. Oh those terrible consonants ! 
she could manage all other English sounds. 
We changed every word we could; but there 
was no dispensing with the thes and the thats; 
so she was forced to go on deing and dating 
so prettily ! we scarcely wished to cure such 
an imperfection, Pastorella's cares were of a 
gentler sort. She was engaged in the plea- 
sant task of selecting the tenderest Italian 
song, and the most romantic trimming that 
fashion would permit. With the first she was 
easily suited ; the last was rather a puzzle. 
First she fixed upon the heart's-ease, whose 
sentimental names, the pensee, and the love 
in idleness, rendered it peculiarly appropriate; 
but the heart's-ease is a daylight flower ; its 
colours require the sun ; and the yellow looks 
white and the purple black by candle-light; 
so that was given up. Then she tried the lily 
of the valley; that was too limp, and hung 
awkwardly ; — then sprigs of myrtle ; they 
were too stiff, and would not hang at all ; so 
that she was fain to lay aside her softer em- 
blems, and content herself with oak-leaves 
and acorns. My troubles lay in a different 
direction. At first I had inwardly grieved 
over the play and the part and the prologue 
(which also fell to my lot) as a sad waste of 
talent : I had fallen into the pretty general 
error of mistaking the love of an art, for the 
power of excelling in it, and had longed to 
come out in Milton or Shakspeare. — But I 
soon discovered, to the great improvement of 
my humility, that The Search after Happi- 
ness was only too good for me ; in short, that 
I was about as bad an actress as ever trod the 
stage. To be sure, I did know my speeches 
by rote, and I also understood the sense of 



them ; I could read the play decently enough ; 
but in acting I was really deplorable ; shame 
and fear and awkwardness had set their mark 
on me ; there was no breaking the spell. My 
hands and arms, especially, were intolerable 
burthens. I never knew what to do w'ith 
them ; and should certainly have resigned in 
despair, but for the relief of a fan in the pro- 
logue, and a most comfortable promise from 
Florella, to pop a nosegay into my hand the 
moment she came on the scene. Nothing less 
could have reconciled me to remaining in the 
company. In proportion as I disappointed 
my own expectations, Urania exceeded them. 
She was, indeed, a consummate actress, in 
voice, person, manner, and expression. A 
pervading and indescribable grace, a fine quick 
intelligence, and a modest confidence, distin- 
guishing every word and motion. I was never 
weary of admiring her. — Perhaps I might al- 
most have envied such powers in any one 
else ; but she was so kind-hearted, bore her 
faculties so meekly, was so ready to advise, 
and so eager to encourage and assist, that she 
quelled the evil spirit. She seemed perfectly 
unconscious of her high superiority; except 
the natural desire not to look too old, she never 
betrayed one spark of vanity through the whole 
piece. 

At last, after a whole month's busy prepa- 
ration, the great day arrived, luckily one of 
the shortest in December; for such a day of 
confusion and unrest and useless bustle I have 
never encountered before or since. From sun- 
rise to sunset we were all running after we 
knew not what, talking, spouting, singing, 
laughing, or crying, without a moment's inter- 
mission. My particular exercise was prac- 
tising a circular curtsy, which I had been 
taught to make as prologue; I curtsied till I 
could hardly stand. Of course we had plenty 
of vexations, besides those which we chose to 
cultivate for our private diversion. First of 
all, the sandals were not finished. In spite 
of three several messsages to the faithless 
shoemaker, the sandals never made their ap- 
pearance till just half an hour after the shep- 
herdesses had accomplished their dance in 
slippers. The fancy dresses of Urania's 
daughters never came at all ; they were forced 
to play in white frocks. Then the decorations 
that did arrive, contrived to be almost as pro- 
voking as those that did not. A stupid milli- 
ner sent Eu])helia a sky-blue plume to wear 
with her pink robe! Pastorella's new stays 
were two inches too large ; Florella's jacket 
was three inches too small ! and the green 
curtain a quarter of a yard too short. There 
was no end to the letting down, the letting out, 
and the taking in of that disastrous day. But 
the most perplexing of all our perplexities was 
occasioned by the innocent but unfortunate 
Laurinda. She had no mother, and was to be 
furnished with a splendid dress by her father's 
sister, viscountess A. We were anxiously 



EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. 



115 



looking out for the expected parcel, the lady 
aunt being in the country, when a letter which 
arrived by post spread a general consternation 
and dismay. This letter, addressed to Lau- 
rinda, franked by the viscount, signed by the 
viscountess, and written by her maid, an- 
nounced that the promised dress would be sent 
by the coach on Thursday, and they hoped 
would fit and please the intended wearer. 
Thursday ! and this "the great, the important 
day" was Tuesday ! Here was a calamity ! 
We examined the letter again and again, spelt 
the word over and over, there it was plain and 
clear, T, h, u, the next letter was rather uncer- 
tain, it looked most like an r, but it might have 
passed for an e, without a loop, or an i, with- 
out a tittle. The Th was there as legible as 
copj)erplate, and never did those two letters 
give greater perturbation to our dear countess, 
and to us the committee of management. 
One of us, however, on a closer perusal of the 
letter, found that "pleased" was spelt 
" plased," and, on examining Laurinda, we 
farther discovered that the waiting gentlewo- 
man was Irish. It might therefore be purely 
an error in spelling, arising from a vicious 
pronunciation. But this conjecture was con- 
sidered as rather super-subtle, and at all events 
we could not comfortably rely even on a 
femme-de-chamhre's false spelling. So we 
held a council on the case, and had just re- 
solved to omit the character altogether, when 
the paraphernalia arrived, and restored the fair 
wearer to the honours of the play-bill. Such 
a dress was worth a little fright; it was equal- 
ly superb and becoming : she looked like a 
peeress, in that magnificent birth-day suit; and 
within a few months she actually became one; 
— the earliest and best married of all our com- 
pany was the gentle Laurinda. 

At last the long and arduous duties of the 
tiring-room were over; and plumed and trained 
and spangled, pearl-powdered, or rouged, as 
fear and novelty made us look red or pale, we 
were safely escorted behind the green curtain, 
and left there by our manager, who resolved 
herself to join the company. Our theatre was 
a lofty spacious saloon, built after the house 
was erected, for the purpose of a dancing-room. 
It was well adapted to our present object, as 
it opened into another apartment by large fold- 
ing doors ; and the two together accommo- 
dated a very numerous and elegant audience. 
We behind the curtain had no way of com- 
municating with the rest of the house except 
through a window, which looked from a con- 
siderable height into the garden. A ladder 
was placed at the window, and a maid servant 
stood within, and the gardener without, to 
perform any service that we might require. 
Miss R. had been much pleased with this 
temporary non-intercourse, this secure caging 
of her little birds ; it was such an assurance 
of their not flying away, of which, in one in- 
stance at least, the danger had seemed immi- 



nent. She did not foresee the calamity \S-\\ 
awaited us. Just as the company were eiter 
ing, and our orchestra beginning a grand con 
certo, Pastorella, who had succeeded in taking 
in her stays till she could scarcely breathe in 
them, Vetween fright and tight lacing, fainted 
away, and water was immediately called for. 
The gardener, whose ideas appear to have been 
rather professional, immediately handed up an 
enormous watering-pot, brimfiiU of the pure 
element, which the housemaid was carrying 
to the fainting lady, when Miss Jane, darting 
along with her usual officiousness, and more 
than her usual speed, in search of a bottle of 
sal volatil, threw poor Pastorella's own harp 
right against the well-loaded housemaid, and 
housemaid, harp, and watering-pot all fell to- 
gether in the middle of the stage. The crash 
was startling : and our manager jumped over 
the foot-lamps to investigate the cause. She 
found the sick damsel roused by the shock in 
time to save her laces, and very wisely engaged 
in washing off her rouge and relieving her 
heart by a plentiful shower of tears. House- 
maid and harp, too, had been picked up un- 
hurt ; but the watering-pot was rolling about 
the stage, and the stage was floated, absolute- 
ly under water. The actresses were scudding 
about to the dry places, full of care for their 
silks and satins, some clinging to the bower, 
others climbing the side-scenes, perched 
amidst boughs and branches, and in great dan- 
ger of bringing the whole forest about our ears. 
It was no time for scolding; so the whole 
chain of delinquents, from the gardener to 
Miss Jane, escaped unchidden ; it was more 
" germane to the matter" to send for cloths and 
mops, and warming-pans, and more house- 
maids, and get the stage dry as soon as possi- 
ble. The cold water had done us all good ; 
it had diverted our thoughts. Even I, in the 
midst of my tribulation, forgot for a moment 
that I was to speak the prologue and to open 
the play; — alas! only for a moment! Our 
manager rejoined the company, the curtain 
drew up, and I advanced to make the famous 
curtsy, with just such a courage as a coward 
may assume, who is placed in the van in bat- 
tle and cannot run away, — the desperate cour- 
age of fear. I think I can feel my heart beat 
now. There was no need of such palpitations. 
The audience came to be indulgent, and they 
were so. The prologue went ofl[* well ; and 
the play on the whole still better. I have not 
left room for particular accidents — and how 
one scene would not go back, or another come 
forward: — how Laurinda was stranded, and 
Urania helped her oif : — how Pastorella's harp 
was untuned by the fall and her voice by the 
crying, and how that untuneable song and the 
oak-leaf trimming won the heart of a young 
post-captain, now her happy spouse: — how 
Florella forgot her crook, and Cleora walked 
through her train : — these, with other notable 
incidents, must remain untold. Suffice it that 



116 



OUR VILLAGE. 



Euphelia's beauty, Urania's acting, and Zeno- 
bie's dancing- bore the bell ; and that after 
them, papas and uncles and grandpapas ad- 
mired each his own. 

Years have passed, and that blooming com- 
pany is scattered far and wide. Some are 
married ; some are dead. But whenever a 
happy chance throws two or three of us to- 
gether, the English teacher and her favourite 
play are sure to be amongst the first, the gay- 
est, and the tenderest of our school-day recol- 
lections. 



A VISIT TO LUCY. 

Lucy, who in her single state bore so strik- 
ing a resemblance to Jenny Dennison in the 
number and variety of her lovers, continued to 
imitate that illustrious original in her married 
life by her dexterous and excellent manage- 
ment, of which I have been lately an amused 
and admiring witness. Not having seen her 
for a long time, tempted by the fineness of the 
day, the first day of summer, and by the plea- 
sure of carrying to her a little housewifery 
present from her sometime mistress, we re- 
solved to take a substantial luncheon at two 
o'clock, and drive over to drink tea with her 
at five, such being, as we well knew, the 
fasliionable visiting hour at S. 

The day was one glow of sunshine, and the 
road wound through a beautiful mixture of 
hill and dale and rich woodland, clothed in 
the brightest foliage, and thickly studded with 
gentlemen's seats, and prettier cottages, their 
gardens gay with the blossoms of the plum 
and the cherry, tossing their snowy garlands 
across the deep blue sky. So we journeyed 
on through pleasant villages and shady lanes 
till we emerged into the opener and totally 
diflTerent scenery of M. Common; a wild dis- 
trict, always picturesque and romantic, but 
now peculiarly brilliant, and glowing with the 
luxuriant orange flowers of the furze in its 
height of bloom, stretching around us like a 
sea of gold, and loading the very air with its 
rich almond odour. Who would have believed 
that this brown, barren, shaggy heath could 
have assumed such splendour, such majesty 1 
The farther we proceeded, the more beautiful 
it appeared, the more gorgeous, the more bril- 
liant. Whether climbing up the steep bank, 
and mixing with the thick plantation of dark 
firs ; or checkered with brown heath or green 
turf on the open plain, where the sheep and 
lambs were straying; or circling round the 
pool covered with its bright white flowers ; or 
edging the dark morass inlaid with the silky 
tufts of the cotton grass; or creeping down 
the deep dell where the alders grow ; or mix- 
ing by the road-side with the shining and va- 
ried bark, now white, now purplish, and the 



light tremulous leaves of the feathery birch- 
tree; — in every form or variety this furze was 
beauty itself. We almost lamented to leave 
it, as we wound down the steep hill of M. 
West-end, that most picturesque village, with 
its long open sheds for broom and fagot- 
making; its little country inn, the Red Lion; 
its pretty school just in the bottom, where the 
clear stream comes bubbling over the road, 
and the romantic foot-bridge is flung across; 
and with cottages straggling up the hill on 
the opposite ascent, orchards backed by mea- 
dows, and the light wreaths of smoke sailing 
along the green hill-side, the road winding 
amidst all, beside another streamlet whose 
deep rust-coloured scum gives token of a cha- 
ly])oate spring. 

Even this sweet and favourite scene, which, 
when I would think of the perfection of vil- 
lage landscape, of a spot to live and die in, 
rises unbidden before my eyes, — this dear and 
cherished picture, which I generally leave so 
reluctantly — was hurried over now, so glad 
were we to emerge once more from its colder 
colouring into the full glory of the waving 
furze on S. Common, brighter even than that 
of M. M'hich we left behind us. Even Lucy's 
house was unheeded till we drove up to the 
door, and found to our great satisfaction, that 
she was at home. 

The three years that have elapsed since her 
marriage, have changed the style of her beau- 
ty. She is grown very fat, and rather coarse; 
and having moreover taken to loud speaking 
(as I apprehend a village schoolmistress must 
do in pure self-defence, that her voice may be 
heard in the melee) our airy sparkling sou- 
brette, although still handsome, has been 
transmuted somewhat suddenly into a bust- 
ling merry country dame, looking her full age, 
if not a little older. It is such a transition as 
a rosebud experiences when turned into a rose, 
such as might befall the pretty coquette mis- 
tress Anne Page when she wedded Master 
Fenton and became one of the merry wives of 
Windsor. Lucy, however, in her dark gown 
and plain cap (for her dress hath undergone 
as much alteration as her person,) her smiles 
and her rosiness, is still as fair a specimen of 
country comeliness as heart can desire. 

We found her very busy, superintending 
the operations of a certain she-tailor, a lame 
woman famous for button-holes, who travels 
from house to house in that primitive district, 
making and repairing men's gear, and who 
was at that moment endeavouring to extract a 
smart waistcoat for our friend the schoolmas- 
ter out of a remnant of calico and a blemished 
waistcoat-piece, which had been purchased at 
half-price for his behoof by his frugal help- 
mate. The more material parts of the cutting 
out had been effected before my arrival, con- 
siderably at the expense of the worthy peda- 
gogue's comfort, although to the probable im- 
provement of his shape ; for certainly the new 



EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. 



117 



fabric promised to be at least an inch smaller 
than the pattern; — that point, however, had 
been by dint of great ingenuity satisfactorily 
adjusted, and I found the lady of the shears 
and the lady of the rod in the midst of a dis- 
pute on the question of buttons, which the tai- 
ioress insisted must be composed of metal or 
mother of pearl, or any thing but covered 
moles, inasmuch as there would be no stuff 
left to cover them ; whilst Lucy on her side 
insisted that there was plenty, that any thing 
(as all the world knew) would suffice to cover 
biittons if people were clever and careful, and 
that certain most diminutive and irregular 
scraps, which she gathered from the table and 
under it, and displaj^ed with great ostentation, 
were amply sufficient for the purpose. "If 
the pieces are not big enough," continued she, 
"you have nothing to do but to join them." 
And as Lucy had greatly the advantage both 
in loudness of voice and tluency of thought 
and word, over the itinerant seamstress, who 
was a woman of slow quiet speech, she car- 
ried her point in the argument most trium- 
phantly, although whether the unlucky waist- 
coat-maker will succeed in stretching her ma- 
terials so as to do the impossible, remains to 
be proved, the button question being still un- 
decided when I left S. 

Her adversary being fairly silenced, Lucy 
laid aside her careful thoughts and busy looks ; 
and leaving the poor woman to her sewing 
and stitching, and a little tidy lass (a sort of 
half-boarder, who acts half as servant, half as 
pupil,) to get all things ready for tea, she pre- 
pared to accompany me to a pleasant coppice 
in the neighbourhood, famous for wild lilies 
of the valley, to the love of which delicate 
tlower, she, not perhaps quite unjustly, attri- 
buted my visit. 

Nothing could be more beautiful than the 
wood where they are found, which we reached 
by crossing first the open common, with its 
golden waves of furze, and then a clover-field 
intensely green, deliciously fresh and cool to 
the eye and the tread. The copse was just in 
its pleasantest state, having luckily been cut 
last year, and being too thinly clothed with 
timber to obstruct the view. It goes sloping 
down a hill, till it is lost in the green depths 
of P. Forest, with an abruptness of descent 
which resembles a series of terraces or rather 
ledges, so narrow that it is sometimes difficult 
to find a space on which to walk. The foot- 
ing is the more precarious, as even the broader 
paths are intersected and broken by hollows 
and caves, where the ground has given way 
and been undermined by fox earths. On the 
steepest and highest of these banks, in a very 
dry unsheltered situation, the lily of the val- 
ley grows so profusely, that the plants almost 
cover the ground with their beautiful broad 
leaves, and the snowy white bells, which en- 
velope the most delicate of odours. All around 
grow the fragile wind-flowers, pink as well as 



white ; the coral blossoms of the whortle-ber- 
ry ; the graceful wood-sorrel ; the pendent 
drops of the stately Solomon's seal, which 
hang like waxen tassels under the full and 
regular leaves ; the bright wood-vetch ; the 
unobtrusive wood roof, whose scent is like 
new hay, and which retains and communi- 
cates it when dried ; and, lastly, those strange 
freaks of nature the orchises, where the por- 
trait of an insect is so quaintly depicted in a 
flower. The bee orchis abounds also in the 
Maple-Durham woods — those woods where 
whilome flourished the two stately but un- 
lovely flowers Martha and Teresa Blount of 
Popish fame, and which are still in the pos- 
session of their family. But, although it is 
found at Maple-Durham as well as in these 
copses of North-Hampshire, yet, in the little 
slip of Berks which divides Hants from Ox- 
fordshire, I have never been able to discover 
it. The locality of flowers is a curious puz- 
zle. The field tulip, for instance, through 
whose superb pendent blossoms checkered 
with puce and lilac the sun shines as glori- 
ously as through stained glass, and which, 
blended with a still more elegant white vari- 
ety, covers whole acres of the Kennet mea- 
dows, can by no process be coaxed into an- 
other habitation, hov/ever apparently similar 
in situation and soil. Treat them as you may, 
they pine and die and disappear. The duke 
of Marlborough only succeeded in naturaliz- 
ing them at White-Knights by the magnificent 
operation of transplanting half an acre of mea- 
dow, grass and earth and all, to the depth of 
two feet! and even there they seem dwin- 
dling. The wood-sorrel, which I was ambi- 
tious of fixing in the shrubberies of our old 
place, served me the provoking trick of living 
a year or two, and bearing leaves, but never 
flowers ; and that far rarer but less beautiful 
plant, the field-star of Bethlehem, — a sort of 
large hyacinth of the hue of the misletoe, 
which, in its pale and shadowy stalk and 
blossom, has something to me awful, un- 
earthly, ghastly, mystical, druidical, — used 
me still worse, not only refusing to grow in a 
corner of our orchard where I planted it, but 
vanishing from the spot where I procured the 
roots, although I left at least twenty times as 
many as I took. 

Nothing is so difficult to tame as a wild 
flower; and wisely so, for they generally lose 
much of their characteristic beauty by any 
change of soil or situation. That very wood- 
sorrel now, which I coveted so much, I saw 
the other day in a green-house ! By what 
chance my fellow amateur persuaded that 
swamp-loving, cold-braving, shade-seeking 
plant to blossom in the very region of light, 
and heat, and dryness, I cannot imagine : but 
there it was in full bloom, as ngly a little 
abortion as ever showed its poor face, smaller 
far than in its native woods, the flowers un- 
veined and colourless, and bolt upright, the 



118 



OUR VILLAGE. 



leaves full spread and stiff, — no umbrella 
fold ! no pendent grace ! no changinCT hue ! 
none but a lover's eye would have recognised 
the poor beauty of the woods in the faded pri- 
soner of the green-house. No caged bird ever 
underwent such a change. I will never try 
to domesticate that pretty blossom again — 
content to visit it in its own lovely haunts, the 
bed of moss or the beech-root sofa. 

The lily of the valley we may perhaps try 
to transplant. The garden is its proper home ; 
it seems thrown here by accident; we cannot 
help thinking it an abasement, a condescen- 
sion. The lily must be transportable. For 
the present, however, we were content to carry 
away a basket of blossoms, reserving till the 
autumn our design of peopling a shady border 
in our own small territories, the identical bor- 
der where in summer our geraniums flourish, 
with that simplest and sweetest of flowers. 

We then trudged back to Lucy's to tea, 
talking by the way of old stories, old neigh- 
bours, and old friends — mixed on her part 
with a few notices of her new acquaintance, 
lively, shrewd, and good-humoured as usual. 
She is indeed a most agreeable and delightful 
person ; I think the lately developed quality 
at which I hinted in my opening remarks, the 
slight tinge of Jenny-Dennison-ism, only ren- 
ders her conversation more piquant and indi- 
vidualised, and throws her merits into sharper 
relief. We talked of old stories and new, and 
soon found she had lost none of her good gifts 
in gossipry ; of her thousand and one lovers, 
about whom, although she has quite left off 
coquetry, she inquired with a kindly interest ; 
of our domestic affairs, and above all of her 
own. She has no children — a circumstance 
which I sometimes think she regrets ; I do not 
know why, except that my dear mother hav- 
ing given her on her marriage, amongst a va- 
riety of parting gifts, a considerable quantity 
of baby things, she probably thinks it a pity 
that they should not be used. And yet the 
expensiveness of children might console her 
on the one hand, and the superabundance of 
them with which she is blest in school-time 
on the other. Indeed she has now the care 
of a charity Sunday-school, in addition to her 
work-day labours — a circumstance which has 
by no means altered her opinion of the inefll- 
cacy and inexpediency of general education. 

I suspect that the irregularity of payment 
is one cause of her dislike to the business ; 
and yet she is so ingenious a contriver in the 
matter of extracting money's worth from those 
who have no money, that we can hardly think 
her unreasonable in re(iuiring the hen-tailor to 
cover buttons out of nothing. Where she can 
get no cash, she takes the debt in kind ; and, 
as most of her employers are in that predica- 
ment, she lives in this respect like the Loo- 
chooans, who never heard of a currency. She 
accommodates herself to this state of things 
with admirable facility. She has sold her 



cow, because she found she could be served 
with milk and butter by the wife of a small 
farmer who has four children at her school; 
and hns parted with her poultry and pigs, and 
left off making bread, because the people of 
i)oth shops are customers to her husband in 
his capacity of shoemaker, and she gets bread, 
and eggs, and bacon for nothing. On the 
same principle she has commenced brewing, 
because the malster's son and daughter attend 
her seminary, and she procured three new bar- 
rels, coolers, tubs, &c. from a cooper who was 
in debt to her husband for shoes. " Shoes," 
or "children," is indeed the constant answer 
to the civil notice which one is accustomed to 
take of any novelty in the house. " Shoes" 
produced the commodious dressing-table and 
washing-stand, coloured like rose-wood, which 
adorn her bed-chamber; " children" were the 
source of the good-as-new roller and wheel- 
barrow which stand in the court; — and to 
" shoes and children" united, are they indebt- 
ed for the excellent double hedge-row of grub- 
bed wood which she took me to see in return- 
ing from the copse — "a brand (as she observed) 
snatched out of the fire ; for the poor man 
who owed them the money must break, and 
had nothing useful to give them except this 
wood, which was useless to him as he had 
not money to get it grubbed up. " If he holds 
on till the autumn," continued Lucy, "we 
shall have a good crop of potatoes from the 
hedge-row. We have planted them on the 
chance." The ornamental part of her terri- 
tory comes from the same fertile source. — 
Even the thrift which adorns the garden (fit 
emblem of its mistress !) was a present from 
the drunken gardener of a gentleman in the 
neighbourhood. " He does not pay his little 
girl's schooling very regularly," quoth she, 
" but then he is so civil, poor man ! anything 
in the garden is at our service." 

" Shoes and children" are the burden of the 
song. The united professions re-act on each 
other in a remarkable manner; — shoes bring 
scholars, and scholars consume shoes. The 
very charity school before mentioned, a profit- 
able concern, of which the payment depends 
on rich people and not on poor, springs indi- 
rectly from a certain pair of purjjle kid boots, 
a capital fit, (I must do our friend, the peda- 
gogue, the justice to say that he understands 
the use of his awl, no man better!) which so 
pleased the vicar's lady, who is remarkable 
for a neat ankle, that she not only gave a 
magnificent order for herself, and caused him 
to measure her children, but actually prevailed 
on her husband to give the appointment of 
Sunday school-master to this matchless cord- 
wainer. I should not wonder, if through her 
powerful patronage, he should one day rise to 
be parish-clerk. 

Well, the tea and the bread and the butter 
were discussed with the appetite produced by 
a two hours' ride and a three hours' walk — to 



DOCTOR TUBB. 



119 



say nothing of the relish communicated to our 
viands by the hearty hospitality of our hostess, 
who "gaily pressed and smiled." And then 
the present, our ostensible errand, a patch- 
work quilt, long the object of Lucy's admira- 
tion, was given with due courtesy, and re- 
ceived with abundance of pleased and blush- 
ing thanks. 

At last the evening began to draw in, her 
husband, who had been absent, returned, and 
we were compelled to set out homewards, and 
rode back with our basket of lilies through a 
beautiful twilight world, inhaling the fra- 
grance of the blossomed furze, listening to 
the nightingales, and talking of Lucy's good 
management. 



DOCTOR TUBB. 

Every country village has its doctor. I 
allude to that particular department of the 
medical world, which is neither physician nor 
surgeon, nor apothecary, although it unites 
the offices of all three; which is sometimes 
an old man, and sometimes an old woman, 
but generally an oracle, and always (with 
reverence be it spoken) a quack. Our village, 
which is remarkabl}'^ rich in functionaries, 
adorned with the true official qualities, could 
hardly be without so essential a personage. 
Accordingly we have a quack of the highest 
and most extended reputation, in the person 
of Dr. Tubb, inventor and compounder of me- 
dicines, bleeder, shaver, and physicker of man 
and beast. 

How this accomplished barber-surgeon came 
by his fame I do not very well knov/ ; his skill 
he inherited (as I have been told) in the fe- 
male line, from his great-aunt Bridget, who 
was herself the first practitioner of the day, 
the wise woman of the village, and bequeath- 
ed to this favourite nephew her blessing, 
Culpepper's Herbal, a famous salve for cuts 
and chilblains, and a still. — This legacy de- 
cided his fate. A man who possessed a lier- 
bal, and could read it without much spelling, 
who had a still and could use it, had already 
the great requisites for his calling. He was 
also blest with a natural endowment, which I 
take to be at least equally essential to the suc- 
cess of quackery of any sort, especially of 
medical quackery ; namely, a prodigious stock 
of impudence. Moliere's hero, — who having 
had the ill-luck to place the heart on the wrong 
side (I mean the right), and being reminded 
of his mistake, says coolly, " tioms avons 
change tout ceki'^ — is modesty itself comjiared 
with the brazen front of Dr. Tubb. And it 
tells accordingly. His patients come to him 
from far and near ; he is the celebrated person 
(rhomme marquant ) of the place. I myself 
have heard of him all my life as a distinguish- 



ed character, although our personal acquaint- 
ance is of a comparatively recent date, and 
began in a manner sufliiciently singular and 
characteristic. 

On taking possession of our present abode, 
about four years ago, we found our garden, 
and all the gardens of the straggling village- 
street in which it is situated, filled, peopled, 
infested by a beautiful flower, which grew in 
such profusion and was so difficult to keep un- 
der, that (poor pretty thing!) instead of being 
admired and cherished and watered and sup- 
ported, as it well deserves to be, and would 
be if it were rare, it is disregarded, affronted, 
maltreated, cut down, pulled up, hoed out, like 
a weed. I do not know the name of this ele- 
gant plant, nor have I met with any one who 
does ; we call it the Spicer, after an old naval 
officer who once inhabited the white house, 
just above, and, according to tradition, first 
brought the seed from foreign parts. It is a 
sort of large veronica, with a profusion of 
white gauzy flowers streaked with red, like 
the apple-blossom. Strangers admire it pro- 
digiously; and so do I — everywhere but in 
my own garden. 

I never saw any thing prettier than a whole 
bed of these spicers, which had clothed the 
top of a large heap of earth belonging to our 
little mason by the road-side. Whether the 
wind had carried the light seed from his gar- 
den, or it had been thrown out in the mould, 
none could tell ; but there grew the plants as 
grass in a meadow, and covered with delicate 
red and white blossoms like a fairy orchard. 
I never passed them without stopping to look i 
at them; and, however accustomed to the 
work of extirpation in my own territories, I 
was one day half shocked to see a man, his 
pockets stuffed with the plants, two huge bun- 
dles under each arm, and still tugging away, 
root and branch. — " Poor pretty flower," 
thought I, " not even suffered to enjoy the 
waste by the road-side ! chased from the very 
common of nature, where the thistle and the 
nettle may spread and flourish! Poor despised 
flower!" This devastation did not, however, 
as I soon found, proceed from disrespect ; the 
spicer-gatherer being engaged in sniffing with 
visible satisfaction to the leaves and stalks of 
the plant, which (although the blossom is 
wholly scentless) emit when bruised a very 
unpleasant smell. "It has a fine venomous 
smell," quoth he, in soliloquy, " and will cer- 
tainly, when stilled, be good for something or 
other." This was my first sight of Doctor 
Tubb. 

We have frequently met since, and are now 
well acquainted, although the worthy experi- 
mentalist considers me as a rival practitioner, 
an interloper, and hates me accordingly. He 
has very little cause. My quackery — for I 
plead guilty to a little of that aptness to offer 
counsel in very plain and common cases, 
which those who live much among poor peo- 



120 



OUR VILLAGE, 



pie, and feel an unaffected interest in their 
health and comfort, can hardly help — my 
quackery, heing- mostly of the cautious, pre- 
ventive, safe side, common sense order, stands 
no chance against the boldness and decision of 
his all-promising ijjnorance. He says, Do ! I 
say. Do not! He deals in stimuli, I in seda- 
tives; I give medicine, he gives cordial waters. 
Alack ! alack ! when could a dose of rhubarb, 
even although reinforced by a dole of good 
broth, compete with a draught of peppermint, 
a licensed dram 1 No I no! Doctor Tubb has 
no cause to fear my practice. 

The only patient I ever won from the worthy 
empiric was his own wife, who had languished 
under his prescriptions for three mortal years, 
and at last stole down in the dusk of the even- 
ing, to hold a private consultation with me. I 
was not very willing to invade the doctor's 
territories in my own person, and really feared 
to undertake a case which had proved so ob- 
stinate ; I therefore offered her a ticket for the 
B. dispensary, an excellent charity, which has 
rescued many a victim from the clutches of 
our herbalist. But she said that her husband 
would never forgive such an affront to his skill, 
he having an especial aversion to the dispen- 
sary and its excellent medical staff, whom he 
was wont to call "book-doctor;" so that wise 
measure was perforce abandoned. My next 
suggestion was more to her taste; I counselled 
her to "throw physic to the dogs ;" she did so, 
and by the end of the week she was another 
woman. I never saw such a cure. Her hus- 
band never made such a one in all the course 
of his practice. By the simple expedient of 
throwing away his decoctions, she is become 
as strong and hearty as I arn. N. B. for fear 
of misconstruction, it is proper to add, that I 
do not in the least accuse or suspect the wor- 
thy doctor of wishing to get rid of his wife — 
God forbid ! He is a tolerable husband, as 
times go, and performs no murders but in the 
way of his profession: indeed I think he is 
glad that his wife should be well again ; yet 
he cannot quite forgive the cause of the cure, 
and continues boldly to assert in all companies, 
that it was a newly discovered fomentation of 
yarhs, applied to her by himself about a month 
before, which produced this surprising re- 
covery ; and I really believe that he thinks 
so ; one secret of the implicit confidence which 
he inspires, is that triumphant reliance on his 
own infallibility with which he is possessed — 
the secret perhaps of all creators of enthusiasm, 
from Mahomet and Cromwell to the 

" Prevailing poet, whose undoubting mind 
Believed the magic wonders that he sang." 

As if to make some amends to this prescriber- 
general for the patient of whom I had deprived 
him, I was once induced to seek his services 
medicall}^ or rather surgically, for one of my 
own family, — for no less a person than May, 
poor pretty May ! One November evening, her 



master being on a coursing visit in Oxfordshire, 
and May having been left behind as too much 
fatigued with a recent hard day's work to stand 
a long dirty journey, (note that a greyhound, 
besides being e^^ceedingly susceptible of bad 
weather and watery ways, is a worse traveller 
than any other dog that breathes; a miserable 
little pug, or a lady's lap-dog, would, in a pro- 
gress of fifty miles, tire down the slayer of 
hares and outrunner of race-horses), — May 
being, as I said, left behind slightly indisposed, 
the boy who has the care of her, no less a per- 
son than the runaway Henry, came suddenly 
into the parlour to tell me that she was dying. 
Now May is not only my pet but the pet of 
the whole house, so that the news spread uni- 
versal consternation ; there was a sudden rush 
of the female world to the stable, and a gene- 
ral feeling that Henry was right, when poor 
May was discovered stretched at full length 
in a stall, with no other sign of life than a 
tremendous and visible pulsation of the arteries 
about her chest — you might almost hear the 
poor heart beat, so violent was the action. — 
"Bleeding!" "She must be bled!" burst 
simultaneously from two of our corps ; and 
immediately her body-servant the boy, who 
stood compromising his dignity by a very un- 
manly shower of tears, vanished and re-ap- 
peared in a few seconds, dragging Doctor TulJb 
by the skirts, who, as it was Saturday night, 
was exercising his tonsorial functions in the 
tap-room of the Rose, where he is accustomed 
to operate hebdomadally on half the beards of 
the parish. 

The doctor made his entry apparently with 
considerable reluctance, enacting for the first 
and last time in his life the part of Le Medecin 
malgre liii. He held his razor in one hand 
and a shaving-brush in the other, whilst a bar- 
ber's apron was tied round the shabby, rusty, 
out-at-elbow, second-hand, black coat, renewed 
once in three years, and the still shabbier black 
breeches, of which his costume usually con- 
sists. In spite of my seeming, as I really 
was glad to see him, a compliment which 
from me had at least the charm of novelty, — 
in spite of a very gracious reception, I never 
saw the man of medicine look more complete- 
ly astray. He has a pale, meagre, cadaverous 
face at all times, and a long lank body that 
seems as if he fed upon his own physic (al- 
though it is well known that gin, sheer gin, 
of which he is by no means sparing, is the 
only distilled water that finds its way down 
his throat) : — but on this night, between fright 
— for Henry had taken possession of him 
without even explaining his errand, — and 
shame to be dragged into my presence whilst 
bearing the insignia of the least dignified of 
his professions, his very wig, the identical 
brown scratch which he wears by way of look- 
ing professional, actually stood on end. He 
was followed by a miscellaneous procession 
of assistants, very kind, very curious, and 



THE BLACK VELVET BAG. 



121 



very troublesome, from that noisy neighbour 
of ours, the well-frequentecl Rose Lin. First 
marched mine host, red-waistcoated and jolly 
as usual, bearing a hu<re foamintr pewter pot 
of double X, a sovereign cure for all sublu- 
nary ills, and lighted by the limping hostler, 
who tried in vain to keep pace with the swift 
strides of his master, and held at arm's length 
before him a smoky horn lantern, which might 
well be called dark. Next tripped Miss Phoebe 
(this misadventure hapjiened before the grand 
event of her marriage with the patten-maker), 
with a flaring candle in one hand and a glass 
of cherry-brandy, reserved by her mother for 
grand occasions, in the other — autre remede ! 
Then followed the motley crew of the tap- 
room, among whom figured my friend Joel, 
with a woman's apron tied round his neck, 
and his chin covered with lather, he having 
been the identical customer — the very shavee, 
whose beard happened to be under discussion 
when the unfortunate interruption occurred. 

After the bustle and alarm had in some mea- 
sure subsided, the doctor marched up gravely 
to poor May, who had taken no sort of notice 
of the uproar. 

" She must be bled !" quoth L 

" She must be fomented and physicked !" 
quoth the doctor; and he immediately pro- 
duced from either pocket a huge bundle of 
dried herbs (perhaps the identical venomous- 
smelling spicer), which he gave to Miss Phcebe 
to make a decoction, secundem arfem, and a 
huge horse-ball, which he proceeded to divide 
into boluses; — think of giving a horse-ball to 
my May ! 

" She must be bled immediately !" said L 

"She must not!" replied the doctor. 

"You shall bleed her!" cried Henry. 

" I won't !" rejoined the doctor. " She shall 
be fo" — inented he would have added ; but her 
faithful attendant, thoroughly enraged, scream- 
ed out, " She sha'n't" and a regular scolding 
match ensued, during which both parties en- 
tirely lost sight of the poor patient, and mine 
host of the Rose had nearly succeeded in ad- 
ministering his specific — the double X, which 
would doubtless have been as fatal as any 
prescription of licentiate or quack. The wor- 
thy landlord had actually forced open her jaws, 
and was about to pour in the liquor, when 1 
luckily interposed in time to give the ale a 
more natural direction down his own throat, 
which was almost as well accustomed to such 
potations as that of Boniface. He was not at 
all 'offended at my rejection of his kindness, 
but drank to my health and May's recovery 
with equal good-will. 

Li the mean time the tumult was ended by 
my friend, the cricketer, who, seeing the turn 
which things were taking, and quite regard- 
less of his own plight, ran down the village 
to the lea, to fetch another friend of mine, an 
old gamekeeper, who set us all to rights in a 
moment, cleared the stable of the curious im- 



pertinents, flung the horse-ball on the dung- 
hill, and the decoction into the pond, bled 
poor May, and turned out the doctor ; after 
which, it is almost needless to say that the 
patient recovered. 



THE BLACK VELVET BAG. 

Have any of my readers ever found great 
convenience in the loss, the real loss, of ac- 
tual tangible property, and been exceedingly 
provoked and annoyed when such property 
was restored to them ? If so, they can sym- 
pathize with a late unfortunate recovery, which 
has brought me to great shame and disgrace. 
There is no way of explaining my calamity 
but by telling the whole story. 

Last Friday fortnight was one of those ano- 
malies in weather with which we English 
people are visited for our sins ; a day of in- 
tolerable wind, and insupportable dust; an 
equinoctial gale out of season; a piece of 
March unnaturally foisted into the very heart 
of May; just as, in the almost parallel mis- 
arrangement of the English counties, one sees 
(perhaps out of compliment to this peculiarity 
of climate, to keep the weather in countenance 
as it were) a bit of Wiltshire plumped down 
in the very middle of Berkshire, whilst a great 
island of the county palatine of Durham 
figures in the centre of canny Northumber- 
land. Be this as it may, on that remarkable 
windy day did I set forth to the good town of 
B., on the feminine errand, called shopping. 
Every lady who lives far in the country, and 
seldom visits great towns, will understand the 
full force of that comprehensive word ; and I 
had not been a shopping for a long time : I 
had a dread of the operation, arising from a 
consciousness of weakness. I am a true 
daughter of Eve, a dear lover of bargains and 
bright colours ; and knowing this, have gene- 
rally been wise enough to keep, as much as I 
can, out of the way of temptation. At last a 
sort of necessity arose for some slight pur- 
chases, in the shape of two new gowns from 
London, which cried aloud for making. Trim- 
mings, ribands, sewing-silk, and lining, all 
were called for. The shopping was inevita- 
ble, and I undertook the whole concern at 
once, most heroically resolving to spend just 
so much, and no more; and half-comforting 
myself that I had a full morning's work of 
indispensable business, and should have no 
time for extraneous extravagance. 

There was, to be sure, a prodigious accu- 
mulation of errands and wants. The evening 
before, they had been set down in great form, 
on a slip of paper, headed thus — "things 
wanted." — To how many and various cata- 
logues that title would apply, from the red 
bench of the peer, to the oaken settle of the 



11 



Q 



122 



OUR VILLAGE. 



cottager — from him who wants a blue riband, 
to him who wants bread and cheese ! My list 
was astounding. It was written in double 
columns, in an invisible hand; the long in- 
tractable words were brought into the ranks 
by the Procrustes mode — abbreviation ; and, 
as we approached the bottom, two or three 
were crammed into one lot, clumped, as the 
bean-setters say, and designated by a sort of 
short-hand, a hieroglyphic of my own inven- 
tion. In good open printing my list would 
have cut a respectable figure as a catalogue, 
too ; for, as I had a given sum to carry to 
market, I amused myself with calculating the 
proper and probable cost of every article ; in 
which process I most egregiously cheated the 
shopkeeper and myself, by copying, with the 
credulity of hope, from the puifs in the news- 
papers, and expecting to buy fine solid wear- 
able goods at advertising prices. In this way 
I stretched my money a great deal farther than 
it would go, and swelled my catalogue; so 
that, at last, in spite of compression and short- 
hand, I had no room for another word, and 
was obliged to crowd several small but import- 
ant articles, such as cotton, laces, pins, needles, 
shoe-strings,,.&c. into that very irregular and 
disorderly storehouse — that place where most 
things deposited are lost — my memory, by 
courtesy so called. 

The written list was safely consigned, with 
a well-filled purse, to my usual repository, a 
black velvet bag ; and, the next morning, I 
and my bag, with its nicely-balanced contents 
of wants and money, were safely conveyed in 
a little open carriage to the good town of B. 
There I dismounted, and began to bargain 
most vigorously, visiting the cheapest shops, 
cheapening the cheapest articles, yet wisely 
buying the strongest and the best; a little 
astonished at first, to find everything so much 
dearer than I had set it down, yet soon recon- 
ciled to this misfortune by the magical influ- 
ence which shopping possesses over a wo- 
man's fancy — all the sooner reconciled, as the 
monitory list lay unlocked at, and uiithought 
of, in its grave receptacle, the black velvet 
bag. On I went, with an air of cheerful busi- 
ness, of happy importance, till my money be- 
gan to wax small. Certain small aberrations 
had occurred, too, in my economy. One ar- 
ticle that had happened, by rare accident, to 
be below my calculation, and, indeed, below 
any calculation, calico at ninepence, fine, thick, 
strong, wide calico at ninepence, (did ever 
man hear of anything so cheap!) absolutely 
enchanted me, and I took the whole piece : 
then, after buying for M. a gown, according 
to order, I saw one that I liked better, and 
bought that, too. Then I fell in love, was 
actually captivated by a sky-blue sash and 
handkerchief, — not the poor, thin, greeny co- 
lour which usually passes under that disho- 
noured name, but the rich, full tint of the 
noon-day sky ; and a cap-riband, really pink, 



that might have vied with the inside leaves 
of a moss-rose. Then, in hunting after cheap- 
ness, I got into obscure shops, where, not 
finding what I asked for, I was fain to take 
something that they had, purely to make a 
proper compensation for the trouble of lugging 
out drawers, and answering questions. — Last- 
ly, I was fairly coaxed into some articles by 
the irresistibility of the sellers, — by the de- 
mure and truth-telling look of a pretty Quaker, 
who could almost have persuaded the head off 
one's shoulders, and who did persuade me 
that ell-wide muslin would go as far as yard 
and a half: and by the fluent impudence of a 
lying shopman, who, under cover of a well- 
darkened window, affirmed, on his honour, that ! 
his brown satin was a perfect match to my ; 
green pattern, and forced the said satin down \ 
my throat accordingly. With these helps, my 
money melted all too fast: at half past five 
my purse was entirely empty ; and, as shop- 
ping with an empty purse has by no means 
the relish and savour of shopping with a full 
one, I was quite willing and ready to go home 
to dinner, pleased as a child with my pur- 
chases, and wholly unsuspecting the sins of 
omission, the errands unperformed, which were 
the natural result of my unconsulted memo- 
randa and my treacherous memory. 

Home I returned, a happy and proud wo- 
man, wise in my own conceit, a thrifty fashion- 
monger, laden, like a pedlar, with huge pack- 
.ages in stout brown holland, tied up with 
whipcord, and genteel little parcels, papered 
and packthreaded in shopmanlike style. At 
last we were safely stowed in the pony-chaise, 
which had much ado to hold us, my little 
black bag lying, as usual, in my lap ; when, 
as we ascended the steep hill out of B., a sud- 
den pufF of wind took at once my cottage-bon- 
net and my large cloak, blew the bonnet off 
my head, so that it hung behind me, suspend- 
ed by the riband, and fairly snapped the string 
of the cloak, which flew away, much in the 
style of John Gilpin's, renowned in story. — 
My companion pitying my plight, exerted him- 
self manfully to regain the fly-away garments, 
shoved the head into the bonnet, or the bonnet 
over the head (I do not know which phrase 
best describes the manoeuvre,) with one hand, 
and recovered the refractory cloak with the 
other. This last exploit was certainly the 
most difficult. It is wonderful what a tug he 
was forced to give, before that obstinate cloak 
could be brought round : it was swelled with 
the wind like a bladder, animated, so to say, 
like a living thing, and threatened to carry 
pony and chaise, and riders and packages, 
backwards down the hill, as if it had been a 
sail, and we a ship. At last the contumacious 
garment was mastered. We righted ; and, 
by dint of sitting sideways, and turning my 
back on my kind comrade, I got home without 
any farther damage than the loss of my bag, 
which, though not missed before the chaise 



WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. 



123 



had been unloaded, had undoubtedly gone by 
the board in the gale; and I lamented my old 
and trusty companion, without in the least 
foreseeing the use it would probably be of to 
my reputation. 

Immediately after dinner (for in all cases, 
even when one has bargains to show, dinner 
must be discussed) I produced my purchases. 
They were much admired ; and ihe quantity, 
when spread out in our little room, being alto- 
gether dazzling, and the quality satisfactory, 
the cheapness was never doubted. — Every- 
body thought the bargains were exactly such 
as 1 meant to get — for nobody calculated ; and 
the bills being really lost in the lost bag, and 
the particular prices just as much lost in my 
memory (the ninepenny calico was the only 
article whose cost occurred to me,) I passed, 
without telling anything like a fib, merely by 
a discreet silence, for the best and thriftiest 
bargainer that ever went shopping. After 
some time spent very pleasantly, in admira- 
tion on one side, and display on the other, we 
were interrupted by the demand for some of 
the little articles which I had forgotten. — 
" The sewing-silk, please ma'am, for my mis- 
tress's gown." " Sewing-silk ! I don't know 
— look about." Ah, she might look long 
enough ! — no sewing-silk was there. — '' Very 
strange !" Presently came other inquiries — 
"Where's the tap'j, Maryl" "The tape!" 
" Yes, my dear ; and the needles, pins, cot- 
ton, stay-laces, boot-laces;" — "the bobbin, 
the ferret, shirt-buttons, shoe-strings ]" quoth 
she of the sewing-silk, taking up the cry ; and 
forthwith began a search as bustling, as active, 
and as vain, as that of our old spaniel. Brush, 
after a hare that has stolen away from her 
form. At last she suddenly desisted from her 
rummage — " Without doubt, ma'am, they are 
in the re'iicule, and all lost," said she, in a 
very pathetic tone. " Really," cried I, a lit- 
tle conscience-stricken, " I don't recollect; — 
perha}»s I might forget." " Depend on it, my 
love, that Harriet's right,"" interrupted one 
whose injunctions are always kind; "those 
are just the little articles that people put in 
reticules, and yon never could forget so many 
things ; besides, you wrote them down." " I 
don't know — I am not sure." — But I was not 
listened to; — Harriet's conjecture had been 
metamorphosed into a certainty ; all my sins 
of omission were stowed in the reticule; and, 
before bed-time, the little black bag held for- 
gotten things enough to fill a sack. 

Never was a reticule so lamented by all but 
its owner; a boy was immediately desiiatched 
to look for it, and on his return em[)ly-handed, 
there was even a talk of having it cried. My 
care, on the other hand, was all directed to 
prevent its being found. I had the good luck 
to lose it in a suburb of B. renowned for filch- 
ing, and I remembered that the street was, at 
that moment, full of people : the bag did ac- 
tually contain more than enough to tempt those 



who were naturally disposed to steal for steal- 
ing's sake ; so I went to bed in the comforta- 
ble assurance that it was gone for ever. But 
there is nothing certain in this world — not 
even a thief's dishonesty. Two old women, 
who had pounced at once on my valuable pro- 
perty, quarrelled about the plunder, and one 
of them, in a fit of resentment at being cheat- 
ed in her share, went to the mayor of B. and 
informed against her companion. The mayor, 
an intelligent and active magistrate, imme- 
diately took the disputed bag, and all its con- 
tents, into his own possession ; and as he is 
also a man of great politeness, he restored it 
as soon as possible to the right owner. The 
very first thing that saluted my eyes, when I 
awoke in the morning, was a note from Mr. 
Mayor, with a sealed packet. The fatal truth 
was visible; I had recovered my reticule, and 
lost my reputation. — There it lay, that identi- 
cal black bag, with its name-tickets, its cam- 
bric handkerchief, its empty purse, its uncon- 
sulted list, its thirteen bills, and its two letters ; 
one from a good sort of lady-farmer, inquiring 
the character of a cook, with half a sonnet 
written on the blank pages ; the other from a 
literary friend, containing a critique^ on the 
plot of a play, advising me not to kill the king 
too soon, with other good counsel, such as 
might, if our mayor had not been a man of 
sagacity, have sent a poor authoress, in a 
Mademoiselle-Scuderi-mistake, to the Tower. 
That catastrophe w'ould hardly have been 
worse than the real one. All my omissions 
have been found out. My price-list has been 
compared with the bills. I have forfeited my 
credit for bargaining. I am become a by-word 
for forgetting. Nobody trusts me to purchase 
a paper of pins, or to remember the cost of a 
penny riband. I am a lost woman. My bag 
is come back, but my fame is gone. 



WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. 

THE DELL. 

May 2d. — A delicious evening ; bright sun- 
shine; light summer air ; a sky almost cloud- 
less ; and a fresh yet delicate verdure on the 
hedges and in the fields: — an evening that 
seems made for a visit to my newly-discover- 
ed haunt, the mossy dell, one of the most 
beautiful s])ots in the neighbourhood, which, 
after passing times out of number the field 
which it terminates, we found out about two 
months ago, from the accident of May's kill- 
ing a rabbit there. May has had a fancy for 
the place ever since ; and so have I. 

Thither, accordingly, we bend our way ; 
through the village ; — up the hill ; — along the 
common ; — past the avenue ; — across the 
bridge ; and by the mill. How deserted the 



124 



OUR VILLAGE. 



road is to-nicrht ! We have not seen a sing'le 
acquaintance, except poor blind Robert, laden 
with his sack of grass plucked from the hedges, 
and the little boy that leads him. A sincrular 
division of labour ! Little Jem truides Robert 
to the spot where the long grass grows, and 
tells him where it is most plentiful ; and then 
the old man cuts it close to the roots, and be- 
tween them they fill the sack and sell the con- 
tents in the village. Half the cows in the 
street — for our baker, our ■wheelwright, and 
our shoemaker, has each his Alderney — owe 
the best part of their maintenance to blind 
Robert's industry. 

Here we are at the entrance of the corn-field 
which leads to the dell, and which commands 
so fine a view of the Loddon, the mill, the 
great farm, with its picturesque outbuildings, 
and the range of woody hills beyond. It is 
impossil)le not to pause a moment at that gate, 
the landscape, always beautiful, is so suited 
to the season and the hour, — so bright, and 
gay, and spring-like. But May, who has the 
chance of another rabbit in her pretty head, 
has galloped forward to the dingle, and poor 
May, who follows me so faithfully in all my 
wanderings, has a right to a little indulgence 
in hers. So to the dingle we go. 

At the end of the field, which when seen 
from the road seems terminated by a thick dark 
coppice, we come suddenly to the edge of a 
ravine, on one side fringed with a low growth 
of alder, birch, and willow, on the other mossy, 
turfy, and bare, or only broken by bright tufts 
of blossomed broom. One or two old pollards 
almost conceal the vi^inding road that leads 
down the descent, by the side of which a 
spring as bright as crystal runs gurgling along. 
The dell itself is an irregular piece of broken 
ground, in some parts very deep, intersected 
by two or three high banks of equal irregular- 
ity, now abrupt and bare and rocklike, now 
crowned with tufts of the feathery willow or 
magnificent old thorns. Everywhere the earth 
is covered by short fine turf, mixed with 
mosses, soft, beautiful, and various, and em- 
bossed with the speckled leaves and lilac flow- 
ers of the arum, the paler blossoms of the 
common orchis, the enamelled blue of the wild 
hyacinth, so splendid in this evening light, and 
large tufts of oxlips and cowslips rising like 
nosegays from the short turf. 

The ground on the other side of the dell is 
iriucii lower than the field through which we 
came, so that it is niainlyto the labyrinthine 
intricacy of these high banks that it owes its 
singular character of wildness and variety. 
Now we seem hemmed in by those green cliffs, 
shut out from all the world, with nothing visi- 
ble but those verdant mounds and the deep 
blue sky ; now by some sudden turn we get a 
peep at an adjoining meadow where the sheep 
are lying, dappling its sloping surface like the 
small clouds on the summer heaven. Poor 
harmless quiet creatures, how still they are! 



Some socially lying side by side ; some 
grouped in threes and fours; some quite apart. 
Ah ! there are lambs amongst them — pretty, 
pretty lambs ! — nestled in by their mothers. 
Soft, quiet, sleepy things ! Not all so quiet 
though ! There is a party of these young 
latnbs as wide awake as heart can desire; half 
a dozen of them playing together, frisking, 
dancing, leaping, butting, and crying in the 
young voice, which is so pretty a diminutive 
of the full-grown bleat. How beautiful they 
are with their innocent spotted faces, their 
mottled feet, their long curly tails, and their 
light flexible forms, frolicking like so many 
kittens, but with a gentleness, an assurance of 
sweetness and innocence which no kitten, no- 
thing that ever is to be a cat, can have. How 
complete and perfect is their enjoyment of 
existence ! Ah ! little rogues ! your play has 
been too noisy ; you have awakened your , 
mammas ; and two or three of the old ewes are ; 
getting up ; and one of them marching gravely ' 
to the troop of lambs has selected her own, ! 
given her a gentle butt, and trotted off; the i 
poor rebuked lamb following meekly, but 
every now and then stopping and casting a | 
longing look at its playmates; who, after a! 
moment's awed pause, had resumed their 
gambols ; whilst the stately dam every now 
and then looked back in her turn, to see that | 
her little one was following. At last she lay i 
down and the lamb by her side. I never saw 
so pretty a pastoral scene in my life.* 

Another turning of the dell gives a glimpse 
of the dark coppice by which it is backed, and 
from which we are separated by some marshy, 
rushy ground, where the springs have formed 
into a pool, and where the moor-hen loves to 



* I have since seen one which affected me much 
more. Walking in the Church-lane with one of the 
young ladies of the vicarage, we met a large flock of 
sheep vv'ith the usual retinue of shepherds and dogs. 
Lingering after them and almost out of sight, we en- 
countered a stragghng ewe, now trotting along, now 
walking, and every now and then slopping lo look 

I back and bleating. A little hehind her came a lame 
lamb, bleating occasionally, as if in answer to its dam, 
and doing its very best to keep up with her. It was 
a lameness of both the fore feet; the knees were bent, 
and it seemed to walk on the very edge of the hoof — 
on tip-toe, if I may venture such an expression. My 

I young friend thought that the lameness proceeded 
from original malformation: I am ratherof opinion that 
it was accidenial, and that the poor creauire was 
wretchedly iboi-sore. However that might be, the 
pain and difficulty with which it took every step were 
not to he mistaken; and the distress and fondness of 
the mother, lier perplexity as the flock passed gradu- 
ally out of sight, the eftort with which the poor lamb i 
contrived to keep up a sort of trot, and iheir mutual 
calls and lamentations were really so aflecting, that 
Ellen and I, allhongh not at all larnioyr.nle sort of J 
people, had much ado not lo cry. We could nnl find ^ 
a boy to carry the lamb, which was too big for us to 
manage; bui I was quite sure that the ewe would | 
not desert it, and as the dark was coming on, we both I 
irnsiod that the shepherds on folding ihoir flock would j 
miss them and return for them ; and so 1 am happy to 
say it proved. I 



WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. 



125 



build her nest. Ay, there is one scudding 
away now; — I can hear her plash into the 
water, and the rustling of her wings amongst 
the rushes. This is the deepest part of the 
wild dingle. How uneven the ground is I 
Surely these excavations, now so thoroughly 
clothed with vegetation, must originally have 
been huge gravel-pits ; there is no other way 
of accounting for the labyrinth, for they do 
dig gravel in such capricious meanders ; but 
the quantity seems incredible. Well ! there 
is no end of guessing ! We are getting amongst 
the springs, and must turn back. Round this 
corner, where on ledges like fairy terraces the 
orchises and arums grow, and we emerge sud- 
denly on a new side of the dell, just fronting 
the small homestead of our good neighbour 
Farmer Allen. 

This rustic dwelling belongs to what used 
to be called in this part of the country " a lit- 
tle bargain :" thirty or forty acres, perhaps, of 
arable land, which the owner and his sons 
cultivated themselves, whilst the wife and 
daughters assisted in the husbandry and eked 
out the slender earnings by the produce of the 
dairy, the poultry-yard and the orchard ; an 
order of cultivators now passing rapidly away, 
but in which much of the best part of the 
English character, its industry, its frugality, 
its sound sense, and its kindness might be 
found. Farmer Allen himself is an excellent 
specimen, the cheerful venerable old man with 
his long white hair, and his bright grey eye ; 
and his wife is a still finer. They have had 
a hard struggle to win through the world and 
keep their little property undivided ; but good 
management and good principles and the as- 
sistance afforded them b)^ an admirable son, 
who left our village a poor 'prentice boy, and 
is now a partner in a great house in London, 
have enabled them to overcome all the diffi- 
culties of these trying times, and they are now 
enjoying the peaceful evening of a well-spent 
life, as free from care and anxiety as their best 
friends could desire. 

Ah ! there is Mrs. Allen in the orchard, the 
beautiful orchard, with its glorious garlands 
of pink and white, its pearly pear-blossoms 
and coral apple buds. What a flush of bloom 
it is ! How brightly delicate it appears, thrown 
into strong relief by the dark house and the 
weather-stained barn, in this soft evening light. 
The very grass is strewed with the snowy 
petals of the pear and the cherry. And there 
sits Mrs. Allen, feeding her poultry, with her 
three little grand-daughters from London, 
pretty fairies from three years old to five 
(only two and twenty months elapsed be- 
tween the birth of the eldest and the young- 
est) playing round her feet. 

Mrs. Allen, my dear Mrs. Allen, has been 
that rare thing a beauty, and although she be 
now an old woman, I had almost said that she 
is so still. Why should I not say so? No- 
bleness of feature and sweetness of expression 



are surely as delightful in age as in youth. 
Her face and figure are much like those which 
are stamped indelibly on the memory of every 
one who ever saw that grand specimen of 
woman, Mrs. Siddons. The outline of Mrs. 
Allen's face is exactly the same; but there is 
more softness, more gentleness, a more femi- 
nine composure in the eye and in the smile. 
Mrs. Allen never played Lady Macbeth. Her 
hair, almost as black as at twenty, is parted 
on her large fair forehead and combed under 
her exquisitely neat and snowy cap. A muslin 
neck-kerchief, a grey stuff gown, and a white 
apron complete the picture. 

There she sits under an old elder tree which 
flings its branches over her like a canopy, 
whilst the setting sun illumines her venerable 
figure and touches the leaves with an emerald 
light; there she sits placid and smiling, with 
her spectacles in her hand and a measure of 
barley on her lap, into which the little girls 
are dipping their chubby hands and scattering 
the corn amongst the ducks and chickens with 
unspeakable glee. But those ingrates the 
poultry don't seem so pleased and thankful as 
they ought to be ; they mistrust their young 
feeders. All domestic animals dislike chil- 
dren, partly from an instinctive fear of their 
tricks and their thoughtlessness, partly, I sus- 
pect, from jealousy. Jealousy seems a strange 
tragic passion to attribute to the inmates of the 
basse cour, — but only look at that strutting 
fellow of a bantam cock (evidently a favourite) 
who sidles up to his old mistress with an air 
half affronted and half tender, turning so scorn- 
fully from the barley-corns which Annie is 
flinging towards him, and say if he be not as 
jealous as Othello'? Nothing can pacify him 
but Mrs. Allen's notice and a dole from her 
hand. See, she is calling to him and feeding 
him, and now how he swells out his feathers, 
and flutters his wings, and erects his glossy 
neck, and struts and crows and pecks, proud- 
est and happiest of bantams, the pet and glory 
of the poultry-yard ! 

In the mean time my own pet May, who 
has all this while been peeping into every 
hole, and penetrating every nook and winding 
of the dell, in hopes to find another rabbit, has 
returned to my side and is sliding her snake- 
like head into my hand, at once to invite the 
caress which she likes so well, and to inti- 
mate with all due respect that it is time to go 
home. The setting sun gives the same warn- 
ing; and in a moment we are through the dell, 
the field and the gate, past the farm and the 
mill, and hanging over the bridge that crosses 
the Loddon river. 

What a sunset ! how golden ! how beauti- 
ful ! The sun just disappearing, and the nar- 
row liny clouds which a few minutes ago lay 
like soft vapoury streaks along the horizon 
lighted up with a golden splendour that the 
eye can scarcely endure, and those still softer 

clouds which floated above them wreathing 

, . !Ll 



11* 



126 



OUR VILLAGE 



and curling- into a thousand fantastic forms, as 
thin and changeful as summer smoke, now 
defined and deepened into grandeur and edged 
with ineffable, insufferable light ! Another 
minute and the brilliant orb totally disappears, 
and the sky above grows every moment more 
varied and more beautiful as the dazzling 
golden lines are mixed with glowing red and 
gorgeous purple, dappled with small dark 
specks and mingled with such a blue as the 
ecrcr of the hedge-sparrow. To look up at 
that glorious sky, and then to see that mag- 
nificent picture reflected in the clear and lovely 
Loddon water, is a pleasure never to be de- 
scribed and never forgotten. My heart swells 
and my eyes fill as I write of it, and think of 
the immeasurable majesty of nature, and the 
unspeakable goodness of God, who has spread 
an enjoyment so pure, so peaceful, and so in- 
tense, before the meanest and the lowliest of 
His creatures. 



EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. 

FRENCH EMIGRANTS. 

During the time that I spent at school, I 
was in the habit of passing the interval, from 
Saturday afternoon to Monday morning, at 
the house of a female relative who resided in 
London. This lady had married a French 
emigrant of high family, who, being a man 
of sense and ability, applied himself with 
diligence to mercantile pursuits, dropped his 
title, anglicised his name and habits, and, by 
dint of his own talents and his wife's fortune, 
soon became a thriving- man on 'Change. I 
believe he would have been very sorry to ex- 
change his new station for his old, his credit 
at Lloyd's for his marquisate, his house in 
Brunswick-square for his Norman chateau, or 
his little wife for any thing. He was be- 
come at all points an Englishman, ate roast- 
beef and plum-pudding with a truly national 
relish, drank Port wine and porter, spoke our 
language almost like a native, read Pope, 
talked of Shakspeare, and pretended to read 
Milton. Could complaisance go farther? 

He did not, however, in his love for his 
adopted country, forget that in which he was 
born : still less did he neglect the friends and 
countrymen, who, less fortunate than himself, 
languished in London and the suburbs in a 
misfTable and apparently hopeless poverty. 
Noticing could exceed the kindness and polite- 
ness, with which all whom he had ever known, 
and many who were now first introduced to 
him, were received by himself and his good 
little wife at their hos[)itable table. Seldom 
a day passed without one or more guests 
dropping in, sure of the most cordial welcome ; 
but Saturday was the regular French day; on 
that day there was always a petit souper for 



Mr. S.'s especial coterie ; and in the evening 
the conversation, music, games, manners, and 
cookery, were studiously and decidedly French. 
Trictrac superseded chess or backgammon, 
reversi took the place of whist, Gretry of 
Mozart, Racine of Shakspeare ; omelettes and 
salads. Champagne moussu, and eau sucre, 
excluded sandwiches, oysters, and porter. 

At these suppers their little school-gir' 
visiter of course assisted, though at first 
rather in the French than the English sense 
of the word. I was present indeed, but had 
as little to do as possible either with speaking 
or eating. To talk French and to discuss 
French dishes (two evils which I constantly 
classed together) seemed to me an actual in- 
sult on that glorious piece of British freedom, 
a half-holiday, — a positive attack on the 
liberty of the subject. Accordingly, as far as 
a constant repetition of blushing noes (not 
nons) inwardly angry and outwardly shy, 
could proclaim my displeasure, I did not fail. 
Luckily the sentiment was entirely unsus- 
pected by every one but my good cousin, a 
person of admirable sense, who by dint of 
practising the let-alone system (the best sys- 
tem of all when prejudice is to be overcome,) | 
aided by a little innocent artifice on her part, 
and something of latent curiosity, abetted by 
the keenness of a girlish appetite, on mine, 
succeeded in passing off a slice of a superb 
fete du sanglier for a new sort of Oxford 
brawn ; and then, as in the matter of heads 
and suppers ce ii'esi que le premier pas gut 
cotife, left it to my own senses to discover the 
merits of brioche and marrangles and eau 
de groseille. In less than three months I be- 
came an efficient consumer of good things, 
left off my noes and my sulkiness, and said 
" oui, monsieur," and, " merci, madame," as 
often as a little girl of twelve years old ought 
to say any thing. 

I confess, however, that it took more time 
to reconcile me to the party round the table, 
than to the viands with which it was covered. 
In truth they formed a motley group, remind- 
ed me now of a masquerade and then of 
a puppet-show; and, although I had been 
brought up in habits of proper respect for 
rank and age and poverty, yet there were 
contrasts and combinations about these cote- 
ries too ridiculous not to strike irresistibly the 
fancy of an acute observing girl, whose per- 
ception of the ridiculous was rendered keener 
by an invincible shyness which confined the 
enjoyment entirely to her own breast. The 
etiquette, the rouge, the coquetry, the self- 
importance of these poor draggle-tailed duch- 
esses and countesses ; the buttoned-up crosses, 
the bows and shrugs of their out-at-elbow 
dukes and counts; their mutual flatteries, 
their court jealousies and court hatreds, but- 
toned up like the crosses, but like them peep- 
ing out from the breast, the total oblivion 
which pervaded the whole party of poor 



EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. 



127 



Eng-land and all its concerns, the manner in 
which they formed a little nation in the midst 
of London, and the comfortable vanity which 
thoutrht and called that little circle of emi- 
grants the ijreat nation ; all this, together with 
the astounding rapidity and clatter of tongues, 
the vehemence of gesticulation, and the gene- 
ral sharp and withered look of so many foreign 
faces, working in every variety of strong ex- 
pression, formed a picture so new and amusing, 
that I may be pardoned if I did not at first ful- 
ly appreciate the good-humoured resignation, 
the cheerful philosophy, which bore all that 
they had lost so well, and found so much 
comfort in the little that remained ; the happy 
art of making the best of things, which ren- 
dered even their harmless personal vanity, 
their pride in a lost station, and their love of 
a couutry which they might never see again, 
pleasant and respectable. 

At first I only looked on them in the group ; 
but I soon learned to individualize the more 
constant visiters, those who had been, ten 
years before, accustomed to spend their even- 
ings in the superb hotel of the Duchess D***, 
glittering with gilding and lined with mirrors, 
and whose gayest and most splendid meetings 
were now held in the plain undecorated draw- 
ing-room of a substantial merchant in Bruns- 
wick-square. I shall attempt to sketch a fev/ 
of them as they then appeared to me, begin- 
ning, as etiquette demands, with the duchess. 

She was a tall meagre woman, of a certain 
age (that is to say, on the wrong side of sixty), 
with the peculiarly bad unsteady walk, some- 
thing between a trip and a totter, that French- 
women of rank used to acquire from their high 
heels and the habit of never using their feet. 
Her face bore the remains of beauty, and 
would still have been handsome, had not the 
thin cheeks and hollow eyes, and the pale 
trembling lips contrasted almost to ghastli- 
ness by a quantity of glaring rouge, and very 
white teeth, constantly displayed by a smile 
originally, perhaps, artificial, but which long 
habit had rendered natural. Her dress was 
always simple in its materials, and delicately 
clean. She meant the fashion to be English, 
I believe, — at least she used often to say, " me 
voild mise a VJlngloise-'^ but as neither herself, 
nor her faithful femme de chambre., could or 
would condescend to seek for patterns from 
les grosses bourgeoises de ce Londres Id bas, 
they unconsciously relapsed into the old French 
shapes ; and madame la duchesse, in her hide- 
ous shrouding cap, with frills like flounces, 
and her long-waisted, pigeon-breasted gown, 
might really have served for a model of the 
fashion of Paris at the epoch of the emigra- 
tion. Notwithstanding these take-offs, our 
good duchess had still the air of a lady of 
rank and a gentlewoman, — a French gentle- 
woman ; for there was too much coquetry and 
affectation, too pervading a consciousness, for 
English gentility. Her manner was very 



pleasant and affable towards her usual asso- 
ciates, and with strangers, condescending, 
protecting, gracious ; making remarks and 
asking questions without waiting for answers, 
in the manner usual with crowned heads. She 
contracted this habit from having at one time 
of her life enjoyed great influence at court, — 
an influence which, with her other advantages 
of rank and fortune, had been used so kindly 
as to retain friends and secure gratitude even 
in the heat of the Revolution. — Most amply 
did she repay this gratitude. It was beautiful 
to hear the ardent thankfulness with which 
she would relate the story of her escape, and 
the instances of goodness and devotion which 
met her at every step. She accounted herself 
the most fortunate of women, for having, in 
comj>any with a faithful femme de chambre, at 
last contrived to reach England, with jewels 
enough concealed about their persons to pur- 
chase an annuity sufiicient to secure them a 
snug apartment up two pair of stairs in a re- 
tired street, and to keep them in soups and 
salad, with rouge and snuff into the bargain. 
No small part of her good fortune w^as the 
vicinity of her old friend, the Marquis L., a 
little thin withered old man, with a prodigious 
mobility of shoulders and features, a face puck- 
ered with wrinkles, and a prodigious volubility 
of tongue. — This gentleman had been ma- 
dame's devoted beau for the last forty years; 
— I speak it in all honour, for, beautiful as she 
had been, the breath of scandal never glanced 
on the fair faine of the duchess. They could 
not exist without an interchange of looks and 
sentiments, a mutual intelligence, a gentle 
gallantry on the one side, and a languishing 
listening on the other, which long habit had 
rendered as necessary to both as their snuff- 
box or their coffee. It really was a peculiar 
stroke of good fortune, that, after a separation 
of eight months, each fearing that the other 
had fallen by the guillotine, caused them to 
take lodgings in adjoining streets in the same 
parish. 

The next person in importance to the duch- 
ess was Madame de V., sister to the marquis. 
Perhaps (though she had never filled a ta- 
bouret at Versailles,*) she was, in the exist- 
ing state of things, rather the greater lady of 
the two. Her husband, who had acted in a 
diplomatic capacity in the stormy days pre- 
ceding the Revolution, still maintained his 
station at the exiled court, and was, at the 
moment of which I write, employed on a se- 
cret embassy to an unnamed potentate ; some 
thought one emperor or king, some another, 
some guessed the pope, and some the grand 
seignor ; for, in the dearth of Bourbon news, 
this mysterious mission excited a lively and 
animated curiosity amongst these sprightly 
people. It was a pretty puzzle for them, a 

* A privilege annexed to the rank of duchess ; that 
of being seated in the royal presence. 



128 



OUR VILLAGE. 



conundrum to their taste. Madame kept the 
secret well, — if she knew it, I rather suspect 
she did not; she talked so very much that it 
certainly would have escaped her. In person 
she was quite a contrast to the duchess ; short, 
very crooked, with the sharp odd-lookin(j face 
and keen eye that so often accompany deform- 
ity. She added to these good gifts a prodi- 
gious quantity of rouge and finery, mingling 
ribands, feathers, and beads of all the colours 
of the rainbow, with as little scruple as abelle 
of the South Seas would discover in the choice 
of her decorations. She was on excellent 
terms with all who knew her, unless, perhaps, 
there might be a little jealousy of station be- 
tween her and the duchess, who had no great 
affection for one who seemed likely to " push 
her from her stool." She was also on the 
best possible terms with herself, in spite of 
the looking-glass, whose testimony, indeed, 
was so positively contradicted by certain coup- 
jets and acrostics addressed to her by M. le 
Comte de C, and the Chevalier des I., the 
poets of the party, that to believe one uncivil 
dumb thing against two witnesses of such un- 
doubted honour, would have been a breach of 
politeness of which madame was incapable. 
— Notwithstanding this piece of womanish 
blindness, she was an excellent person, a good 
sister, good mother, and good wife. 

Of the Comte de C, I shall say nothing, 
except that he was a poet, and the most re- 
markable individual of the party, being more 
like a personification of a German play, than a 
living man of flesh and blood. His contra- 
dictions and oddities quite posed me at the 
ripe age of twelve ; but the gentleman was a 
poet, and that, as poor madame used to say, 
accounts for every thing. 

His wife was just such a person as Rubens 
has often painted, tall, large, and finely com- 
plexioned. She would have been very hand- 
some but for one terrible drawback ; — she 
squinted ; not much, not glaringly ; it was a 
very little squint, the least in the world, but a 
squint it certainly was, quite enough to di- 
minish the lustre of her beauty. Even when 
from the position of her face we happened not 
to see it, the consciousness that there it was, 
broke the charm. I cannot abide these " cross- 
eyes," as the country people call them; though 
I have heard of ladies who, from the spirit 
of partisanship, admired those of Mr. Wilkes, 
The French gentlemen did not seem to par- 
ticipate in my antipathy ; for the countess was 
regarded as the beauty of the party. Agreea- 
ble she certainly was; lively, witty, abound- 
ing in repartee and innocent mischief, playing 
off a variety of amusing follies herself, and 
bearing with great philosophy the eccentrici- 
ties of her husband. She had also an agreea- 
ble little dog called Amour ; a pug, the small- 
est and ugliest of the species, who regularly 
j after supper used to jump out of a muff, where 
he had lain perdu all the evening, and make 



the round of the supper-table, begging cakes ' 
and biscuits. He and I had established a 
great friendship ; he regularly, after levying 
his contributions all round, came to me for a 
game at play, and sometimes carried his par- 
tiality so far, as on hearing my voice to pop 
his poor little black nose out of his hiding- 
place before the appointed time. It required 
several repetitions of Fi done from his mistress 
to drive him back behind the scenes till she 
gave him his cue. 

No uncommon object of her wit was the 
mania of a smug and smooth-faced little abbe, 
the politician par eminence, where all were 
politicians, just as Madame de V. was the 
talker amongst a tribe of talkers. M. I'Abbe 
must have been an exceeding bore to our 
English ministers, whom by his own show- 
ing he pestered weekly with laboured memo- 
rials, — plans for a rising in La Vendee, 
schemes for an invasion, proposals to destroy 
the French fleet, offers to take Antwerp, and 
plots for carrying off Buonaparte from the 
opera-house, and lodging him in the Tower of 
London. This last was his favourite project; 
and well it inight be, for a bolder idea never 
entered the mind of man. Imagine the ab- 
duction of the emperor, in the midst of his 
court and guards and his good city of Paris ! 
Fancy him carried off by the unassisted prow- 
ess and dexterity of M. I'Abbe, and deposited 
in the Tower, like a piece of old armour, or a 
lion newly caught, whilst all France was star- 
ing and running about in search of her ruler, 
like the Harlowe family after the enlevement 
of Miss Clarissa ! What a master-stroke 
would this have been ! Ministers, as he used 
to complain, refused to avail themselves of 
this brilliant idea, thereby prolonging the war 
and incurring a needless waste of lives and 
treasure. Indeed any little misfortune that 
befell our government, the sinking of an East- 
Indiaman, the failure of an expedition, or the 
loss of a motion, was commonly ascribed by 
him to the neglect of his advice; whilst, on 
the other hand, any eminent success in the 
cabinet, the parliament, or the field, was pret- 
ty sure to be traced up by him to some one of 
his numerous suggestions. Of the victory at 
Trafalgar, for instance, we English people 
have generally attributed the merit to the great 
commander who fell in the fight ; but (I do not 
exactly remember on what score) he claimed 
full half of the honour; and doubtless he as- 
cribes the campaigns in Spain, the frost in 
Russia, the burning of Moscow, the capture 
of Paris, the crowning victory at Waterloo, 
and the restoration and establishment of the 
Bourbons, in a great measure, if not wholly, 
to the effect of his counsels. I would lay a 
wager that he is at this moment wasting reams 
of paper in memorialising the French govern- 
ment on this subject, as well as favouring them 
with hints on any other that falls in his way. 
In the matter of advice and projects, his libe- 



EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. 



129 



rality is unbounded. He alone, of all the 
Brunswick-square coterie, condescended to be- 
stow the slightest attention on English affairs, 
and had the goodness to apply himself with 
unfeigned earnestness to the improvement of 
our condition. Thus, whilst one pocket was 
filled with proposals to cut off the French 
army, and schemes to blow up the Tuilleries, 
(for though one of the most benevolent and 
mild-tempered men on earth, he was a perfect 
Guy Faux on paper,) the other was crammed 
with plans to pay off the national debt, thoughts 
on the commutation of tithes, and hints for a 
general enclosure bill. He had usually some 
little private projects too, and many an un- 
wary fellow-speculator hath rued his patents 
for making coals better than those of Newcas- 
tle out of dirt and ashes, his improved Argand 
lamps, and self-working fishing-nets. In short, 
he was a thorough projector, one that " never 
was, but always to be," rich ; quick, imagina- 
tive, plausible, eloquent, and the more dan- 
gerous because he was thoroughly honest, and 
had himself an entire faith in one scheme, till 
it was chased away by another, — a bubble 
like the rest ! 

Then came the chevalier des I. — 

' By my life, 



That Davies hath a mighty pretty wife !" 

The chevalier was a handsome man himself, 
tall, dark-visaged and whiskered, with a look 
rather of the new than of the old French 
school, fierce and soldierly; he was accom- 
plished, too, in his way, played the flute, and 
wrote songs and enigmas; but his wife was 
undoubtedly the most remarkable thing be- 
longing to him ; not that she was a beauty 
either ; I should rather call her the prettiest of 
pretty women ; she was short, well-made, with 
fine black eyes, long glossy black hair, a clear 
brown complexion, a cocked-up nose, red lips, 
white teeth, and a most bewitching dimple. 
There was a tasteful smartness in her dress, 
which with a gentillesse in her hair, and a 
piquancy of expression, at once told her coun- 
try, and gave a promise of intelligence and 
feeling. No one could look at her without 
being persuaded that she was equally sensible 
and lively ; but no one could listen to her with- 
out discovering the mistake. She was the sil- 
liest Frenchwoman I ever encountered, — I 
have met with some as stupid among my own 
countrywomen ; Heaven forbid that we should 
in any thing yield the palm to our neighbours ! 
She never opened her lips without uttering 
some befise. Her poor husband, himself not 
the wisest of men, quite dreaded her speak- 
ing; for, besides that he was really fond of 
her, he knew that the high-born circle of which 
she formed a part, would be particularly on 
the watch for her mistakes, as she was rotti- 
riere, the daughter of a farmer-general, who 
had fallen a sacrifice to the inhuman tyranny 
of Robespierre, leaving her no dower but her 

R 



beauty. She was a most innocent and kind- , 
hearted person, and devotedly attached to her 1 
husband ; and yet his bitterest enemy could | 
hardly have contrived to say more provoking 
things to and of him than she did in iicr fond- 
ness. I will give one instance; I might give fifty. 

L'Abbe de Lille, the celebrated French poet, 
and M. de Calonne, the no less noted ex-min- 
ister, had promised one Saturday to join the 
party in Brunswick-square. They caiue ; and 
our chevalier, who had a tolerable opinion of 
his own powers as a verse-maker, could not 
miss so fair an opportunity of display. Ac- 
cordingly, about half an hour before supper, 
he put on a look of distraction, strode hastily 
two or three times up and down the room, 
slapped his forehead, and muttered a line or 
two to himself; then calling hastily for pen 
and paper, began writing with the illegible 
rapidity of one who fears to lose a happy 
thought, a life-and-death kind of speed ; then 
stopped a moment, as pausing for a word, then 
went on again fast, fast ; then read the lines 
or seemed to read ; then made a slight alter- 
ation ; — in short, he acted incomparably the 
whole agony of composition, and finally with 
becoming diffidence presented the impromptu 
to our worthy host, who immediately imparted 
it to the company. It was heard with the 
lively approbation with which verses of com- 
pliment, read aloud in presence of the author 
and of the parties complimented, are sure to 
be received ; and really, as far as I remember, 
the lines were very neatly turned. At last the 
commerce of flattery ceased. Bows, speeches,, 
blushes, and apologies, were over ; the author's 
excuses, the ex-minister's and the great poet's 
thanks, and the applause of the audience, died 
away ; all that could be said about the im- 
promptu was exhausted, the topic was fairly 
worn out, and a pause ensued, which was bro- 
ken by madame des I. who had witnessed the 
whole scene with intense pleasure, and now 
exclaimed, with tears standing in her beautiful 
eyes, "How glad I am they like the impromptu! 
My poor dear chevalier! No tongue can tell 
what pains it has cost him ! There he was all 
yesterday evening, writing, writing, — all the 
night long — never went to bed, — all to-day — 
only finished just before we came, — My poor 
dear chevalier ! I should have been so sorry 
if they had not liked his impromptu ! Now 
he'll be satisfied." Be it recorded to the 
honour of French politeness, that, finding it 
impossible to stop, or to out-talk her (both 
which experiments were tried), the whole 
party pretended not to hear, and never once 
alluded to this impromptu yo«7 a loisir, tillthe 
discomfited chevalier sneaked off with his 
pretty simpleton, smiling and lovely as ever, 
and wholly unconscious of offence. Then, to 
be sure, they did laugh. 

I have committed a great breach of etiquette 
in mentioning the chevalier and his lady before 
the Baron de G. and his daughter Angelique. 



130 



OUR VILLAGE 



I question if the baron would forgive me ; for 
he was of Alsace, and, though he called him- 
self French, had German blood and quarter- 
ino-s, and pride enough for a prince of the em- 
pire. Ho was a fine-looking man of fifty, tall, 
upright, and active, and still giving tokens of 
having been in his youth one of the handsomest 
fitrures and best dancers at Versailles. He 
wlis the least gay of the party, perhaps the 
least happy ; for his pride kept him in a state 
of prickly defiance against all mankind. He 
had the miserable jealousy of poverty, of one 
" fallen from his high estate," suspected 
insults where they were never dreamed of, and 
sifted civility, to see whether an affront, a 
lurking snake, might be concealed beneath the 
roses. The smallest and most authorized pre- 
sent, even fruit and game, were peremptorily 
rejected ; and, if he accepted the Saturday- 
evening's invitation, it was evidently because 
he could not find in his heart to refuse a plea- 
sure to his daughter. Angelique was, indeed, 
a charming creature, fair, blooming, modest 
and gentle, far more English than French in 
person, manner, and dress, doting on her father, 
soothing his little infirmities of temper, and 
ministering in every way to his comfort and 
happiness. Never did a father and a daughter 
love each other better ; and that is saying 
much. He repaid her care and affection with 
the most unbounded fondness, and a liberality 
that had no limit but his power. Mademoi- 
selle de G. was the best dressed, best lodged, 
and best-attended of any lady of the circle. 
The only wonder was how the baron could 
afford it. Every one elsv-^, had some visible 
resource, of which they were so little ashamed 
that it was as freely communicated as any 
news of the day. We all knew that the am- 
bassadress and her brother the marquis lived 
together on a small pension allotted to the lady 
by'a ftireign court, in reward of certain imputed 
services rendered to the Bourbons by her hus- 
band ; that the count taught French, Latin, 
and Italian ; that the abbe contrived in some 
way or other to make his projects keep him ; 
and that the pretty wife of the chevalier, more 
learned in bonnets than in impromptus, kept a 
very tasty and well-accustomed milliner's shop 
somewhere in the region of Cranbourne-alley : 
but the baron's means of support continued as 
much a puzzle as the ambassador's destination. 
At last, chance let me into the secret. Our 
English dancing-master waxed old and rich, 
and retired from the profession ; and our 
worthy governess vaunted loudly of the French 
gentleman whom she had engaged as his suc- 
cessor, and of the reform that would be worked 
in the heads and heels of her pupils, grown 
heavy and lumpish under the late instructor. 
The new master arrived ; and, whilst a boy 
who accompanied him was tuning his kit, and 
he himself paying his respects to the gover- 
ness, I had no difficulty in discovering under 
a common French name, my acquaintance the 



baron. The recognition was mutual. I shall 
never forget the start he gave when in the 
middle of the first cotillon, he espied the 
little girl whom he had been used to see at 
the corner of the supper-table in Brunswick- 
square, every Saturday evening. He coloured 
with shame and anger, his hand trembled, and 
his voice faltered ; but as he would not know 
me, I had the discretion not to a])pear to know 
him, and said nothing of the affair till I again 
visited my kind cousin. I never saw any one j 
more affected than she was on hearing my ' 
story. That this cold, proud, haughty man, j 
to whom any thing that savoured of humilia- i 
tion seemed terrible, should so far abase his | 
nobility for Angelique and independence, was j 
wonderful ! She could not refrain from tell- 
ing her husband, but the secret was carefully 
guarded from every one besides; and, except 
that they showed him an involuntary increase 
of respect, and that I could not help drawing 
myself up and sitting rather more upright 
than ordinary when he happened to look at 
me, nothing indicated any suspicion of the 
circumstance. 

In the mean time the fair Angelique, who 
was treated with the customary disregard 
shown to unmarried beauties by her country- 
men, (whose devoirs the old duchess, the 
crooked ambassadress, and the squinting 
countess, entirely engrossed,) was gradually 
making an English conquest of no small im- 
portance. The eldest son of a rich merchant, 
who had been connected with our host in 
several successful speculations, and was ex- 
ceedingly intimate with the family, begged to 
be admitted to the Saturday evening coterie. 
His request was readily granted ; he came at 
first from curiosity, but that feeling was soon 
exchanged for a deeper and more tender pas- 
sion ; and at last he ventured to disclose his 
love, first to the lady of his heart, and then 
to their mutual friend. Neither frowned on 
the intelligence, although both apprehended 
some difficulties. How would the baron look 
on a man who could hardly trace his ancestors 
farther back. than his grandfather] And how 
again would these rich citizens, equally proud 
in a different way, relish an alliance with a 
man who, however highly descended, was 
neither more or less than a dancing-master 1 
But pride melts before love, like frost in the 
sunsliine. All parties were good and kind, 
all obstacles were overcome, and all faults 
forgotten. The rich merchant forgave the 
baron's poverty, and the baron (vvliich was 
more difficult) forgave his wealth. The call- 
ing which had only been followed for An- 
gel iquo's sake, was for her sake abandoned ; 
the fond father consented to reside with her ; 
and surrounded by her lovely family, freed 
from poverty and its distressing consciousness, 
and from all the evils of false shame, he has 
long been one of the happiest, as he was al- 
ways one of the best, of French emigrants. 



THE INQUISITIVE GENTLEMAN. 



131 



THE INQUISITIVE GENTLEMAN. 

One of the most remarkable instances that 
I know of that crenerally false theory " the 
rulinq; passion," is my worthy friend Samuel 
Lynx, Esq., of Lynx Hall in this county — 
commonly called the Inquisitive Gentleman. 
Never was cognomen better bestowed. Curi- 
osity is, indeed, the master-principle of his 
mind, the life-blood of his existence, the main- 
spriniT of every movement. 

Mr. Lynx is an old bachelor of large for- 
tune and ancient family; — the Lynxes of 
Lynx Hall, have amused themselves with 
overlooking their neiahbours' doings for many 
generations. He is tall, but loses something 
of his height by a constant habit of stooping; 
he carries his head projecting before his body, 
— like one who has just proposed a question 
and is bending forward to receive an answer. 
A lady being asked, in his presence, what his 
features indicated, replied with equal truth 
and politeness — a most inquiring mind. The 
cock-up of the nose, which seems from the 
expansion and movement of the nostrils to be 
snuffing up intelligence, as a hound does the 
air of a dewy morning, when the scent lies 
well ; the draw-down of the half-open mouth 
gaping for news ; the erected chin ; the 
wrinkled forehead ; the little eager sparkling 
eyes, half shut, yet full of curious meanings; 
the strong red eye-brows, protruded like a cat's 
whiskers or a snail's horns, feelers, which 
actually seem sentient; every line and linea- 
ment of that remarkable physiognomy betrays 
a craving for information. He is exceedingly 
short-sighted ; and that defect also, although, 
on the first blush of the business, it might 
seem a disadvantage, conduces materially to 
the great purpose of his existence — the know- 
ledge of other people's affairs. Sheltered by 
that infirmity, our " curious impertinent " can 
stare at things and persons through his glasses 
in a manner which even he would scarcely 
venture with bare eyes. He can peep and 
pry and feel and handle, with an effrontery 
never equalled by an unspectacled man. He 
can ask the name and parentage of every body 
in company, toss over every book, examine 
every note and card, pull the flowers from the 
vases, take the pictures from the walls, the em- 
broidery from your work-box, and the shawl 
off your back ; and all with the most pro- 
voking composure, and just as if he was 
doing the right thing. 

The propensity seems to have been born 
with him. He pants after secrets, just as 
magpies thieve, and monkeys break china, by 
instinct. His nurse reports of him that he 
came peeping into the world ; that his very 
cries were interrogative, and his experiments 
in physics so many and so dangerous, that 
before he was four years old, she was fain to 
tie his hands behind him, and to lock him into 



a dark closet to keep him out of harm's way, 
chiefly moved thereto by his ripping open his 
own bed, to see what it was made of, and 
throwing her best gown into the fire, to try if 
silk would burn. Then he was sent to school, 
a preparatory school, and very soon sent home 
again for incorrigible mischief. Then a pri- 
vate tutor undertook to instruct him on the 
interrogative system, which in his case was 
obliged to be reversed, he asking the ques- 
tions, and the tutor delivering the responses — 
a new cast of the didactic drama. Then he 
went to college; then sallied forth to ask his 
way over Europe ; then came back to fix on 
his paternal estate of Lynx Hall, where, ex- 
cept occasional short absences, he hath so- 
journed ever since, signalizing himself at 
every stage of existence, from childhood to 
youth, from youth to manhood, from manhood 
to age, by the most lively and persevering 
curiosity, and by no other quality under hea- 
ven. 

If he had not been so entirely devoid of 
j^bition, I think he might have attained to 
eminence in some smaller science, and have 
gained and received a name from a new 
moss, or an undiscovered butterfly. His keen- 
ness and sagacity would also have told well 
in antiquarian researches, particularly in any 
of the standing riddles of history, the Gowrie 
conspiracy, for instance, or the guilt of queen 
Mary, respecting which men may inquire and 
puzzle themselves from the first of January 
to the last of December without coming at 
all nearer to the solution. But he has no 
great pleasure in literature of any sort. Even 
the real parentage of the Waverley novels, 
although nothing in the shape of a question 
comes amiss to him, did not interest him 
quite so much as might be expected ; perhaps 
because it was so generally interesting. He 
prefers the " Bye-ways to the High-ways " 
of literature. The secrets of which every 
one talks, are hardly, in his mind, " Secrets 
worth knowing." 

Besides, mere quiet guessing is not active 
enough for his stirring and searching faculty. 
He delights in the difficult, the inaccessible, 
the hidden, the obscure. A forbidden place 
is his paradise; a board announcing "steel- 
traps and spring guns" will draw him over a 
wall twelve feet high ; he would undoubtedly 
have entered Blue-beard's closet, although 
certain to share the fate of his wives ; and has 
had serious thoughts of visiting Constantino- 
ple, just to indulge his taste by stealing a 
glimpse of the secluded beauties of the se- 
raglio — an adventure which would probably 
have had no very fortunate termination. In- 
deed our modern peeping Tom has encountered 
several mishaps at home in the course of his 
long search after knowledge ; and has gene- 
rally had the very great aggravation of being 
altogether unpitied. Once, as he was taking 
a morning ride, in trying to look over a wall 



132 



OUR VILLAGE. 



a little higher than his head, he raised him- 
self in the saddle, and the sag[acious quadru- 
ped, his trrey pony, an animal of a most 
accommodating and congenial spirit, having 
been, for tiiat day, discarded in favour of a 
younger, gayer, less inquisitive and less pa- 
tient steed, the new beast sprang on and left 
him sprawling. Once, when in imitation of 
Ranger, he had perched himself on the top- 
most round of a ladder, which he found 
placed beneath a window in Upper Berkeley- 
street, he lost his balance, and was pitched 
suddenly in through the sash, to the unspeak- 
able consternation of a house-maid, who was 
rubbing the panes within side. Once he was 
tossed into an open carriage, full of ladies, as 
he stood up to look at them from the box of a 
stage-coach. And once he got a grievous 
knock from a chimney-sweeper, as he poked 
his head into the chimney to watch his ope- 
rations. He has been blown up by a rocket; 
carried away in the strings of a balloon; all 
but drowned in a diving-bell : lost a finger in 
a mashing-mill ; and broken a great toe by 
drawinor a lead pin-cushion off a work-table. 
N. B. this last-mentioned exploit spoilt my 
worthy old friend, Miss Sewaway, a beautiful 
piece of fine netting, " worth," as she em- 
phatically remarked, " a thousand toes." 

These are only a few of the bodily mischiefs 
that have befallen poor Mr. Lynx. The mo- 
ral scrapes, into which his unlucky propensity 
has brought him, are past all count. In his 
youth, although so little amorous, that I have 
reason to think, the formidable interrogatory 
which is emphatically called "popping the 
question," is actually the only question which 
he has never popped ; — in his youth, he was 
very nearly drawn into wedlock by the sedu- 
lous attention which he paid to a young lady, 
whom he suspected of carrying on a clandes- 
tine correspondence. The mother scolded ; 
the father stormed ; the brother talked of sa- 
tisfaction; and poor Mr. Lynx, who is as pa- 
cific as a Quaker, must certainly have been 
married, had not the fair nymph eloped to 
Gretna Green, the day before that appointed 
for the nuptials. So he got off for the fright. 
He hath undergone at least twenty challenges 
for different sorts of impertinences ; hath had 
his ears boxed and his nose pulled ; hath been 
knocked down and horsewhipped ; all which 
casualties he bears with an exemplary pa- 
tience. He hath been mistaken for a thief, a 
bai'ifF, and a spy, abroad and at home; and 
once, on the Sussex coast, was so inquisitive 
respecting the moon, and the tide, and the free 
trade, that he was taken at one and the same 
time, by the different parties, for a smuggler 
and a revenue officer, and narrowly escaped 
being shot in the one capacity, and hanged in 
the other. 

The evils which he inflicts bear a tolerably 
fair proportion to those which he endures. He 
is, simply, the most disagreeable man that 



lives. There is a curious infelicity about him, 
which carries him straight to the wrong point. 
If there be such a thing as a sore subject, he 
is sure to press on it, to question a parvenu on 
his pedigree, a condemned author on his tra- 
gedy, an old maid on her age. Besides these 
iniquities, his want of sympathy is so open 
and undisguised, that the most loquacious 
egotist loses the pleasure of talking of him- 
self, in the evident absence of all feeling or 
interest on the part of the hearer. His con- 
versation is always more like a judicial ex- 
amination than any species of social inter- 
course, and often like the worst sort of exam- 
ination — cross-questioning. He demands, like 
a secretary to the inquisition, and you answer 
(for you must answer) like a prisoner on the 
rack. Then the man is so mischievous ! he 
rattles old china, marches over flower-beds, 
and paws Irling's lace. The people at mu- 
seums and exhibitions dread the sight of him. 
He cannot keep his hands from moths and 
humming-birds ; and once poked up a rattle- 
snake to discover whether the joints of the 
tail did actually produce the sound from which 
it derives its name ; by which attack that pug- 
nacious reptile was excited to such wrath that 
two ladies fell into hysterics. He nearly de- 
molished the Invisible Girl by too rough an 
inquiry into her esistence ; and got turned out 
of the automaton chess-player's territories, in 
consequence of an assault which he committed 
on that ingenious piece of mechanism. To 
do Mr. Lynx justice, I must admit that he 
sometimes does a little good to all this harm. 
He has, by design or accident, in the ordinary 
exercise of his vocation, hindered two or three 
duels, prevented a good deal of poaching and 
pilfering, and even saved his own house, and 
the houses of his neighbours from divers bur- 
glaries ; his vigilance being, at least, as useful, 
in that way, as a watchman or an alarm-bell. 
He makes but small use of his intelligence, 
however come by, which is, perhaps, occasion- 
ed by a distinctive diflference of sex. A wo- 
man only half as curious would be prodigal 
of information — a spendthrift of news. Mr. 
Lynx hoards his, like a miser. Possession is 
his idol. If I knew any thing which I par- 
ticularly wished the world not to know, I 
should certainly tell it to him at once. A se- 
cret with him, is as safe as money in the bank; 
the only peril lies in the ardour of his pursuit. 
One reason for his great discretion seems to 
me to be his total incapacity of speech — in 
any other than the interrogative mood. His 
very tone is set to that key. I doubt if he 
can drop his voice at the end of a sentence, or 
knows the meaning of a full stop. Who? 
What? When] Where'! How? are his 
catchwords; and Eh? his only interjection. 
Children and poor people, and all awkward 
persons who like to be talked to, and to talk 
again, — but do not very well understand how 
to set about it, delight in Mr. Lynx's notice. 



WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. 



133 



His catechetical mode of conversation en- 1 
chants them, especially as he is of a liberal 
turn, and has g^enerally some loose silver in | 
his pocket to bestow on a ^ood answerer. 
To be sure tlie rapidity of his questions some- 
times a little incommodes our country dames, 
who when fairly set into a narrative of g^riev- 
ances do not care to be interrupted; but the 
honour of telliufr their histories and the histo- 
ries of all their neio-hhours to a g^entleman, 
makes ample amends for this little alloy. — 
They are the only class who can endure his 
society, and he returns the compliment by 
showinfj a very decided preference for theirs. 
The obscure has a remarkable charm for him. 
To enjoy it in perfection, he will often repair 
to some g-reat manufacturing^ town v/here he 
is wholly unknown, and deposit himself in 
some suburban lodorinff, in a new-built row, 
with poplars before the door, when, invitinor 
his landlady to make tea for him, he grains, by 
aid of that genial beveracre, an insight into all 
the loves and hatreds, "kitchen cabals and 
nursery mishaps." — in a word, all the scandal 
of the town. Then he is happy. 

Travellingr is much to his taste; as are also 
Stage Coaches, and Steam Packets, and Dili- 
gences, and generally all places where people 
meet and talk, especially an inn, which is 
capital questioning ground, and safer than 
most other. There is a license, a liberty, a 
freedom in the very name, and besides people 
do not stay long enough to be affronted. He 
spends a good deal of his time in these pri- 
vileged abodes, and is well known as the 
Inquisitive Gentleman, on most of the great 
roads, although his seat of Lynx Hall is un- 
doubtedly his principal residence. It is most 
commodionsly situated, on a fine eminence 
overlooking three counties ; and he spends 
most of his time in a sort of observatory, 
which he has built on a rising ground, at the 
edge of the park, where he has mounted a 
telescope, by means of which he not only 
commands all the lanes and bye-paths in the 
neighbourhood, but is enabled to keep a good 
look out, on the great northern road, two 
miles off. to oversee the stage-coaches, and 
keep an eye on the mail. The manor lies in 
two parishes — another stroke of good fortune ! 
— since the gossiping of both villages seems 
to belong to him of territorial right. Vestries, 
work-houses, schools, all are legitimately 
ground of inquiry. Besides his long and in- 
timate acquaintance with the neighbourhood 
is an inestimable advantage, to a man of his 
turn of mind, and supplies, by detail and 
minuteness, what might be wanted in variety 
and novelty. He knows every man, woman 
and child, horse, cow, pig and dog, within 
half a dozen miles, and has a royal faculty 
of not forgetting, so that he has always plenty 
of matter for questions, and most of the 
people being his tenants, answers come quick- 
ly. He used 

12 



As I live, here he is! just alighting from 
the grey poney, asking old Dame Wheeler 
what makes her lame on one side, and little 
.Temmy White, why his jacket is ragged on 
the other — bawling to both — Dnme Wheeler 
is deaf, and .Temmy stupid : and she is an- 
swering at cross purposes, and he staring 
with his mouth open, and not answering at 
all, and Mr. Lynx is pouring question on 
question as fast as rain-dmps in a thunder- 
shower — Well I must put away my desk, and 
my papers, especially M?,s, for T should not 
quite like to have the first benefit of the true 
and faithful likeness, which I have been 
sketching; T must put it away ; folding and 
sealing will hardly do, for though I don't 
think — I can scarcely imagine, that he would 
actually break open a sealed packet, — yet man 
is frail ; I have a regard for my old friend, 
and will not put him in the way of temptation. 



WALKS IN THE COUNTRY, 

THE OLD HOUSE AT ABERLEIGH. 

June 25th. — What a glowing, glorious day ! 
Summei In its richest prime, noon in its most 
sparkling brightness, little white clouds dap- 
pling the deep blue sky, and the sun, now 
partially veiled, and now bursting through 
them with an intensity of light ! It would 
not do to walk to-day, professedly to walk, — 
we should be frightened at the very sound ; 
and yet it is probable that we may be beguiled 
into a pretty long stroll before we return home. 
We are going to drive to the old house at 
Aberleigh, to spend the morning under the 
shade of those balmy firs, and amongst those 
luxuriant rose-trees, and by the side of that 
brimming Loddon river. " Do not expect us 
before six o'clock," said I, as I left the house ; 
" Six at soonest !" added my charming com- 
panion ; and off we drove in our little pony 
chaise drawn by our old mare, and with the 
good-humoured urchin, Henry's successor, a 
sort of younger Scrub, who takes care of horse 
and chaise, and cow and garden, for our cha- 
rioteer. 

My comrade in this homely equipage was 
a young lady of high family and higher endow- 
ments, to whom the novelty of the thing, and 
her own naturalness of character and sim- 
plicity of taste gave an unspeakable enjoyment. 
She danced the little chaise up and down as 
she got into it, and laughed for verj^ glee like 
a child. Lizzy herself could not have been 
more delighted. She praised the horse and 
the driver, and the roads and the scenery, and 
gave herself fully up to the enchantment of a 
rural excursion in the sweetest weather of 
this sweet season. I enjoyed all this too; 
for the road was pleasant to every sense, 



134 



OUR VILLAGE. 



windinor through narrow lanes, under high 
elms, and binweon hedges garlanded with 
woodbine and rose-trees, whilst the air was 
scented with the delicious fragrance of blos- 
somed beans, I enjoyed it all, — but I believe 
my principal pleasure was derived from my 
compatiinn herself. 

Emily L. is a |)erson whom it is a privilege 
to know. Slie is quite like a creation of the 
older poets, and might pass for one of Shak- 
speare's or Fletcher's women just stepped 
into life ; quite as tender, as playful, as gentle, 
and as kind. She is clever too, and has all 
the knowledge and accomplishments that a 
carefully-conducted education, acting on a 
mind of singular clearness and ductility, ma- 
tured and improved by the very best company, 
can bestow. But one never thinks of her 
acquirements. It is the charming artless 
character, the bewitching sweetness of man- 
ner, the real and universal sympathy, the 
quick taste and the ardent feeling, that one 
loves in Emily. She is Irish by birth, and 
has in perfection the melting voice and soft 
caressing accent by which her fair country- 
women are distinguished. Moreover she is 
pretty — I think her beautiful, and so do all 
who have heard as well as seen her, — but 
pretty, very pretty, all the world must con- 
fess ; and, perhaps, that is a distinction more 
enviable, because less envied, than the " pal- 
my state" of beauty. Her prettiness is of the 
prettiest kind — that of which the chief cha- 
racter is youthfulness. A short but pleasing 
figure, all grace and symmetry, a fair blooming 
face, beaming with intelligence and good-hu- 
mour ; the prettiest little feet, and the whitest 
hands in the world ; — such is Emily L. 

She resides with her maternal grandmother, 
a venerable old lady, slightly shaken with the 
palsy ; and when together, (and they are so 
fondly attached to each other that they are sel- 
dom parted) it is one of the loveliest combi- 
nations of youth and age ever witnessed. — 
There is no seeing them without feeling an 
increase of respect and affection for both 
grandmother and granddaughter — always one 
of the tenderest and most beautiful of natu- 
ral connections — as Richardson knew when he 
made such exquisite use of it in his matchless 
book. I fancy that grandmamma Shirley must 
have been just such another venerable lady as 
Mrs.S ,and our sweet Emily — Oh, no! Harriet 
Byron is not half good enough for her! — 
There is nothing like her. in the whole seven 
volumes ! 

But here we are at the bridge ! Here we 
must alight! "This is the L'oddon, Emily. 
Is it not a beautiful river] rising level with 
its banks, so clear, and smooth, and peaceful, 
giving back the verdant landscape and the 
bright blue sky, and bearing on its pellucid 
stream the snowy water-lily, the purest of 
flowers, which sits enthroned on its own cool 
leaves looking chastity itself, like the lady in 



Comus. That queenly flower becomes the 
water, and so do the stately swans which are 
sailing so majestically down the stream, like 
those who 

"On St. Mary's lake 
Float double, swan and shadow." 

We must dismount here, and leave Richard 
to take care of our equipage under the shade 
of these trees, whilst -we walk up to the house : 
— See, there it is ! We must cross this stile ; 
there is no other way now." 

And crossing the stile we were immediately 
in what had been a drive round a spacious 
park, and still retained something of the cha- 
racter, though the park itself had long been 
broken into arable fields, — and in full view of \ 
the Great House, a beautiful structure of James \ 
the First's time, whose glassless windows and ' 
dilapidated doors, form a melancholy contrast | 
with the strength and entireness of the rich | 
and massive front. | 

The story of that ruin — for such it is — is | 
always to me singularly affecting : — It is that j 
of the decay of an ancient and distinguished 
family, gradually reduced from the highest | 
wealth and station to actual poverty. The j 
house and park, and a small estate around it, I 
were entailed on a distant cousin, and could | 
not be alienated ; and the late owner, the last ! 
of his name and lineage, after struggling with ■ 
debt and difficulty, farming his own lands, > 
and clinging to his magnificent home with a '. 
love of place almost as tenacious as that of i 
the younger Foscari, was at last forced to 
abandon it, retired to a paltry lodging in a pal- i 
try town, and died there, about twenty years' 
ago, broken-hearted. } 

His successor, bound by no ties of associa- j 
tion to the spot, and rightly judging the resi- ! 
dence to be much too large for the diminished 
estate, immediately sold the superb fixtures, 
and would have entirely taken down the house, 
if, on making the attempt, the masonry had 
not been found so solid that the materials 
were not worth the labour. A great part, how- 
ever, of one side is laid open, and the splendid 
chambers with their carving and gilding, are 
exposed to the wind and rain — sad memorials 
of past grandeur. The grounds have been left 
in a merciful neglect ; the park, indeed, is 
broken up, the lawn mown twice a year like 
a common hay-field, the grotto mouldering 
into ruin, and the fish-ponds chok-ed with 
rushes and acjiiatic plants ; but the shrubs and 
flowering trees are \indestroyed, and have 
grown into a magnificence of size and wild- 
ness of beauty, such as we may imagine them 
to attain in their native forests. Nothing can 
exceed their luxuriance, especially in the 
spring, when the lilac and laburntim and double 
cherry put forth their gorgeous blossoms. — 
There is a sweet sadness in the sight of such 
floweriness amidst such desolation ; it seems 
the triumph of nature over the destructive 



WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. 



135 



power of man. The whole place, in that sea- 
son more particularly, is full of a soft and 
soothing melancholy, reminding me, I scarcely 
know why, of some of the descriptions of na- 
tural scenery in the novels of Charlotte Smith, 
which I read when a girl, and which, per- 
haps for that reason, hang on my memory. 

But here we are, in the smooth grassy ride, 
on llie top of a steep turfy slope descending 
to the river, crowned with enormous firs and 
limes of equal growth, looking across the 
winding waters into a sweet peaceful land- 
scape of quiet meadows, shut in by distant 
woods. What a fragrance is in the air from 
the balmy fir-trees and the blossomed limes ! 
What an intensity of odour ! And what a 
murmur of bees in the lime-trees ! What a 
coil those little winged creatures make over 
our heads ! And what a pleasant sound it is ! 
— the pleasantest of busy sounds, that which 
comes associated with all that is good and 
beautiful — industry and forecast, and sunshine 
and flowers. Surely these lime-trees might 
store a hundred hives; the very odour is of a 
honied richness, cloying, satiating. 

Emily exclaimed in admiration as we stood 
under the deep, strong, leafy shadow, and still 
more when honey-suckles trailed their untrim- 
med profusion in our path, and roses, really 
trees, almost intercepted our passage. 

" O, Elmily ! farther yet! Force your way 
by that jessamine — it will yield ; I will take 
care of this stubborn white rose-bough." — 
"Take care of yom'self! — Pray take care," 
said my fairest friend ; " let me hold back the 
branches." — After we had won our way 
through the strait, at some expense of veils and 
flounces, she stopt to contemplate atid admire 
the tall graceful shrub, whose long thorny stems 
spreading in every direction had opposed our 
progress, and now waved their delicate clus- 
ters over our heads. " Did I ever think," ex- 
claimed she, " of standing under the shadow 
of a white rose-tree ! What an exquisite fra- 
grance ! And what a beautiful flower! — so 
pale, and white, and tender, and the petals 
thin and smooth as silk ! What rose is it 1" 
" Don't you know 1 Did you never see it be- 
fore '{ It is rare now, I believe, and seems 
rarer than it is, because it only blossoms in 
very hot summers; but this, Emily, is the 
musk-rosp, — ;that very musk-rose of which 
Titania talks, and which is worthy of Shak- 
speare and of her. Is it not"? — No! do not 
smell to it; it is less sweet so than other roses; 
but one cluster in a vase, or even that bunch 
in your bosom will perfume a large room, as 
it does this summer air." " Oh ! we will 
take twenty clusters," said Emily. " I wish 
grandmamma were here! She talks so often 
of a musk-rose-tree that grew against one end 
of her father's house. I wish she were here 
to see this !" 

Echoing her wish, and well laden with 
musk-roses, planted, perhaps, in the days af 



Shakspeare, we reached the steps that led to 
a square summer-house, or banqueting-room, 
overhanging the river ; the under part was a 
boat-house, whose projecting roof, as well as 
the walls, and the very top of the little tower, 
was covered with ivy and woodbine, and sur- 
mounted by tufted barberries, bird cherries, 
acacias, covered with their snowy chains, and 
other pendent and flowering trees. Beyond 
rose two poplars of unrivalled magnitude, 
towering like stately columns over the dark 
tall firs, and giving a sort of pillared and ar- 
chitectural grandeur to the scene. 

We were now close to the mansion ; but it 
looked sad and desolate, and the entrance, 
choked with brambles and nettles, seemed 
almost to repel our steps. The summer-house, 
the beautiful summer-house, was free and open 
and inviting, commanding from the unglazed 
windows, which hung high above the water, 
a reach of the river terminated by a rustic mill. 

There we sate, emptying our little basket 
of fruit and country cates, till Emily was 
seized with a desire of viewing, from the other 
side of the Loddon, the scenery which had so 
much enchanted her. " I must," said she, 
" take a sketch of the ivied boat-house, and 
of this sweet room, and this pleasant win- 
dow; — grandmamma would never be able to 
walk from the road to see the place itself, but 
she must see its likeness." So forth we sal- 
lied, not forgetting the dear musk-roses. 

We had no way of reaching the desired 
spot but by retracing our steps a mile, during 
the heat of the hottest hour of the day, and 
then following the course of the river to an 
equal distance on the other side ; nor had we 
any materials for sketching, except the rum- 
pled paper which had contained our repast, 
and a pencil without a point which I happened 
to have about me. But these small difficul- 
ties are pleasures to gay and happy youth. 
Regardless of such obstacles, the sweet Emily 
bounded on like a fawn, and I followed de- 
lighting in her delight. The sun went in, and 
the walk was delicious ; a reviving coolness 
seemed to breathe over the water, wafting the 
balmy scent of the firs and limes ; we found a 
point of view presenting the boat-house, the 
water, the poplars, and the mill, in a most 
felicitous combination ; the little straw fruit- 
basket made a. capital table; and refreshed 
and sharpened and pointed by our trusty 
lacquey's excellent knife (your country boy is 
never without a good knife, it is his prime 
treasure,) the pencil did double duty; — first 
in the skilful hands of Emily, whose faithful 
and spirited sketch does equal honour to the 
scene and to the artist, and then in the hum- 
bler ofiice of attempting a faint transcript of 
my own impressions in the following sonnet: — 

It was an hour of calmest noon, a day 
Of ripest summery o'er the deep blue sky 
White speckled clouds came sailing peacefully, 

Half-shrouding in a checker'd veil the ray 



136 



OUR VILLAGE. 



Of the sun, too ardent else,— what time we lay 
By the smooth Loddon, opposite the high 
Ste"p bank, which as a coronet gloriously 

Wore its rich crest of" firs and lime-trees, gay 
With their pale tassels; while from out a bower 

Of ivy (wlicre those column'd poplars rear 

Their heads) the ruin'd boat-house, like a tower, 

Flung its deep shadow on the waters clear. 
IMy Kmily! fiirget not that calm hour. 

Nor that lair scene, by Ihee made doubly dear ! 



EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. 

MY GODFATHER. 

It is now nearly twenty years aoro, that I. 
a young- girl just freed from the trammels of 
schooldom, went into a remote and distant 
county, on a visit to my crodfather, to make 
acquaintance with a large colony of my rela- 
tions, and behold new scenes and new faces ; 
a pleasure, certainly ; but a formidable and 
awful pleasure, to a shy and home-loving girl. 
Nothing could have reconciled ine to the pros- 
pect of encountering so many strange cousins, 
for they were all strangers, but my strong de- 
sire to see my dear and venerable god-papa, 
for whom, although we had never met since 
the christening, I entertained the most lively 
affection, — an affection nourished on his part 
by kindnesses of every sort, from the huge 
wax-doll, and the letter in print-hand, proper 
to the damsel of six years old, down to the 
pretty verses and elegant necklace, his birth- 
day greeting to the young lady of sixteen. 
He was no stranger, that dear god-papa I I 
was quite sure I should know him at first 
sight, quite sure that I should love him better 
than ever; both which predictions were veri- 
fied to the letter. It would have been strange 
indeed if they had not. 

Mr. Evelyn, for so I shall call him, was a 
gentleman of an ancient family and considera- 
ble fortune, residing in a small town in the 
north of England ; where he had occupied for 
the last fifty years, the best house, and the 
highest station, the object of universal respect 
and affection, from high and low. He was 
that beautiful thing, a healthy and happy old 
man. Shakspeare, the master painter, has 
partly described him for me, in the words of 
old Adam, — 

"Therefore my age is as a lusty winter, 
Frosty, but kindly." 

Never was wintry day, with the sun smiling 
upon the icicles, so bright or so keen. At 
eighty-four, he had an unbent, vigorous per- 
son, a fresh colour, long, curling, milk-white 
hair, and regular features, lighted up by eyes 
as brilliaiit and as piercing as those of a 
hawk; his foot was as light, his voice as 
clear, and his speech ns joyous as at twenty. 
He had a life of mind, an alertness of spirit. 



a brilliant and unfading hilarity, which were 
to him, like the quick blood of youth. Time 
had been rather his friend than his foe; had 
stolen nothing as far as I could discover; and 
had given such a license to his jokes and his 
humour, that he was when I knew him as 
privileged a person as a court jester in the 
days of yore. Perhaps he was always so : 
for, independently of fortune and station, high 
animal spirits, invincible good-humour, and a 
certain bustling ofiiciousness, are pretty sure 
to make their way in the world, especially 
when they seek only for petty distinctions. 
He was always the first personage of his 
small circle ; president of half the clubs in the 
neighbourhood ; steward to the races ; chair- 
man of the bench ; father of the corporation ; 
and would undoubtedly have been member for 
the town, if that ancient borough had not had 
the ill luck to be disfranchised in some stormy 
period of our national history. 

But that was no great loss to my dear god- 
father. Even the bench and the vestry, al- 
though he presided at them with sufficienf rep- 
utation, were loo grave matters to suit his taste. 
He would have made a had police magistrate; 
his sympathies ran directly the contrary way. 
Accordingly he used to be accused of certain 
merciful abuses of his office of justice of the 
peace : such as winking at vagrants and va- 
gabonds, encouraging the Merry Andrew, and 
the droll fellow Punch, and feeing the consta- 
ble, not to take up a certain drunken fiddler, 
who had haunted the town, man and boy, these 
forty years. 

Races and balls w'ere more his element. 
There he would walk about with his hands 
behind him, and a pleasant word for every 
one ; his keen eye sparkling with gaiety, and 
his chuckling laugh heard above all, the un- 
wearied ])atron atid promoter of festivity in all 
its branches ; rather than the dance should 
languish, he would stand up himself. This 
indulgence to the young, orrather this sympathy 
with enjoyment wherever he found it, was not 
confined to the rich ; he liked a fair or a revel 
quite as well as an assembly, perhaps better, 
because the merriment there was noisier, 
heartier, more completely free from restraint. 
How he would chuck the rosy country lasses 
under the chin, and question them about their 
sweethearts ! And how the little coquettes 
would smile, and blush, and curtsy, and cry 
"fie," and enjoy it! That was certainly an 
octogenarian ])riviiege, and one worth a score 
or two of years, in his estimation. 

But these diversions, thoroughly as he entered 
into their spirit, were by no means necessary 
to his individual amusement. His cheerful- 
ness needed no external stimuli. The day was 
too short — life itself, although so prolonged, 
was too brief for his busy idleness. He had 
nothing to do, followed no calling, belonged 
to no profession, had no estate to im})rove, no 
children to establish, and yet from morning to 



EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. 



137 



night he was employed about some vagary or i 
other, with as much ardour as if the fate of 
the nation depended on his speed. Fishinor 
and fiddlina-, shootinij and coursinor, turning 
and varnishincr, makintrbird-oaores and picture- 
frames, and cabbage-nets, and flies for angling, 
constructing charades, and tagging verses, 
were only a few of his occupations. Then he 
dallied with science and flirted with art; was 
in a small way a connoisseur, had a tolerable 
collection of prints, and a very bad one of 
paintings, and was moreover a sort of virtuoso. 
I had not been two days in the house before 
my good godfather introduced me to his 
museum, a long room or rather gallery, where 
as he boasted, and I well believe, neither mop, 
nor broom, nor housemaid had ever entered. 

This museum was certainly the dirtiest den 
into which I ever set foot ; dark., to a pitch, 
which took away for a while all power of dis- 
tinguishing objects, and so dusty as to anni- 
hilate colour, and confuse form. I have a 
slight notion that this indistinctness was, in 
the present instance, ratiier favourable than 
otherwise to the collection, which I cannot 
help suspecting, was a thought less valuable 
than its owner opined. It consisted, I believe 
(for one cannot be very sure.) of sundry birds 
in glass cases exceedingly ragged and dingy; 
of sundry stuffed beasts, among which the 
moth had made great havoc; of sundry rep- 
tiles, and other curiosities, preserved, pickled 
— (what is the proper wordl) — in glass bot- 
tles ; of a great heap of ores, and shells, and 
spars, covered with cobwebs; of some copper 
coins, all rust; of half a mummy; and a bit 
of cloth made of asbestos. The only time I 
ever got into a scrape with my good-humoured 
host was on the score of this last-mentioned 
treasure. Being assured by him that it was 
the veritable, undoubted asbestos, which not 
only resists the action of fire, but is actually 
cleansed by that element, I proposed, seeing 
how very much it needed purification, that it 
should undergo a fiery ablution forthwith ; but 
that ordeal was rejected as too danoerous; and 
I myself certainly considered for five minutes 
as dangerous too — something of an incendiary, 
a female Guy Vaux — I was lucky enough to 
do away the impression by admiring, very 
honestly, some newly-caught butterflies, — 
pretty insects, and not yet spoiled, — which 
occupied one side of a long table. They were 
backed to my great consternation by a row of 
skulls, which, Mr. Evelyn having lately met 
with Dr. Gall's book, and being much smitten 
with Cranio — I beg its new name's pardon — 
Phrenology — had purchased at five shillings 
a head of the sexton, and now descanted on 
in a vein as unlike Hamlet's as possible. 

The museum was hung round with festoons 
of bird's eggs, strung necklace-fashion, as 
boys are wont to thread them, being the part 
of its contents, which, next perhaps to his 
new playthings the skulls, its owner valued 



most. Indeed they had an additional charm 
in his eyes, by being mostly the trophies of 
his own exploits from childhood downwards. 
Bird-nesting, always his favourite sport, had 
been, since he had dabbled in natural history, 
invested with the dignity of a pursuit. He 
loved it as well as any child in the parish ; 
had as keen an eye to his game, and as much 
intrepidity in its acquisition ; climbed trees, 
delved into hedge-rows, and no more minded 
a rent garment, or a tumble into a ditch, than 
an urchin of eight years old. The butterflies 
too, were, for the most part, of his own catch- 
ing. I have myself seen a chase after a moth, 
that might serve as a companion to that grand 
Peter-Pindaric, "Sir .Toseph Banks and the 
emperor of Morocco;" but my godfather had 
the better of the sport — he knocked down his 
insect. 

To return to our museum. The last article 
that I remember, was a prodigious bundle 
of autographs, particularly unselect ; where 
Thomas Smith, date unknown, figured by the 
side of Oliver Cromwell ; and .John Brown, 
equally incognito, had the honour of being 
tied up with "Queen Elizabeth. I would not 
be very certain either that there might not 
be an occasional forgery among the greater 
names ; not on the part of the possessor, he 
would as soon have thought of forging a bank 
bill, but on that of the several venders, or 
donors, which last class generally came, auto- 
graph in hand, to beg a favour. Never was 
any human being so complete a subject for 
imposition — so entirely devoid of guile him- 
self, so utterly unsuspicious of its existence 
in others. He lived as if there were not a 
lie in the world ;^ — blessed result of a frank 
and ardent temperament, and of a memory so 
happily constituted that it retained no more 
trace of past evil, than of last year's clouds. 

His living collection was quite as large, 
and almost as out of the way, as his dead 
one. He was an eminent bird-fancier, and 
had all sorts of " smale foules," as old Chau- 
cer calls them, in every variety of combina- 
tion, and in different stages of education ; for 
your professed bird-fancier, like your profess- 
ed florist, is seldom content to let nature 
alone. Starlings, jays, and magpies, learning 
to talk; bulfinches and goldfinches learning 
tunes from a barrel organ ; linnets brought 
up under a wood-lark, unlearning their own 
notes and studying his; nightingales, some 
of the earliest known in those parts, learning 
to live north of Trent ; all sorts of canaries, 
and mule birds, and nests full of young things 
not yet distinguishable from each other, made 
up the miscellaneous contents of his aviary. 
He had also some white mice, a tame squirrel, 
and a very sagacious hedge-dog; and he had 
had a tortoise, which by an extraordinary ex- 
ertion of ingenuity, he had contrived to kill, 
— a feat, which a road wagon going over the 
poor animal would have failed to perform. 



12* 



S 



138 



OUR VILLAGE, 



This was the manner. The tortoise, as most i 
people know, is for about six months in the 1 
year torpid, and o^enerally retires under crround 
to enjoy his half year's nap: he had been 
missincr some days, when the old jgrardener 
dufj him up out of a cabbage-bed, and brought 
him in for dead. My o'odfather, forjjetting 
his proteire's habits, and just fresh from read- 
in<r some book on the efhcacy of the warm 
bath, (he was a great man for specifics,) soused 
the unlucky land-crab into hot water, and 
killed him outright. All that could be done 
to repair the mischief was tried, and he was 
finally replaced in his old burrow, the cab- 
bage-bed, but even burying him failed to 
bring him to life again. This misadventure, 
rather damped Mr. Evelyn's zest for outland- 
ish favourites. After all, his real and abiding 
pets were children — children of all ages, 
from six months old to twelve years. He had 
much of the child in his own composition; 
his sweet and simple nature, his restlessness 
and merriment, harmonized with theirs most 
completely. He loved a game at romps too, 
as well as they did, and would join in all 
their sports from battledore and shuttlecock, 
to puss in the corner. He had no child of 
his own — (have 1 not said that he was mar- 
ried"?) — no child whom he had an absolute 
right to spoil ; but he made all the children 
of the ])lace serve his turn, and right happy 
were they to be spoiled by Mr. Evelyn. 

They all flocked around him, guided by that 
remarkable instinct, by which the veriest baby 
can detect a person who really loves it; ran 
after him when he rode on horseback, thrust 
their little hands into his when he walked, 
and hung round the stone porch in which he 
had the habit of sitting on a summer after- 
noon, reading the newspaper in the sun, and 
chatting to the passers by, (for he knew every 
soul in the ])lace, gentle or simple) holding a 
long dialogue with one, sending a jest after 
another, and a kind nod to the third. Thither 
his clients, the children, would resort every 
evening;', as much, I verily believe, for the 
love of their patron as for the gingerbread, 
apples, and halfpence, — the tops, marbles, 
and balls, which used to issue from those 
capacious magazines, his ])ockets. 

The house, to which this porch belonged, 
was well suited to the tastes and station of 
its owner ; — stately, old-fishioned, and spa- 
cious ; situate in the principal street, and 
commandintr the market-place, — a mansion in 
a town. Behind was a formal garden in the 
Dutch style, — terraces, and beds of flowers, 
and tall yew hedges, and holly and box cut 
into various puzzling shapes, dragons, pea- 
cocks, lions, and swans. Within doors all 
was equally precise and out of date, being 
(except the museum) under the special and 
exclusive dominion of the lady of the house. 
Mrs. Evelyn formed just the contrast with 
her husband which is said to tell best in 



matrimony. She was nearly twenty years 
younger in actual age, but seemed twenty 
years older from the mere absence of his 
vivacity. In all essential points they agreed 
perfectly ; were equally charitable, generous, 
hospitable, and just; but of their minor dif- 
ferences there was no end. She w'as grave, 
and slow, and formal — upright, thin, and 
pale ; dressed with a sort of sober splendour ; 
wore a great quantity of old-fashioned jewel- 
lery ; went airing every day ; and got up, 
breakfasted, dined, supped, and went to bed 
at exactly the same minute, the whole year 
round, — clock-work was never more regular. 
Then she was addicted to a fussing and 
fidgety neatness, such as is held proper to 
old maids and Dutch women, and kept the 
house afloat with perpetual scourings. More- 
over she had a hatred of motion and idleness, 
and pursued as a duty some long tiresome 
useless piece of handy-work. Knitting a 
carpet, for instance, or netting a veil, or con- 
structing that hideous piece of female joinery, 
a patch-work counterpane. The room in 
which I slept bore notable testimony to her 
industry ; the whole fringe of the bed and 
window-curtains being composed of her knot- 
ting, and the hearth-rug of her work, as well 
as a chair, miscalled easy, stuffed into a hard- 
ness bumping against you in every direction, 
and covered with huge flowers, in small tent 
stitch, flowers that would have done honour 
to the gardens of Brobdignag. Besides this 
she was a genealogist, and used to bewilder 
herself and her hearers in a labyrinth of pedi- 
gree, which even at this distance of time, it 
gives me a head-ache to think of; nay, she 
was so unmerciful as to expect that I should 
understand and recollect all the intricacies of 
my own descent, and how I came to be of kin 
to the innumerable cousins to whom she in- 
troduced me, — I could as soon have learnt 
that despair of my childhood, the multiplica- 
tion table. 

All this might seem to compose no very 
desirable com|>anion for an idle girl of sixteen ; 
but I had not been a week in the house before 
I loved her very nearly as well as my dear 
godfather, although in a diflerent way. Her 
thorough goodness made itself felt, and she 
was so perfectly a gentlewoman, so constantly 
considerate and kind, so liberal and charitable, 
in deed and word, that nobody could help 
lovinof Mrs. Evelyn. Besides, we had one 
taste in common, a fondness for her peculiar 
territory, the orchard, a large rrrassy spot 
covered with fine old fruit trees, divided from 
the flower garden on the north by a magnifi- 
cent yew hedge, bounded on one side by a 
filbert walk, on the other by the liiirh ivied 
stone wall of the potagerie, and sloping down 
on the south to a broad sparkling rivulet, 
which went dancing along like a thing of 
life, (as your northern rivulet is apt to do) 
forming a thousand tiny bays and promonto- 



THE OLD GIPSY. 



139 



ries, and letting in a prospect of matchless 
beauty. Fancy a winding woodland valley, 
a rural bridge, a village, with its gothic 
ciiurch, and a steep acclivity crowned with the 
ruins of a venerable castle, thrown together 
with a felicity of form and colouring, which 
might beseem a landscape-painter's dream, 
and you will have a faint idea of the view 
from that orchard. Under the yew hedge, 
on a sunny bank thickly set with roses and 
honeysuckles, and flowers and sweet herbs, 
were Mrs. Evelyn's pets, her only pets, the 
bees. She was so fond of them, and visited 
them so often, that I used to wonder that she 
allowed them to be taken ; but her love of 
bees was balanced by her extraordinary pre- 
dilection for honey; honey, especially when 
eaten in the comb, was, in her mind, a spe- 
cific for all diseases, an universal panacea, 
the true elixir vitae. She imputed her own 
good health entirely to this salutary regimen; 
and was sure to trace every illness she heard 
of, to some neglect of honey-eating. That 
she never could prevail on her husband to taste 
this natural balsam (as she was w^ont to call 
it) must have been the great evil of her mat- 
rimonial life. Every morning did she predict 
death or disease to the sturdy recusant ; and 
every morning was she answered by the same 
keen glance of the laughing hazel eye, and 
the same arch nod of defiance. There he sat, 
a living witness that man might thrive with- 
out honey. It was really too provoking. 

Another point in dispute between them arose 
out of Mr. Evelyn's extraordinary addiction 
to match-making. He always insisted on call- 
ing marriage a happy ceremony, although one 
should think he had attended weddings enough 
to know that a funeral is generally lively in 
the comparison ; and I am persuaded that dear 
as he held his genuine asbestos, a piece of 
bride-cake, drawn nine times through the ring, 
would for the time being have been held the 
greater treasure. Accordingly, he was the 
general confidant of all courtships of gentility 
within ten miles, and even, with all deference 
be it spoken, of some wooings, which had no 
gentility to boast; for his taste being known, 
and his abilities in that line duly appreciated, 
half the youths in the town came bowing to 
his honour to beg his good word. To his ho- 
nour's good word and his own goodly person, 
did John Bell, head-waiter of the Greyhound, 
owe the felicity of calling the buxom widow 
Wilson, the rich landlady of that well-accus- 
tomed Inn, Mrs. Bell. To his honour's good 
word and a threatened loss of custom, was 
Robert Heron, the smart younj linen-draper, 
indebted for the fair hand of Margaret Car, 
sole heiress of Archy Car, Scotchman, and 
barber, between whom and old Robert Heron 
a Capulet and Montagu feud, originating in a 
quarrel about their respective countries, had 
subsisted for a dozen years. Nothing short 
of my godfather's threatening to learn to shave, 



could have brought that Romeo and Juliet to- 
gether. His honour related these exydoits 
with great complacency, whilst his wife did 
not fail to remind him of the less fortunate ex- 
ertions of his talent; — how his influence gain- 
ed poor Will the blacksmith his shrew, or Jem 
the gardener his dawdle. But such accidents 
will befall the ablest diplomatists. The grand 
object of his schemes at present was an union 
between two individuals of his own house- 
hold. Mrs. Evelyn's personal attendant was 
a stiff perpendicular old maid, bony and mea- 
gre in her person, with red hair, and some- 
thing of a vinegar aspect, — for the rest a well- 
intentioned woman, and a valuable servant. 
Mr. Evelyn had been looking out f(jr a sweet- 
heart for this amiable damsel, (Mrs. Emble- 
ton by name) for the last ten years, and had 
begun to despair of success, when all at once 
it occurred to him to strike up a match be- 
tween her and his fat coachman. Samuel- a 
round jolly old bachelor, blunt and blufT, with 
a broad red face, a knowing grin, and a most 
magnificent coachinanlike wig. He began in 
due form by rallying Mrs. Embleton on her 
conquest. Mrs. Embleton minced and sim- 
pered — no objection in that quarter! Then 
he consulted Mrs. Evelyn, — Mrs. Evelyn re- 
monstated ; that, however, he knew by ex- 
perience, might be overcome. Then he laughed 
at Samuel, — Samuel whistled ; — that was ra- 
ther dismaying. The next day he returned to 
the charge — and again Samuel whistled, — 
worse and worse ! A third time his master 
attacked him, and a third did Samuel whistle. 
Any body but my godfather would have de- 
spaired. He, however, did not. At this point 
stood the game, when I left the north ; and 
the very first letter I received from Mrs. Eve- 
lyn told me that the marriage was settled, the 
wedding-day fixed, and the bride-cake pur- 
chased. And the next brought tidings (for I 
still had my doubts of Samuel) that tlie cere- 
mony was actually performed, and the happy 
knot tied ; and Mrs. Evelyn seemed pacified, 
and the bridegroom resigned. No withstand- 
ing my dear godfather ! 



THE OLD GIPSY. 

We have few gipsies in our neighbourhood. 
In s[)ite of our tempting green lanes, our 
woody dells and heathy commons, the rogues 
don't take to us. I am afraid that we are too 
civilized, too cautious ; that our sheep-folds 
are too closely watched ; our barn-yards too 
well guarded ; our geese and ducks too fast- 
ly penned ; our chickens too securely locked 
up ; our little pigs too safe in their sty ; our 
game too scarce; our laundresses too care- 
ful. In short, we are too little primitive; we 
have a snug brood of vagabonds and poachers 



140 



OUR VILLAGE. 



of our own, to say nothing of their regular | 
followers, constables and justices of the peace: 
— we have stocks in the village, and a tread- 
mill in the next town ; and therefore we go 
gipsy-less — a misfortune of which every land- 
scape painter, and every lover of that living 
landscape, the country, can appreciate the ex- 
tent. Tiiere is nothing under the sun that 
harmoniz.es so well with nature, especially in 
her woodland recesses, as that picturesque 
people, who are, so to say, the wild genus — 
the pheasants and roebucks of the human 
race. 

Sometimes, indeed, we used to see a gipsy 
procession passing along the common, like an 
eastern caravan, men, women, and children, 
donkeys and dogs ; and sometimes a patch of 
bare earth, strewed with ashes and surrounded 
with scathed turf, on the broad green margin 
of some cross-road, would give token of a 
gipsy halt; but a regular gipsy encampment 
has always been so rare an event, that I was 
equally surprised and delighted to meet with 
one in the course of my walks last autumn, 
particularly as the party was of the most in- 
nocent description, quite free from those tall, 
dark, lean, Spanish-looking men, who, it must 
be confessed, with all my predilection for the 
caste, are rather startling to meet with when 
alone in an unfrequented path ; and a path 
more solitary than that into which the beauty 
of a bright October morning had tempted me, 
could not well be imagined. 

Branching off from the high road, a little 
below our village, runs a wide green lane, 
bor-iered on either side by a row of young 
jtiks and beeches just within the hedge, form- 
ing an avenue, in which, on a summer after- 
noon, you may see the squirrels disporting 
from tree to tree, whilst the rooks, their fel- 
low denizens, are wheeling in noisy circles 
over their heads. The fields sink gently down 
on each side, so that, being the bottom of a 
natural winding valley, and crossed by many 
little rills and rivulets, the turf exhibits even 
in the driest summers an emerald verdure. 
Scarcely any one passes the end of that lane, 
without wishing to turn into it; but the way 
is in some sort dangerous and difficult for foot 
passengers, because the brooklets which in- 
tersect it are in many instances bridgeless, 
and in others bestridden by plaidis so decayed, 
that it were rashness to pass them; and the 
nature of the ground, treacherous and boggy, 
and in many places as unstable as water, ren- 
ders it for carriages wholly impracticable. 

I however, who do not dislike a little diffi- 
culty where there is no absolute danger, and 
who am moreover almost as familiar with the 
one only safe track as the heifers who graze 
there, sometimes venture along this seldom- 
trodden ])ath, which terminates, at the end of 
a mile and a half, in a spot of singular beauty. 
The hills become abrupt and woody, the cul- 
tivated enclosures cease, and the long narrow 



valley ends in a little green, bordered on one 
side by a fine old park, whose mossy paling, 
overhung with thorns and hollies, comes 
sweeping round it, to meet the rich coppices 
which clothe the opposite acclivity. .Tust 
under the high and irregular paling, shaded 
by the birches and sycamores of the park, and 
by the venerable oaks which are scattered 
irregularly on the green, is a dark deep pool, 
whose broken banks, crowned with fern and 
wreathed with briar and bramble, have an air 
of wildness and grandeur that might have 
suited the pencil of Salvator Rosa. 

In this lonely place (for the mansion to 
which the park belongs has long been unin- 
habited) I first saw our gipsies. They had 
pitched their little tent under one of the oak 
trees, perhaps from a certain dim sense of 
natural beauty, which those who live with na- 
ture in the fields are seldom totally without; 
perhaps because the neighbourhood of the 
coppices, and of the deserted hall, was fa- 
vourable to the acquisition of game, and of 
the little fuel which their hardy habits re- 
quired. The party consisted only of four — 
an old crone, in a tattered red cloak and black 
bonnet, who was stooping over a kettle, of 
which the contents were probably as savoury 
as that of Meg Merrilies, renowneo in story; 
a pretty black-eyed girl, at work under the 
trees ; a sun-burnt urchin of eight or nine, col- 
lecting sticks and dead leaves to feed their 
out-of-door fire, and a slender lad two or three 
years older, who lay basking in the sun, with 
a couple of shabby dogs of the sort called 
mongrel, in all the joy of idleness, whilst a 
grave patient donkey stood grazing hard-by. 
It was a pretty picture, with its soft autumnal 
sky, its rich woodiness, its sunshine, its ver- 
dure, the light smoke curling from the fire, 
and the group disposed around it so harmless, 
poor outcasts! and so happy — a beautiful pic- 
ture! I stood gazing on it till I was half 
ashamed to look longer, and came away half 
afraid that they would depart before I could 
see them again. 

This fear I soon found to be groundless. 
The old gipsy was a celebrated fortune-teller, 
and the post having been so long vacant, she 
could not have brought her talents to a better 
market. The whole village rang with the ])re- 
dictions of this modern Cassandra — unlike her 
Trojan predecessor, inasmuch as her prophe- 
cies were never of evil. I myself Could not 
help admiring the, real cleverness, the genuine 
gipsy tact with which she adapted her fore- 
tellings to the age, the habits, and the known 
desires and circumstances of her clients. 

To our little ]wt Lizzy, for instance, a dam- 
sel of seven, she jiredicted a fairing; to Ben 
Kirby, a youth of thirteen, head batter of the 
boys, a new cricket-ball ; to Ben's sister Lucy, 
a girl som.e three years his senior, and just 
promoted to that ensign of womanhood a cap, 
she promised a pink topknot; whilst for Miss 



THE OLD GIPSY. 



141 



Sophia Matthews, our old-maidish school- 
mistress, who would be heartily glad to be a 
girl again, she foresaw one handsome hus- 
band, and for the smart widow Simmons, two. 
These were the least of her triumphs. George 
Davis, the dashing young farmer of the hill- 
house, a gay sportsman, who scoffed at for- 
tune-tellers and matrimony, consulted her as 
to whose greyhound would win the courser's 
cup at the beacon meeting; to which she re- 
plied, that she did not know to whom the dog 
would belong, but that the winner of the cup 
would be a white greyhound, with one blue 
ear, and a spot on its side, — being an exact 
description of Mr. George Davis's favourite 
Helen, who followed her master's steps like 
his shadow, and was standing behind him at 
this very instant. This prediction gained our 
gipsy half-a-crown ; and master Welles — the 
thriving thrifty yeoman of the lea — she man- 
aged to win sixpence from his hard honest 
frugal hand, by a prophecy that his old brood 
mare, called Blackfoot, should bring forth 
twins; and Ned the blacksmith, who was 
known to court the tall nurse-maid at the mill 
— she got a shilling from Ned, simply by as- 
suring him that his wife should have the long- 
est coffin that ever was made in our wheel- 
wright's shop. A most tempting prediction ! 
ingeniously combining the prospect of win- 
ning and of surviving the lady ot^ his heart — 
a promise equally adapted to the hot and cold 
fits of that ague, called love; lightening the 
fetters of wedlock; uniting in a breath the 
bridegroom and the widower. Ned was the 
best pleased of all her customers, and enforced 
his suit with such vigour, that he and the fair 
giantess were asked in church the next Sun- 
day, and married at the fortnight's end. 

No wonder that all the world — that is to 
say, all our world — were crazy to have their 
fortunes told — to enjoy the pleasure of hear- 
ing from such undoubted authority, that what 
they wished to be, should be. Amongst the 
most eager to take a peep into futurity, was 
our pretty maid Harriet, although her desire 
took the not unusual form of disclamation, — 
"nothing should induce her to have her for- 
tune told, nothing upon earth !" " She never 
thought of the gipsy, not she !" and to prove 
the fact, she said so at least twenty times a 
day. Now Harriet's fortune seemed told al- 
ready ; her destiny was fixed. She, the belle 
of the village, was engaged, as every body 
knows, to our village beau, Joel Brent; they 
were only waiting for a little more money to 
marry ; and as Joel was already head carter to 
our head farmer, and had some prospect of a 
bailiff's place, their union did not appear very 
distant. But Harriet, besides being a beauty, 
was a coquette, and her affection for her be- 
trothed did not interfere with certain flirtations 
which came in like Isabella, " by-the-by," and 
occasionally cast a shadow of coolness be- 
tween the lovers, which, however, Joel's cle- 



verness and good humour generally contrived 
to chase away. There had probably been a 
little fracas in the present instance, for at the 
end of one of her daily professions of unfaith 
in gipsies and their predictions, she added, 
" that none but fools did believe them ; that 
Joel had had his fortune told, and wanted to 
treat her to a prophecy — but she was not such 
a simpleton." 

About half an hour after the delivery of this 
speech, I happened, in tying up a chrysanthe- 
mum, to go to our wood-yard for a stick of 
proper dimensions, and there, enclosed be- 
tween the fagot-pile and the coal-shed, stood 
the gipsy, in the very act of palmistry, conning 
the lines of fate in Harriet's hand. Never 
was a stronger contrast than that between the 
old withered sibyl, dark as an Egyptian, with 
bright laughing eyes, and an expression of 
keen humour under all her affected solemnity, 
and our village beauty, tall, and plump, and 
fair, blooming as a rose, and simple as a dove. 
She was listening too intently to see me, but 
the fortune-teller did, and stopped so suddenly, 
that her attention was awakened and the in- 
truder discovered. 

Harriet at first meditated a denial. She 
called up a pretty innocent unconcerned look ; 
answered my silence (for I never spoke a word) 
by muttering something about "coals for the 
parlour;" and catching up my new-painted 
green watering-pot, instead of the coal-scuttle, 
began filling it with all her might, to the un- 
speakable discomfiture of that useful utensil, 
on which the dingy dust stuck like birdlime — 
and of her own clean apron, which exhibited 
a curious interchange of black and green on a 
white ground. During the process of filling 
the watering-pot, Harriet made divers signs to 
the gipsy to decamp. The old sibyl, however, 
budged not a foot, influenced probably by two 
reasons, one, the hope of securing a customer 
in the new comer, whose appearance is gene- 
rally, I am afraid, the very reverse of dignified, 
rather merry than wise ; the other, a genuine 
fear of passing through the yard-gate, on the 
ontside of which a much more imposing per- 
son, my greyhound Mayflower, who has a sort 
of beadle instinct anent drunkards and pilfer- 
ers, and disorderly persons of all sorts, stood 
barking most furiously. 

This instinct is one of May's remarkable 
qualities. Dogs are all, more or less, phy- 
siognomists, and commonly pretty determined 
aristocrats, fond of the fine and averse to tlie 
shabby, distinguishing with a nice accuracy, 
the master castes from the pariahs of the world. 
But May's power of perception is another 
matter, more, as it were, moral. She has no 
objection to honest rags ; can away with dirt, 
or age, or ugliness, or any such accident, and, 
except just at home, makes no distinction be- 
tween kitchen and parlour. Her intuition 
points entirely to the race of people commonly 
called suspicious, on whom she pounces at a 



142 



OUR VILLAGE. 



glance. What a constable she would have 
made ! What a jewel of a thief-taker ! Pity 
that those four feet should stand in the way 
of her preferment! she might have risen to be 
a Bow-street officer. As it is, we make the 
^ift useful in a small way. In the matter of 
hiring and marketing, the whole village likes 
to consult May. Many a chap has stared when 
she has been whistled up to give her opinion 
as to his honesty; and many a pig bargain has 
gone off on her veto. Our neighbour, mine 
host of the Rose, used constantly to follow 
her judgment in the selection of his lodgers. 
His house was never so orderly as when under 
her government. At last he found out that 
she abhorred tipplers as well as thieves — in- 
deed, she actually barked away three of his 
best customers ; and he left off appealing to 
her sagacity, since which he has, at different 
times, lost three silver spoons and a leg of 
mutton. With every one else May is an ora- 
cle. Not only in the case of wayfarers and 
vagrants, but amongst our own people, her 
fancies are quite a touchstone. A certain 
hump-backed cobbler, for instance — May can- 
not abide him, and I don't think he has had so 
much as a job of heel-piecing to do since her 
dislike became public. She really took away 
his character. 

Longer than I have taken to relate May- 
flower's accomplishments stood we, like the 
folks in the Critic, at a dead lock ; May, who 
probably regarded the gipsy as a sort of rival, 
an interloper on her oracular domain, barking 
with the voice of a lioness — the gipsy trying 
to persuade me into having my fortune told — 
and I endeavouring to prevail on May to let 
the gipsy pass. Both attempts were unsuc- 
cessful : and the fair consulter of destiny, who 
had by this time recovered from the shame of 
her detection, extricated us from our dilemma 
by smuggling the old woman away through 
the house. 

Of course Harriet was exposed to some rail- 
lery, and a good deal of questioning about her 
future fate, as to which she preserved an ob- 
stinate, but evidently satisfied silence. At the 
end of three days, however — my readers are, 
I hope, learned enough in gipsy lore to know 
that, unless kept secret for three entire days, 
no prediction can come true — at the end of 
three days, when all the family except herself 
had forgotten the story, our pretty soubrette, 
half bursting with the long retention, took the 
opportunity of lacing on my new half-boots to 
reveal the prophecy. " She was to see within 
the week, and this was Saturday, the young 
man, the real young man, whom she was to 
marry." " Why, Harriet, you know poor 
Joel." " Joel, indeed ! the gipsy said that 
the young man, the real young man, was to 
ride up to the house drest in a dark great-coat 
(and Joel never wore a great-coat in his life — 
all the world knew that he wore smock-frocks 
and jackets,) and mounted on a white horse — 



and where should Joel get a white horse]" 
" Had this real young man made his appear- 
ance yet ]" " No ; there had not been a white 
horse past the place since Tuesday : so it must 
certainly be to-day." 

A good look-out did Harriet keep for white 
horses during this fateful Saturday, and plenty 
did she see. It was the market-day at B., and 
team after team came by with one, two, and 
three white horses ; cart after cart, and gig 
after gig, each with a white steed : Colonel 
M.'s carriage, with its prancing pair — but still 
no horseman. At length one appeared ; but 
he had a great-coat whiter than the animal he 
rode ; another, but he was old farmer Lewing- 
ton, a married man ; a third, but he was little 
Lord L., a school-boy, on his Arabian pony. 
Besides, they all passed the house : and as 
the day wore on, Harriet began, alternately, 
to profess her old infidelity on the score of 
fortune-telling, and to let out certain apprehen- 
sions that if the gipsy did really possess the 
power of foreseeing events, and no such horse- 
man arrived, she might possibly be unlucky 
enough to die an old maid — a fate for which, 
although the proper destiny of a coquette, our 
village beauty seemed to entertain a very de- 
cided aversion. 

At last, just at dusk, just as Harriet, making 
believe to close our casement shutters, was 
taking her last peep up the road, something 
white appeared in the distance coming leisure- 
ly down the hill. Was it really a horse's — 
Was it not rather Titus Strong's cow driving 
home to milking? A minute or two dissi- 
pated that fear : it certainly was a horse, and 
as certainly it had a dark rider. Very slowly 
he descended the hill, pausing most provok- 
ingly at the end of the village, as if about to 
turn up the Vicarage-lane. He came on, how- 
ever, and after another short stop at the Rose, 
rode full up to our little gate, and catching 
Harriet's hand as she was opening the wicket, 
displayed to the half-pleased, half-angry dam- 
sel, the smiling triumphant face of her own 
Joel Brent, equipped in a new great-coat, and 
mounted on his master's newly-purchased 
market nag. Oh, Joel ! Joel I The gipsy ! 
the gipsy ! 



LITTLE RACHEL. 

Ik one of the wild nooks of heath land, 
which are set so prettily amidst our richly- 
timbered valleys, stands the cottage of Robert 
Ford, an industrious and substantial black 
smith. There is a striking appearance of din 
gy comfort about the whole demesne, forming 
as it does a sort of detached and isolated ter- 
ritory in the midst of the unenclosed common 
by which it is surrounded. The ample gar- 



LITTLE RACHEL, 



143 



den, whose thick dusky quickset hedge runs 
along the high-road ; the sniio- cottage whose 
gable-end abuts on the causeway ; the neat, 
court which parts the house from the long 
low-browed shop and forge ; and the stable, 
cart-shed, and piggeries behind, have all an 
air of rustic opulence : even the clear irregular 
pond, half covered with ducks and geese, that 
adjoins, and the old pollard oak, with a mile- 
stone leaning against it, that overhangs the 
dwelling, seem in accordance with its conse- 
quence and character, and give finish and har- 
mony to the picture. 

The inhabitants were also in excellent keep- 
ing. Robert Ford, a stout, hearty, rniddle- 
aged man, sooty and grim as a collier, paced 
backward and forward between the house and 
the forge with the step of a man of substance, 
— his very leather apron had an air of import- 
ance ; his wife Dinah, a merry comely wo- 
man, sat at the open door, in an amplitude of 
cap and gown and handkerchief, darning an 
eternal worsted stocking, and hailed the pass- 
ers-by with the cheerful freedom of one well 
to do in the world : and their three sons, well- 
grown lads from sixteen to twenty, were the 
pride of the village for industry and good-hu- 
mour — to say nothing of their hereditary love 
of cricket. On a Sunday, when they had on 
their best and cleanest faces, they were the 
handsomest youths in the parish. Robert 
Ford was proud of his boys, as well he might 
be, and Dinah was still prouder. 

Altogether it was a happy family and a 
pretty scene; especially of an evening, when 
the forge was at work, and when the bright 
firelight shone through the large unglazed 
window, illumining with its strange red un- 
earthly light, the group that stood round the 
anvil ; showers of sparks flying from the heat- 
ed iron, and the loud strokes of the sledge- 
hammer resounding over all the talking and 
laughing of the workmen, reinforced by three 
or four idlers who were lounging about the 
shop. It formed a picture, which in a sum- 
mer evening, we could seldom pass without 
stopping to contemplate; besides, I had a 
road-side acquaintance with Mrs. Ford, had 
taken shelter in her cottage from thunder- 
storms and snow-storms, and even by daylight 
could not walk by without a friendly " How 
d'ye do." 

Late in last autumn we observed an addi- 
tion to the family, in the person of a pretty 
little shy lass, of some eight years old, a fair 
slim small-boned child, with delicate features, 
large blue ej^es, a soft colour, light shining 
hair, and a remarkable neatness in her whole 
appearance. She seemed constantly busy, 
either sitting on a low stool by Dinah's side 
at needlr-work, or gliding about the kitchen 
engaged in some household employment — for 
the wide open door generally favoured the 
passengers with a full view of the interior, 
from the fully-stored bacon-rack to the nicely 



swept hearth ; and the little girl, if she per- 
ceived herself to be looked at, would slip be- j 
hind the clock-case, or creep under the dresser 
to avoid notice. Mrs. Ford, when questioned 
as to her inmate, said that she was her hus- 
band's niece, the daughter of a younger bro- 
ther, who had worked somewhere London- 
way, and had died lately, leaving a widow 
with eleven children in distressed circum- 
stances. She added, that having no girl of 
their own, they had taken little Rachel for 
good and all; and vaunted much of her hand- 
iness, her sempstresship, and her scholarship, 
how she could read a chapter with the parish 
clerk, or make a shirt with the schoolmistress. 
Hereupon she called her to display her work, 
which was indeed extraordinary for so young 
a needle-woman ; and would fain have had 
her exhibit her other accomplishment of read- 
ing; but the poor little maid hung down her 
head, and blushed up to her white temples, 
and almost cried, and though too frightened to 
run away, shrank back till she was fairly hid- 
den behind her portly aunt ; so that that per- 
formance was perforce pretermitted. — Mrs. 
Ford was rather scandalized at this shyness ; 
and expostulated, coaxed and scolded, after 
the customary fashion on such occasions. — 
" Shame-facedness was," she said, "Rachel's 
only fault, and she believed the child could 
not help it. Her uncle and cousins were as 
fond of her as could be, but she was afraid 
of them all, and never had entered the shop 
since there she had been. Rachel," she added, 
" was singular in all her ways, and never spent 
a farthing on apples or ginger-bread, though 
she had a bran-new sixpence, which her uncle 
had given her for hemming his cravats ; she 
believed that she was saving it to send home." 

A month passed away, during which time, 
from the mere habit of seeing us frequently, 
Rachel became so far tamed as to behold me 
and my usual walking companion without 
much dismay; would drop her little curtsy 
without colouring so very deeply, and was 
even won to accept a bun from that dear com- 
panion's pocket, and to answer yes or no to 
his questions. 

At the end of that period, as we were re- 
turning home in the twilight from a round of 
morning visits, we perceived a sort of con- 
fusion in the forge, and heard loud sounds of 
scolding from within the shop, mixed with 
bitter lamentations from without. On a nearer 
approach, we discovered that the object in 
distress, was an old acquaintance; a young 
Italian boy, such a wanderer from the Lake of 
Como, as he, whom Wordsworth has address- 
ed so beautifully : 

" Or on thy head to poiso a show 

Of plaster-craCt in seemly row; 
The graceful liirm of milk-white steed. 
Or bird that soared with Ganymede; 
Or through our hamlets thou wilt bear 
The sightless Milton with his hair 



144 



OUR VILLAGE. 



Around his placid temples curled, 

And Shakspeare at his side a freight. 

If clay could think and mind were weight. 
For him who bore the world!" 

He passed us almost every day, carryintr 
his tray full of ima<res into every quarter of 
the villagre. We had often w^ondered how he 
could find vent for his commodities ; but our 
farmers' wives patronize that branch of art; 
and Stefano, with his light firm step, his up- 
right carriage, his dancing eyes, and his 
broken English, was an universal favourite. 

At present the poor boy's keen Italian fea- 
tures and bright dark eyes were disfigured by 
crying; and his loud wailings and southern 
gesticulations bore witness to the extrenaity 
of his distress. The cause of his grief was 
visible in the half-empty tray that rested on 
the window of the forge, and the green parrot 
which lay in fragments on the footpath. The 
wrath of Robert Ford required some further 
explanation, which the presence of his wor- 
ship instantly brought forth, although the 
enraged blacksmith was almost too angry to 
speak intelligibly. 

It appeared that this youngster and favour- 
ite son, William, had been chaffering with 
Stefano for this identical green parrot, to pre- 
sent to Rachel, when a mischievous lad, run- 
ning along the road, had knocked it from the 
window-sill, and reduced it to the state which 
we saw. So far was mere misfortune ; and 
undoubtedly if left to himself, our good neigh- 
bour would have indemnified the little mer- 
chant; but poor Stefano, startled at the sud- 
denness of the accident, trembling at the 
anger of the severe master on whose account 
he travelled the country, and probably in the 
darkness really mistaking the oifender, un- 
luckily accused William Ford of the over- 
throw ; which accusation, although the asser- 
tion was instantly and humbly retracted on 
William's denial, so aroused the English 
blood of the father, a complete John Bull, 
that he was raving, till black in the face, 
against cheats and foreigners, and threatening 
the young Italian with whipping, and the 
treadmill, and justices, and stocks, when we 
made our appearance, and the storm, having 
nearly exhausted its fury, gradually abated. 

By this time, however, the clamour had 
attracted a little crowd of lookers-on from 
the house and the road, amongst the rest Mrs. 
Ford, and, peeping behind her aunt, little 
Rachel. Stefano continued to exclaim in his 
imperfect accent " He will beat me !" and to 
sob and crouch and shiver, as if actually suf- 
fering under the impending chastisement. It 
was impossible not to sympathise with such 
a reality of distress, although we felt that an 
English boy, similarly situated, would have 
been too stout-hearted not to restrain its ex- 
pression. "Six-pence!" and "my master 
will beat me !" intermixed with fresh bursts 
of crying, were all his answers to the various 



inquiries as to the amount of his loss, with 
which he was assailed ; and young William 
Ford, "a lad of grace," was approaching his 
hand to his pocket, and my dear companion 
had just drawn forth his purse, when the good 
intentions of the one were arrested by the 
stern commands of his father, and the other 
was stopped by the re-appearance of Rachel, 
who had run back to the house, and now 
darted through the group holding out her own 
new sixpence, — her hoarded sixpence, and put 
it into Stefano's hand ! 

It may be imagined that the dear child was 
no loser by her generosity; she was loaded 
with caresses by every one, which, too much 
excited to feel her bashfulness, she not only 
endured but returned. Her uncle, thus re- 
buked by an infant, was touched almost to 
tears. He folded her in his arms, kissed her 
and blessed her; gave Stefano half a crown 
for the precious sixpence, and swore to keep 
it as a relique and a lesson as long as he lived. 



EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. 

MY GODFATHER-S MANCEUVRING. 

I HAVE said that my dear godfather was a 
great match-maker. One of his exploits in 
this way, which occurred during my second 
visit to him and Mrs. Evelyn, I am now about 
to relate. 

Amongst the many distant cousins to whom 
I was introduced in that northern region, was 
a j'oung kinswoman by the name of Hervey 
— an orphan heiress of considerable fortune, 
who lived in the same town and the same 
street with my godfather, under the protection 
of a lady who had been the governess of her 
childhood, and continued with her as the friend 
of her youth. Sooth to say, their friendship 
was of that tender and sentimental sort at 
which the world, the wicked world, is so 
naughty as to laugh. Miss Reid and Miss 
Hervey were names quite as inseparable as 
goose and apple-sauce, or tongue and chicken. 
They regularly made their appearance together, 
and there would have appeared I know not 
what of impropriety in speaking of either 
singly; it would have looked like a tearing 
asunder of the " double cherry," respecting 
which, in their case, even the " seeming part- 
ed," would have been held too disjunctive a 
phrase, so tender and inseparable was their 
union ; although as far as resemblance went, 
no simile could be more inapplicable. Never 
were two people more unlike in mind and 
person. 

Lucy Hervey was a pretty little woman of 
six and twenty; but from a delicate figure, 
delicate features, and a most delicate com 
plexion, looking much younger. Perhaps the 



EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. 



145 



total absence of strong' expression, the mild- 
ness and simplicity of her countenance, and 
the artlessness and docility of her manner 
might conduce to the mistake. She was a 
sweet gentle creature, generous and aifection- 
ate ; and not wanting in sense, although her 
entire reliance on her friend's judgment, and 
constant habit of obedience to her wishes 
rendered the use of it somewhat rare. 

Miss Reid was a tall awkward woman, 
raw-boned, lank and huge, just what one 
fancies a man would be in petticoats ; with a 
face that, except the beard (certainly she had 
no beard) might have favoured the supposi- 
tion ; so brown and bony and stern and ill- 
favoured was her unfortunate visage. In one 
point, she was lucky. There was no guess- 
ing at her age, certainly not within ten years ; 
nor within twenty. She looked old : but 
with that figure, those features, and that com- 
plexion, she must have looked old at eighteen. 
To guess her age was impossible. Her voice 
was deep and dictatorial ; her manner rough 
and assuming; and her conversation unmer- 
cifully sensible and oracular — " full of wise 
saws and modern instances." For the rest, 
in spite of her inauspicious exterior, she was 
a good sort of disagreeable woman: charita- 
ble and kind in her way ; genuinely fond of 
Lucy Hervey, whom she petted and scolded 
and coaxed and managed just as a nurse man- 
ages a child : and tolerably well liked of all 
her acquaintance — except Mr. Evelyn, who 
had been at war with her for the last nine 
years, on the subject of his fair cousin's mar- 
riage ; and had, at last, come to regard her 
pretty much as a prime minister may look on 
an opposition leader, — as a regular opponent, 
an obstacle to be put down or swept away. 
I verily believe that he hated her as much as 
his kindly nature could hate any body. 

To be sure, it was no slight grievance to 
have so fair a subject for his matrimonial 
speculations, a kinswoman too, just under his 
very eye, and to find all his plans thwarted 
by that inexorable gouvernante — more espe- 
cially, as, without her aid, it was morally 
certain that the pretty Lucy would never have 
had the heart to say no to any body. Ever 
since Miss Hervey was seventeen, my dear 
godpapa had been scheming for her advantage. 
It was quite melancholy to hear him count up 
the husbands she might have had, — beginning 
at the Duke's son, her partner at her first race 
ball, — and ending with the young newiy-ar- 
rived physician, his last protege : " now," he 
said, " she might die an old maid ; he had done 
with her." And there did actually appear to 
be a cessation of all his matrimonial plans in 
that quarter. Miss Reid herself laid aside 
her distrust of him ; and a truce, if not a 
peace, was tacitly concluded between these 
sturdy antagonists. Mr. Evelyn seemed to 
have given up the game — a strange thing for 
him to do whilst he had a pawn left I But so 



it was. His adversary had the board all to 
herself; and was in as good a humour, as a 
winning player generally is. Miss Reid was 
never remembered so amiable. We saw them 
almost every day, as the fashion is amongst 
neighbours in small towns, and used to ride 
and walk together continually — althoug-h 
Lucy, whose health was delicate, frequently 
declined accompanying us on our more distant 
excursions. 

Our usual beau, besides the dear godpapa, 
was a Mr. Morris, the curate of the parish — 
an uncouth, gawky, lengthy man, with an 
astounding Westmoreland dialect, and a most 
portentous laugh. Really his ha ! ha ! was 
quite a shock to the nerves — a sort of oral 
shower-bath ; so sudden and so startling was 
the explosion. In loudness it resembled half 
a dozen ordinary laughs "rolled into one;" 
and as the gentleman was of a facetious dis- 
position and chorused his own good things as 
well as those of other people, with his awful 
cachination, it was no joking matter. But 
he was so excellent a person, so cordial, so 
jovial, so simple-hearted, and so contented 
with a lot none of the most prosperous, that 
one could not help liking him, laugh and all. 
He was a widower, with one only son, a 
Cambridge scholar, of whom he was deserved- 
ly proud. Edward Morris, besides his aca- 
demical honours (I think he had been senior 
wrangler of his year), was a very fine young 
man, with an intelligent countenance, but ex- 
ceedingly shy, silent, and abstracted. I could 
not help thinking the poor youth was in love; 
but his father and Mr. Evelyn laid the whole 
blame on the mathematics. He would sit 
sometimes for an hour together, immersed, as 
they said, in his calculations, with his eyes 
fixed on Lucy Hervey, as if her sweet face 
had been the problem he was solving. But 
your mathematicians are privileged people ; 
and so apparently my fair cousin thought, for 
she took no notice, unless by blushing a shade 
the deeper. It was worth while to look at 
Lucy Hervey, when Edward Morris was gaz- 
ing on her in his absent fits ; her cheeks were 
as red as a rose. 

How these blushes came to escape the no- 
tice of Miss Reid, I cannot tell, — unless she 
might happen to have her own attention en- 
grossed by Edward's father. For certain, that 
original paid her, in his odd way, great atten- 
tion ; was her constant beau in our walking- 
parties ; sate by her side at dinner ; and ma- 
noeuvred to get her for his partner at whist. 
She had the benefit of his best bon-mots, and 
his loudest laughs ; and she seemed to me not 
to dislike that portentous sound, so much as 
might have been expected from a lady of her 
particularity. I ventured to hint my observa- 
tions to Mr. Evelyn; who chuckled, laid his 
forefinger against his nose, rubbed his hands, 
and called me a simpleton. 

Affairs were in this position, when one night 



146 



OUR VILLAGE. 



just at going to bed, my good godfather, with 
a little air of mystery (no uncommon prepa- 
ration to his most trifling plans), made an ap- 
pointment to walk with me before breakfast, 
as far as a pet farm, about a mile out of the 
town, the superintendence of which was one 
of his greatest amusements. Early the next 
morning, the house-maid, who usually attend- 
ed me, made her appearance, and told me that 
her master was waiting for me, that I must 
make haste, and that he desired I would be 
smart, as he expected a party to breakfast at 
the farm. This sort of injunction is seldom 
thrown away on a damsel of eighteen ; ac- 
cordingly I adjusted, with all possible des- 
patch, a new blue silk pelisse, and sallied 
forth into the corridor, which I heard him 
pacing as impatiently as might be. There, to 
my no small consternation, instead of the 
usual gallant compliments of the most gallant 
of godfathers, I was received with very dis- 
approving glances; told that I looked like an 
old woman in that dowdy-coloured pelisse, 
and conjured to exchange it for a white gown. 
Half affronted, I nevertheless obeyed ; doffed 
the pelisse, and donned the white gown, as 
ordered ; and being greeted this time with a 
bright smile, and a chuck under the chin, we 
set out in high good-humour on our expedi- 
tion. 

Instead, however, of proceeding straight 
to the farm, Mr. Evelyn made a slight devia- 
tion from our course, turning down the mar- 
ket-place, and into the warehouse of a certain 
Mrs. Bennet, milliner and mantua-maker, a 
dashing over-dressed damt. who presided over 
the fashions for ten miles round, and marshal- 
led a compter full of caps and bonnets at one 
side of the shop, whilst her husband, an ob- 
sequious civil bowing tradesman, dealt out 
gloves and stockings at the other. A little 
dark parlour behind was common to both. 
Into this den was I ushered ; and Mrs. Ben- 
net, with many apologies, began, at a signal 
from my godfather, to divest me of all my su- 
perfluous blueness, silk handkerchief, sash, 
and wrist-ribbons, (for with the constancy 
which is born of opposition, I had, in relin- 
quishing my obnoxious pelisse, clung firmly 
to the obnoxious colour) replacing them by 
white satin ribbons and a beautiful white 
shawl ; and, finally, exchanging my straw 
bonnet for one of white silk, with a deep lace 
veil — that piece of delicate finery which all 
women delight in. Whilst I was now ad- 
miring the richness of the genuine Brussels 
point, and now looking at myself in a little 
glass which Mrs. Bennet was holding to my 
face, for the better display of her millinery — 
the bonnet, to do her justice, was pretty and 
becoming, — during this engrossing contempla- 
tion, her smooth silky husband crept behind 
me with the stealthy pace of a cat, and rely- 
ing, as it seems, on my pre-occupation, actually 
drew my York-tan gloves from my astonished 



hands, and substituted a pair of his own best 
white kid. This operation being completed, 
my godpapa, putting his forefinger to his lip 
in token of secresy, hurried me with a look of 
great triumph, from the shop. 

He walked at a rapid pace; and, between 
quick motion and amazement, I was too much 
out of breath to utter a word, till we had pass- 
ed the old gothic castle at the end of the town, 
and crossed the long bridge that spans its wide 
and winding river. I then rained questions 
on my dear old friend, who chuckled and nod- 
ded, and vented two or three half laughs, but 
vouchsafed nothing tending to a reply. At 
length we came to a spot where the road turn- 
ed suddenly to the left, (the way to the farm), 
whilst, right before us, rose a knoll, on which 
stood the church, a large, heavy, massive 
building, almost a cathedral, finely relieved 
by the range of woody hills whicii shut in the 
landscape. A turning gate, with a tall straight 
cypress on either side, led into the church- 
yard ; and through this gate Mr. Evelyn pass- 
ed. The church door was a little a-jar, and, 
through the crevice, was seen peeping the 
long red nose of the old clerk, a Bardolphian 
personage, to whom my godfather, who loved 
to oblige people in their own way, sometimes 
did the questionable service of clearing off his 
score at the Greyhound ; his red nose and a 
skirt of his shabby black coat peeped through 
the porch ; whilst, behind one of the but- 
tresses, glimmered, for an instant, the white 
drapery of a female figure. I did not need 
these indications to convince me that a wed- 
ding was the object in view ; that had been 
certain from the first cashiering of my blue 
ribbons ; but I was still at a loss, as to the 
parties; and felt quite relieved by Mr. Eve- 
lyn's question, " Pray, my dear, were you 
ever a bride's-maid ?" — since in the extremity 
of my perplexity, I had had something like 
an apprehension that an unknown beau might 
appear at the call of this mighty manager, 
and I be destined to play the part of bride 
myself. Comforted to find that I was only 
to enact the confidante, I had now leisure to 
be exceedingly curious as to my prima donna. 
My curiosity was speedily gratified. 

On entering the church we had found only 
a neighbouring clergyman, not Mr. Morris, at 
the altar; and, looking round at the opening 
of another door, I perceive the worthy curate 
in a jetty clerical suit, bristling with newness, 
leading Miss Reid be-flounced and be-scarfed 
and be-veiled and be-plumed, and all in a flut- 
ter of bridal finery, in great state, up the aisle. 
Mr. Evelyn advanced to meet them, took the 
lady's fair hand from Mr. Morris, and led her 
along with all the grace of an old courtier; I 
fell into the procession at the proper place; 
the amiable pair were duly married, and I 
thought my office over. I was never more 
mistaken in my life. 

In the midst of the customary confusion of 



THE YOUNG GIPSY. 



147 



kissinff and wishing joy, and writing and sign- 
ing registers and certificates, which form so 
important and disagreeable a part of that dis- 
agreeable and important ceremony, Mr. Eve- 
lyn had vanished ; and just as the bride was 
inquiring for him, with the intention of leav- 
ing the church, he reappeared through the 
very same side-door which had admitted the 
first happy couple, leading Lucy Hervey, and 
followed by Edward Morris. The father evi- 
dently expected them ; the new step-mother 
as evidently did not. Never did a thief, taken 
in the manner, seem more astonished than that 
sage gouvernante ! Lucy on her part, blushed 
and hung back, and looked shyer and prettier 
than ever; the old clerk grinned ; the clergy- 
man, who had shown some symptoms of as- 
tonishment at the first wedding, now smiled 
to Mr. Evelyn, as if this accounted, and made 
amends for it; whilst the dear god-papa him- 
self chuckled and nodded and rubbed his 
hands, and chucked both bride and bride's- 
maid under the chin, and seemed ready to cut 
capers for joy. Again the book was opened 
at the page of destiny; again I held the milk- 
white glove ; and after nine years of unsuc- 
cessful manoeuvring, my cousin Lucy was 
married. It was, undoubtedly, the most tri- 
umphant event of the good old man's life ; and 
I don't believe that either couple ever saw 
cause to regret the dexterity in the art of 
match-making which produced their double 
union. They have been as happy as people 
usually are in this work a-day world, espe- 
cially the young mathematician and his pretty 
wife ; and their wedding-day is still remem- 
bered in W. ; for besides his munificence to 
singer, ringer, sexton and clerk, Mr. Evelyn 
roasted two sheep on the occasion, gave away 
ten bride-cakes, and made the whole town 
tipsy. 



THE YOUNG GIPSY. 

The weather continuing fine and dry, I did 
not fail to revisit my gipsy encampment, which 
became more picturesque every day in the 
bright sunoleams and lengthening shadows of 
a most brilliant autumn. A slight frost had 
strewed the green lane with the light yellow 
leaves of the elm — those leaves on whose 
yielding crispness it is so pleasant to tread, 
and which it is so much pleasanter to watch 
whirling along, " thin dancers upon air," in 
the fresh October breeze ; whilst the reddened 
beech, and spotted sycamore, and the rich 
oaks dropping with acorns, their foliage just 
edging into its deep orange brown, added all 
the magic of colour to the original beauty of 
the scenery. It was undoubtedly the prettiest 
walk in the neighbourhood, and the one which 
I frequented the most. 



Ever since th ■■ adventure of May, the old 
fortune-teller and I understood each other per- 
fectly. She knew that I was no client, no 
patient, no customer (which is the fittest name 
for a goosecap who goes to a gipsy to ask 
what is to befall herl) but she also know that 
I was no enemy either to her or her ])rofes- 
sion ; for, after all, if people choose to amuse 
themselves by being simpletons, it is no part 
of their neighbours' business to hinder them. 
I, on my side, liked the old gipsy exceedingly; 
I liked both her humour and her good-humour, 
and had a real respect for her cleverness. We 
always interchanged a smile and a nod, meet 
where we might. May, too, had become ac- 
customed to the whole party. The gift of a 
bone from the cauldron — a bare bone — your 
well-fed dog likes nothing so well as such a 
wind-fall, and if stolen the relish is hisher — 
a bare bone brought about the reconciliation. 
I arn sorry to accuse May of accepting a bribe, 
but such was the fact. She now looked at 
the fortune-teller with great complacency, 
would let the boys stroke her long neck, and 
in her turn would condescend to frolic with 
their shabby curs, who, trained to a cat-like 
caution and mistrust of their superiors, were 
as much alarmed at her advances as if a lioness 
had offered herself as their play-fellow. There 
was no escaping her civility, however, so they 
submitted to their fete, and really seemed as- 
tonished to find themselves alive when the 
gambol was over. One of them, who from a 
tail turned over his back like a squirrel, and 
an amazingly snub nose, had certainly some 
mixture of the pug in his composition, took a 
great fancy to her when his fright was past: 
which she repaid by the sort of scornful kind- 
ness, the despotic protection proper to her as 
a beauty, and a favourite, and a high-blooded 
greyhound — always a most proud and stately 
creature. The poor little mongrel used regu- 
larly to come jumping to meet her, and she as 
regularly turned him over and over and over, 
and round and round and round, like a teto- 
tum. He liked it apparently, for he never 
failed to come and court the tossing whenever 
she went near him. 

The person most interesting to me of the 
whole party was the young girl. She was 
remarkably pretty, and of the peculiar pretti- 
ness which is so frequently found amongst 
that singular people. Her face resembled 
those which Sir Joshua has often painted — 
rosy, round, and bright, set in such a profu- 
sion of dark curls, lighted by such eyes, and 
such a smile ! and she smiled whenever you 
looked at her — she could not help it. Her 
figure was light and small, of low stature, and 
with an air of great youthfulness. In her 
dress she was, for a gipsy, surprisingly tidy. 
For the most part, that ambulatory race have 
a preference for rags, as forming their most 
appropriate wardrobe, being a part of their 
tools of trade, their insignia of office. I do 



148 



OUR VILLAGE. 



not imagine that Harriet's friend, the fortune- 
teller, would have exchangred her stained tat- 
tered cloak for the thickest and brightest red 
cardinal that ever came out of a woollen-dra- 
per's shop. And she would have been a loser 
if she had. Take away that mysterious man- 
tle, and a great part of her reputation would 
go too. There is much virtue in an old cloak. 
I question if the simplest of her clients, even 
Harriet herself, would have consulted her in 
a new one. But the young girl was tidy ; not 
only accurately clean, and with clothes neatly 
and nicely adjusted to her trim little form, but 
with the rents darned, and the holes patched, 
in a way that I should be glad to see equalled 
by our own villagers. 

Her manners were quite as ungipsy-like as 
her apparel, and so was her conversation ; for 
I could not help talking to her, and was much 
pleased with her frankness and innocence, and 
the directness and simplicity of her answers. 
She was not the least shy ; on the contrary, 
there was a straightforward look, a fixing of 
her sweet eyes full of pleasure and reliance 
right upon you, which, in the description, 
might seem almost too assured, but which, in 
reality, no more resembled vulgar assurance 
than did the kindred artlessness of Shaks- 
peare's Miranda. It seems strange to liken a 
gipsy girl to that loveliest creation of genius; 
but I never saw that innocent gaze without 
being sure that just with such a look of pleased 
attention, of affectionate curiosity, did the 
island princess listen to Ferdinand. 

All that she knew of her little story she told 
without scruple, in a young liquid voice, and 
with a little curtsy between every answer, that 
became her extremely. " Her name," said she, 
" was Fanny. She had no father or mother; 
they were dead ; and she and her brothers 
lived with her grandmother. They lived al- 
ways out of doors, sometimes in one place — 
sometimes in another ; but she should like al- 
ways to live under that oak-tree, it was so 
pleasant. Her grandmother was very good to 
them all, only rather particular. She loved 
her very much ; and she loved Dick (her eld- 
est brother,) though he was a sad unlucky boy, 
to be sure. vShe was afraid he would come to 
some bad end" — 

And, indeed, Dick at that moment seemed 
in imminent danger of verifying his sister's 
prediction. He had been trying for a gleaning 
of nuts amongst the tall hazels on the top of a 
bank, which, flanked by a deep ditch, separated 
the coppice from the green. We had heard 
him for the last five minutes smashing and 
crashing away at a prodigious rate, swinging 
himself from stalk to stalk, and tugging and 
climbing like a sailor or a monkey ; and now 
at the very instant of Fanny's uttering this 
prophecy, having missed a particularly ven- 
turesome grasp, he was impelled forward by 
the rebound of the branches, and fell into the 
ditch with a tremendous report, bringing half 



the nuttery after him, and giving us all a notion 
that he had broken his neck. His time, how- 
ever was not yet come : he was on his feet 
again in half a minute, and in another ha.f 
minute we again heard him rustling amongst 
the hazel boughs ; and I went on with our 
talk, which the fright and scolding, consequent 
on this accident, had interrupted. My readers 
are of course aware, that when any one meets 
with a fall, the approved medicament of the 
most affectionate relatives is a good dose of 
scolding. 

" She liked Dick," she continued, " in spite 
of his unluckiness — he was so quick and good- 
humoured ; but the person she loved most was 
her youngest brother, Willy. Willy was the 
best boy in the world, he would do any thing 
she told him" (indeed the poor child was in 
the very act of picking up acorns, under her 
inspection, to sell, as I afterwards found, in 
the village,) " and never got into mischief, or 
told a lie in his life ; she had had the care of 
him ever since he was born, and she wished 
she could get him a place." By this time the 
little boy had crept towards us, and still col- 
lecting the acorns in his small brown hands, 
had turned up his keen intelligent face, and 
was listening with great interest to our con- 
versation. " A place !" said I, much surprised. 
"Yes," replied she firmly, " a place. 'Twould 
be a fine thing for my poor Willy to have a 
house over him in the cold winter nights." 
And with a grave tenderness, that might have 
beseemed a young mother, she stooped her 
head over the boy and kissed him. " But you 
sleep out of doors in the cold winter nights, 
Fanny !" — " Me ! oh, I don't mind it,^ and 
sometimes we creep into a barn. But poor 
Willy ! If I could but get Willy a place, my 
lady !" 

This " my lady," the first gipsy word that 
Fanny had uttered, lost all that it would have 
had of unpleasing in the generosity and affec- 
tionateness of the motive. I could not help 
promising to recommend her Willy, although 
I could not hold out any very strong hopes of 
success, and we parted, Fanny following me, 
with thanks upon thanks, almost to the end of 
the lane. 

Two days after I again saw my pretty gipsy; 
she was standing by the side of our gate, too 
modest even to enter the court, waiting for my 
coming out to speak to me. I brought her into 
the hall, and was almost equally delighted to 
see her, and to hear her news ; for although I 
had most faithfully performed my promise, by 
mentioning master Willy to every body likely 
to want a servant of his qualifications, I had 
seen enough in the course of my canvass to 
convince me that a gipsy boy of eight years 
old would be a diflicult protege to provide for. 

Fanny's errand relieved my perplexity. She 
came to tell me that Willy had gotten a place 
— " That Thomas Lamb, my lord's head game- 
keeper, had hired him to tend his horse and 



THE YOUNG GIPSY. 



149 



his cow, and serve the pigs, and feed the dogs, 
and dig the garden, and clean the shoes and 
knives, and run errands — in short, to be a man 
of all work. Willy was gone that very morn- 
ing. — He had cried to part with her, and she 
had almost cried herself, she should miss him 
so; he was like her own child. But then it 
was such a great place ; and Thomas Lamb 
seemed such a kind master — talked of new 
clothing him, and meant him to wear shoes 
and stockings, and was very kind indeed. 
But poor Willy had cried sadly at leaving 
her," — and the sweet matronly elder sister 
fairly cried too. 

I comforted her all I could, first by praises 
of Thomas Lamb, who happened to be of my 
acquaintance, and was indeed the very master 
whom, had I had the choice, I would have 
selected for Willy; and secondly, by the gift 
of some unconsidered trifles, which one should 
have been ashamed to offer to any one who 
had ever had a house over her head, but which 
the pretty gipsy girl received with transport, 
especially some working materials of the com- 
monest sort. Poor Fanny had never known 
the luxury of a thimble before ; it was as new 
to her fingers as shoes and stockings were 
likely to be to Willy's feet. She forgot her 
sorrows, and tripped home to her oak-tree the 
happiest of the happy. 

Thomas Lamb, Willy's new master, was, 
as I have said, of my acquaintance. He was 
a remarkably fine young man, and as well- 
mannered as those of his calling usually are. 
Generally speaking, there are no persons, ex- 
cepting real gentlemen, so gentlemanly as 
game-keepers. They keep good company. — 
The beautiful and graceful creatures whom 
they at once preserve and pursue, and the 
equally noble and generous animals whom 
they train, are their principal associates ; and 
even by their masters they are regarded rather 
as companions than as servants. They attend 
them in their sports more as guides and lead- 
ers than as followers, pursuing a common re- 
creation with equal enjoyment, and often with 
superior skill. Game-keepers are almost al- 
ways well-behaved, and Thomas Lamb was 
eminently so. He had quite the look of a man 
of fashion ; the person, the carriage, the air. 
His figure was tall and striking; his features 
delicately carved, with a paleness of com- 
: plexion, and a sliaht appearance of ill-health 
that added to their elegance. Li short, he was 
j exactly what the ladies would have called in- 
I teresting in a gentleman ; and the gentleness 
I of his voice and manner, and the constant pro- 
priety of his deportment, tended to confirm 
the impression. 

Luckily for him, however, this delicacy and 
refinement lay chiefly on the surface. His 
constitution, habits, and temper were much 
better fitted to his situation, much hardier and 
heartier than they appeared to be. He was 
still a bachelor, and lived by himself in a cot- 

13* 



tage, almost as lonely as if it had been placed i 
in a desert island. It stood in the centre of 
his preserves, in the midst of a wilderness of [ 
coppice and woodland, accessible only by a 
narrow winding path, and at least a mile from | 
the nearest habitation. When you had thread- i 
ed the labyrinth, and were fairly arrived in . 
Thomas's dominion, it was a pretty territory. | 
A low thatched cottage, very irregularly built, j 
with a ])orch before the door, and a vine half- 
covering the casements ; a garden a good deal 
neglected, (Thomas Lamb's four-footed sub- 
jects, the hares, took care to eat up all his i 
flowers ; hares are animals of taste, and are ; 
particularly fond of pinks and carnations, the 1 
rogues !) an orchard and a meadow, completed ' 
the demesne. There was, also, a commodious 
dog-kennel, and a stable, of which the outside 
was completely covered with the trophies of 
Thomas's industry — kites, jackdaws, magpies, 
hawks, crows, and owls, nailed by the wings, 
displayed, as they say in heraldry, against the 
wall, with polecats, weazels, stoats, and hedge- 
hogs figuring at their side, a perfect menagerie 
of dead game-killers.* 

But the prettiest part of this woodland cot- 
tage, was the real living game that flitted 
about it, as tame as barn-door fowls ; par- 
tridges flocking to be fed, as if there were not 
a dog, or a gun, or a man in the world ; phea- 
sants, glorious creatures ! coming at a call ; 
hares almost as fearless as Cowper's, that 
would stand to let you look at them ; would 
let you approach quite near, before they raised 
one quivering ear and darted off; and that 
even then, when the instinct of timidity was 
aroused, would turn at a safe distance to look 
again. Poor, pretty things ! What a pity it 
seemed to kill them ! 

Such was to be Willy's future habitation. 
The day after he had entered upon his place, 
I had an opportunity of offering my double 
congratulations, to the master on his new ser- 
vant, to the servant on his new master. — 
Whilst taking my usual walk, I found Thomas 
Lamb, Dick, Willy, and Fanny, about half- 
way up the lane, engaged in the animating 
sport of unearthing a weazel, which one of 
the gipsy dogs followed into a hole by the 
ditch-side. The boys showed great sports- 
manship on this occasion ; and so did their 
poor curs, who with their whole bodies insert- 
ed into different branches of the burrow, and 
nothing visible but their tails (the one, the 
long puggish brush of which I have already 
made mention, the other, a terrier-like stump, 



♦Foxes, the dpstrnntion of which is so great an ob- 
ject in a pheasant preserve, never are displayed, espe- 
cially if there be a pack of hounds in the neighbour- 
hood. That odious part of a game-keeper's occupation 
is as quietly and unostentatiously performed as any 
operation of gunnery can be. Lords of manors will 
even atTcct to preserve foxes — Heaven (brgive them I 
— just as an unpopular ministry is sure to talk of pro- 
tecting the liberly of the subject. 



150 



OUR VILLAGE. 



that maintained an incessant wapr), continued 
to dij and scratch, throwintj out showers of 
earth, and whininyf with impatience and eager- 
ness. Every now and then, when quite gasp- 
incr and exhausted, they came out for a mo- 
ment's air ; whilst the boys took their turn, 
poking- with a long stick, or loosening tlie 
ground with their hands, and Thomas stood 
by superintending and encouraging both dog 
and bojr, and occasionally cutting a root or a 
bramble that impeded their progress. Fanny, 
also, entered into the pursuit with great inter- 
est, dropping here and there a word of advice, 
as nobody can help doing when they see 
others in perplexity. In spite of all these 
aids, the mining operation proceeded so slow- 
ly, that the experienced keeper sent off his 
new attendant for a spade to dig out the ver- 
min, and I pursued my walk. 

After this encounter, it so happened that I 
never went near the gipsy tent without meet- 
ing Thomas Lamb — sometimes on foot, some- 
times on bis pony; now with a gun, now 
without; but always loitering near the oak- 
tree, and always, as it seemed, reluctant to be 
seen. It was very unlike Thomas's usual 
manner to seem ashamed of being canurht in 
any place, or in any company ; but so it was. 
Did he go to the ancient sibyl to get his for- 
tune told ■? or was Fanny the attraction 1 A 
very short time solved the query. 

One night, towards the end of the month, 
the keeper presented himself at our house on 
justice business. He wanted a summons for 
some poachers who had been committing de- 
predations in the preserve. Thomas was a 
great favourite ; and was, of course, imme- 
diately admitted, his examination taken, and 
his request complied with. " But how," said 
the magistrate, looking up from the summons 
which he was signing, " how can you expect, 
Thomas, to keep your pheasants, when that 
gipsy boy with his finders has pitched his 
tent just in the midst of your best coppices, 
killing more game than half the poachers in 
the country ?" " Why, as to the gipsy, sir," 
replied Thomas, "Fanny is as good a girl — " 
" I was not talking of Fanny," interrupted 
the man of warrants, smiling — " as good a 
girl," pursued Thomas — "A very pretty 
girl !" ejaculated bis worship, — " as good a 
girl," resumed Thomas, " as ever trod the 
earth !" — " A sweet pretty creature, certain- 
ly," was again the provoking reply. " Ah, 
sir, if you could but hear how her little bro- 
ther talks of her!" — "Why, Thomas, this 
gipsy has made an impression." — "Ah, sir! 
she is such a good girl !" — and the next day 
they were married. 

It was a measure to set every tongue in the 
village a wagging : for 'J'bomas, besides his 
personal good gifts, was well to do in the 
world — my lord's head keeper, and prime fa- 
vourite. He might have pretended to any far- 
mer's daughter in the parish : every body 



cried out against the match. It was rather a 
bold measure, certainly; but I think it will 
end well. They are, beyond a doubt, the 
handsomest couple in these parts ; and as the 
fortune-teller and her eldest grandson have 
had the good sense to decamp, and Fanny, be- 
sides being the most grateful and alfectionate 
creature on earth, turns out clever and docile, 
and comports herself just as if she had lived 
in a house all her days, there are some hopes 
that in process of time her sin of gipsyism 
may be forgiven, and Mrs. Larnb be consider- 
ed as visitable, at least by her next neighbours, 
the wives of the shoemaker and the parish 
clerk. At present, I am sorry to have it to 
say, that these worthy persons have sent both 
Thomas and her to Coventry — a misfortune 
which they endure with singular resignation. 



And now, since farewell must be said, T do 
not know that I can find a fitter moment. We 
are all as happy as people in a last page ought 
to be; — the lovers in an union of affection, the 
rest of the village in the news and the won- 
derment. Farewell, then, courteous reader ! 

"To all, to ench, a fair good niphf. 
And pleasant dreams and slumbers light!" 



PREFACE.* 

Those gentle readers, be they few or rnany, 
who may have paid the two Volumes entitled 
Our Village the compliment of holding them 
in recollection, will easily recognize the same 
locality, the same class of people, and often 
the same individuals, in the present collection 
of Country Stories, which is, indeed, at all 
points, a continuation of the former work. 
The Authoress has only to hope that it may 
be received with similar indulgence ; and to 
deprecate a too literal construction of facts, 
and names, and dates. 



INTROD UCTION. 



EXTRACTS FROM LETTERS. 

" Any changes in our Village since the last 
advices 1 What news of May and Lizzy and 
Fanny and Lucy 1 And does the Loddon 
contintie to flow as brightly as when we 
gathered musk-roses together in the old 
grounds of Aherleigh?" 

These interrogatories formed part of a letter 
from India, written by my pretty friend Emily 

*To the third vohime, as originally published. 



INTRODUCTION, 



151 



L., now the wife of an officer of rank on that 
station , and my answer to her kind question- 
ing, nnay serve to satisfy the curiosity of other 
gentle readers as to tiie general state of our 
little commonwealth, and form no unfit intro- 
duction to the more detailed narratives that 
follow. They who condescended to read the 
letter-press will have the advantage of my 
fair correspondent. Indeed I doubt whether 
she herself may not derive her first informa- 
tion from the printed book ; my epistle being, 
as far as I can judge, wholly illegible to all 
but the writer. Never was such a manuscript 
seen ! for being restricted to one sheet of 
paper, and having a good deal of miscella- 
neous matter to discuss before entering on 
our village affairs, I had fallen into a silly j 
fashion of crossing, not uncommon amongst [ 
young ladies ; so that my letter first written i 
horizontally like other people's, then perpen- 
dicularly to form a sort of checker-work, then 
diagonally in red ink, — the very crossings i 
crossed! — and every nook and cranny, the i 
part under the seal, the corner where the date \ 
stood, covered with small lines in an invisible 
hand, the whole letter became a mass of mys- ; 
terious marks, a puzzle like a Coptic inscrip- 
tion, or a state paper in cypher to those unac- j 
quainted with the key. I must put an extract ; 
into print if only for the benefit of my fair j 
correspondent ; and here it is : I 

" ' Any change in our village V say you. — 
Why no, not much. In the outward world 
scarcely any, except the erection of two hand- 
some red houses on the outskirts, which look 
very ugly jusi at present, simply because the 
eye and the landscape are unaccustomed to ' 
them, but which will set us off amazingly 
when the trees and the buildings become used 
to each other, and the glaring new tint is 
toned down by that great artist, the weather. 
For the rest the street remains quite in statu 
quo, unless we may count for alteration a ri- 
facimcnlo which is taken place in the dwell- 
ing of our worthy neighbour the baker, whose 
oven fell in last week, and is in the act of 
being re-constructed by a scientific bricklayer 
(Ah dear me ! I dare say he hath a finer name 
for his calling) from the good town of B. The 
precise merits of this new oven I cannot pre- 
tend to explain, although they have been over 
and over explained to me; I only know that 
it is to be heated on some new-fangled prin- 
ciple, hot water, or hot air, or steam, or cin- 
ders, which is to cost just nothing, and is to 
produce the staff of life, crust and crum, in 
such excellence as hath not been equalled 
since Alfred, the first baker of quality on re- 
cord, had the misfortune to scorch his hostess's 
cake. I suspect that the result of this exper- 
iment will not be very dissimilar ; but at 
present it is a great point of interest to the 
busy and the idle. Half of our cricketers 
are there helping or hindering, and all the 
children of the street are assembled to watch 



the operation, or clustered into groups near 
the door. 

" You used to say, and there was too much 
truth in the assertion, that for pigs, geese and 
children, and their concomitants, dirt and 
noise, this pretty place was unrivalled. But 
then you were here when the two first evils 
were at their height, in June and July. At 
present the geese have felt the stroke of 
Michaelmas, and are fatted and thinned ; pigs 
too have diminished ; thoug^h as the children 
are proportionably increased, we are not much 
better off in point of cleanliness, and much 
worse in regard to noise : — a pig being, except 
just when ringing or killing, a tolerably silent 
animal; and a goose, in spite of the old 
Roman story, only vociferous by fits and 
starts ; whereas little boys and little girls — 
at least, the little boys and little girls here- 
about — seem on the full cry or the full shout 
from sunrise to sunset. Even the dinner 
hour, that putter down of din in most civil- 
ized countries, makes no pause amongst our 
small people. The nightingale who sings all 
day and all night to solace his brooding mate, 
is but a type of their unwearying power of 
voice. His sweet harmony doth find inter- 
vals ; their discord hath none. 

" And yet they have light hearts too, poor 
urchins ; witness Dame Wilson's three sun- 
burnt ragged boys who with Ben Kirby and 
a few comrades of lesser note, are bawling 
and squabbling at marbles on one side of the 
road; and Master Andrews's four fair-haired 
girls who are scrambling and squalling at 
baseball on the other ! How happy they are, 
poor things, and with how few of the imple- ' 
ments of happiness beyond sunshine and : 
liberty and their own young life! Even the i 
baker's and the wheelwright's children are ; 
stealing a run and a race up the hill as they | 
go to school, and managing to make quite j 
noise enough to attract attention ; although 
being in whole frocks, they are rather more 
quiet than their compeers in tatters, and hardly 
so merry ; it being an axiom which I have 
rarely known to fail in country life, that the 
poorer the urchin, the fuller of glee. Short 
of starvation, nothing tames the elves. Bless- 
ed triumph of youthful spirits ! merciful com- 
pensation for a thousand wants ! 

" Even as I write there is another childish 
rabble passing the window in the wake of 
our friend Mr. Moore's donkey-cart. You 
remember Mr. Moore's fine strawberries, Em- 
ily 1 the real wood strawberry, which looked 
like a gem, and smelt like a nosegay ] But 
strawberries are out of season now ; and the 
donkey cart has changed its gay summer freight 
of fruit and flowers, and is coming down the 
hill heavily laden with a full dirty homely 
load of huge red potatoes, to vend per peck 
and gallon through the village, or perhaps to 
carry as far as B., where some amateurs of 
the ' lazy root,' curious in such underground 



152 



OUR VILLAGE, 



matters, are constant customers to Mr. Moore's 
' pink eyes.' It is not, however, for love of 
tiiat meritorious vegetable that the boys fol- 
low the potatoe-cart. One corner is parted 
off for apples, in hopes to tempt our thrifty 
housewives into the cheap extravagance of a 
puddintr or a pie. Half a bushel of apples 
as yellow and mellow as quinces are deposited 
in one corner, and the young rogues have 
smelt the treasure out. 

" Now to answer your land inquiries. May 
— to begin at home! — May — many thanks 
for your recollection of my favourite ! — May 
is as well as can be expected. She is literally 
and figuratively in the straw, being confined 
with one puppy — only one; and presenting 
in her fair person a very complete illustration 
of the old proverb respecting a hen with one 
chick. Never was such a fuss made about 
a little animal since greyhounds were grey- 
hounds, and the tiny creature is as pert, petu- 
lant, and precocious a personage as any spoilt 
child that ever walked on four legs or two. 
I must confess, in vindication of May's taste, 
who never before showed such absolute de- 
votion to her offspring, that the puppy has 
beauty enough for a whole litter. It is a 
fawn-coloured with a dash of white, and 
promises to be ticked. Are you sportswoman 
sufficient to know that ticked means covered 
all over with white spots about the size of a 
pea ■? a great addition to greyhound beauty, 
and a sure sign of greyhound blood ; a mark 
of caste, as they say in your country, and one 
the more to be relied on since it is a distinc- 
tion of nature, and not of man. 

" The shoemaker's pretty daughter is also 
' as well as can be expected.' She is out of 
doors to-day for the first day since her con- 
finement, and the delicate doll-like baby, 
which she is tossing as lightly and gracefully 
as if it were indeed a doll, and showing so 
proudly to her father's old crony, George 
Bridgwater, is her own. Her marriage cou- 
fjunded the calculations of all her neighbours, 
myself included: for she did not marry her 
handsome admirer Jem Tanner, who has 
wisely comforted himself by choosing another 
flame, — nothing so sure a remedy for one love 
as rushing straight into another; nor Daniel 
Tuhb, the dashing horse-dealer, who used to 
flourish his gay steed up the street and down 
the street, " all for the love of pretty Bessie ;' 
neither did she marry Joseph Bacon, the snug 
young grocer, who walked every Sunday 
seven miles to sit next her at chapel, and sing 
hymns from the same book ; nor her father's 
smart apprentice, William Ford, although a 
present partnership in the business, and a 
future succession would have made that match 
quite a mnriagede convenance : — none of these, 
her known and recognized lovers, did the fair 
nymph of the shoe-sbop marry, nor any of 
her thousand and one imputed swains. The 
happy man was one who had never been seen 



to speak to her in his life, — John Ford, brother 
to William, a tall, sinewy, comel)-^ black- 
smith, who on six days of tlie week contrives 
so to become the anvil with his dingy leather 
cap, and his stiff leather apron, his brawny 
naked arms and smoky face, that he seems 
native to the element, a very Vulcan ; whilst 
on the seventh, he emerges like a butterfly 
from the chrysalis, and by dint of fine clothes 
and fair water, becomes quite the beau of the 
village, almost as handsome as Joel himself. 
Since he has been married to his pretty wife, 
every body remembers what a bright pattern 
of fraternal friendsliip John Ford used to be j 
thought — how attentive to William! howl 
constant in his visits ! When William had a j 
cold, the winter before the wedding, John used j 
to come and ask after him every night. 
that love ! that love ! What fibs it makes 
honest people tell ! } 

"Lucy is gone — gone to superintend the | 
samplers and spelling-books two counties off. j 
Our bloomino gipsy, Fanny, has also taken 
her departure. Her husband found that the 
gipsy blood could not be got over, especially 
as his pretty bride, besides her triple sins of 
gipsyism, of prettiness, and of being his 
bride, had the misfortune to catch, with a 
quickness which seemed intuitive, ways and 
manners suited to her new station, to behave 
as well as any of her neighbours, and better } 
than most of them — an affront which the 
worthiest of her society found unpardonable. | 
So Thomas is gone to hold the same office at 
my Lord's estate in Devonshire ; where if they 
have the wit to keep their own counsels, the 
mesalliance will never be suspected, and 
Fanny will pass for a gamekeeper's wife of 
the very first fashion. 

" Lizzy ! Alas ! alas ! you ask for Lizzy ! 
— do you remember how surely at the closed 
gate of the flower court, or through the open 
door of her father's neat dwelling, we used to 
see the smiling rosy face, so full of life and 
glee; the square sturdy form, strong and ac- 
tive as a boy ; the clear bright eyes, and red 
lips and shining curly hair, giving such an 
assurance of health and strength ? And do 
you not recollect how the bounding foot, and 
the gay young voice, and the merry musical 
laugh seemed to fill the house and the court 
with her own quick and joyous spirit, as she 
darted about in her innocent play or her small 
housewifery, so lively and so vigorous, so 
lovely and so beloved ] Do you not remem- 
ber, too, how when we stopped to speak to 
her at that ever-open door, the whole ample 
kitchen was strewed with her little property, 
so that you used to liken it to a great baby- 
house] Here her kitten, there her doll; on 
one chair an old copy-hook, on another a new 
sash; her work and needle-book and scissors 
and thimble put neatly away on her own little 
table; her straw hat ornamented with a tuft 
of feathery grasses, or a garland of woodbine, 



GRACE NEVILLE. 



153 



hanging carelessly acrainst the wall ; and pots 
of flowers of all sorts of the garden and the 
field, from the earliest bnd to the latest blos- 
som, ranj^ed in the window, on the dresser, on 
the mantel shelf, wherever a jug could find 
room. Every thing spoke of Lizzy, her mo- 
ther's comfort, her father's delight, the charm 
and life of the house; and every body loved 
to hear and see so fair a specimen of healthful 
and happy childhood. It did one's heart good 
to pass that open door. But the door is closed 
now, always closed ; and the fiither, a hale 
and comely man, of middle age, is become all 
at once old and bent and broken ; and the 
smiling placid mother looks as if she would 
never smile again. Nothing has been dis- 
placed in that sad and silent dwelling. The 
straw hat, with its faded garland, still hangs 
against the wall; the work is folded on the 
liule table, with the small thimble upon it, as 
if just laid down ; jars of withered flowers 
crowd the mantel and the window ; — but the 
light hath departed ; the living flower is gone ; 
poor Lizzy is dead 1 Are you not sorry for 
poor, poor Lizzy ? 

" But this is too mournful a subject : — we 
must talk now of the Loddon, the beautiful 
Loddon — yes, it still flows; ay, and still over- 
flows, according to its naughty custom. Only 
last winter it filled our meadows like a lake ; 
rushed over our mill-dams like a cataract, and 
played such pranks with the old arch at York- 
pool, that people were fain to boat it betwixt 
here and Aberleigh ; and the bridge having 
been denounced as dangerous in summer and 
impassable in winter, is like to cause a dispute 
between those two grand abstractions, the 
parish and the county, each of which wishes 
to turn the cost of rebuilding on the other. 
By their own account, they are two of the 
poorest personages in his majesty's domin- 
ions; full of debt and difficulty, and exceed- 
ingly likely to go to law on the case, by way 
of amending their condition. The pretty 
naughty river ! There it flows bright and clear 
as when we walked by its banks to the old 
house at Aberleigh, looking as innocent and 
unconscious as if its victim, the bridge, had 
not been indicted — No — that's not the word ! 
— presented at the Quarter Sessions ; as if a 
worshipful committee were not sitting to 
inquire into its malversations; and an ancient 
and well-reputed parish and a respectable mid- 
land county going together by the ears in con- 
sequence of its delinquency. There it flows 
clear and bright through the beautiful grounds 
of Aberleigh ! The ruined mansion has been 
entirely pulled down ; but the lime-trees re- 
main, and the magnificent poplars and the gay 
wilderness of shrub and flower. The fishing- 
house has been repaired by the delicate hand 
of taste, and it is a fairy scene still ; a scene 
worthy of its owners and its neighbours, want- 
ing nothing in my eyes but you to come and 
look at it. 



a 



" Come ver\ •:.■.■■ f'liiily! Tell 

Colonel L., wilh Ou* kuit.;;;.!. remembrances, 
that we shall never love him quit-? so well as 
he deserves, laitil he brings you back to us. 
Come very scon ! and in the mean while be 
sure you send .in' a IuI' at-count of yourself 
and your ' whereabouts,' and do not fail to re- 
pay my brief notices of the simple scenery 
and humble denizens of our village, by gor- 
geous stories of oriental wonders, — of the 
Ganges, the palmettos, the elephants, and the 
Hindoos. 

" And now, my dear friend, farewell ! 

" Ever most afl'ectionately yours," 
&c. &c. &c. 



GRACE NEVILLE. 

Two or three winters ago, our little village 
had the good fortune to have its curiosity ex- 
cited by the sudden appearance of a lovely 
and eletjant young woman, as an inmate in the 
house of Mr. Martin, a respectable farmer in 
the place. The pleasure of talking over a 
new-comer in a country village, which, much 
as I love country villages, does, I confess, oc- 
casionally labour under a stagnation of topics, 
must not be liohtly estimated. In the present 
instance the enjoyment was greatly increased 
by the opportune moment at which it occur- 
red, just before Christmas, so that conjecture 
was happily afloat in all the parties of that 
merry time, enlivened the tea-table, and gave 
zest and animation to the supper. There was, 
too, a slight shade of mystery, a difficulty in 
coming at the truth, which made the subject 
unusually poignant. Talk her over as they 
might, nobody knew any thing certain of the 
incognita, or her story ; nobody could tell 
who she was, or whence she came. Mrs. 
Martin, to whom her neighbours were, on a 
sudden, most politely attentive in the way of 
calls and invitations, said nothing more than 
that Miss Neville was a young lady who had 
come to lodge at Kinlay-end ; and, except at 
church, Miss Neville vi'as invisible. Nobody 
could tell what to make of her. 

Her beauty was, however, no questionable 
matter. All the parish agreed on that point. 
She was in deep mourning, which set off" ad- 
vantageously a tall and full, yet easy and 
elastic figure, in whose carriage the vigour 
and firmness of youth and health seemed 
blended with the elegance of education and 
good company. Youth and health were the 
principal characteristics of her countenance. 
There was health in her bright hazel eyes, 
with their rich dark eye-lashes ; health in the 
profusion of her glossy brown hair; health in 
her pure and brilliant complexion ; health in 
her red lips, her white teeth, and the beautiful 
smile that displayed them; health in her very 



151 



OUR VILLAGE 



dimple, fit ■ as wpU as they could 

be judged of in (i<ic->ing- to aii:l from church, 
leadintr one of the little Martins by the hand, 
and occasionally talking to him, seemed as 
graceful as her person, and as open as her 
countenance. All the village agreed that she 
was a lovely creature, and all the village vi'on- 
dered who ahe could be. It ^vas•a most ani- 
mating puzzle. 

There was, however, no 'nystery in the 
story of Grace Neville. Si- i was the only 
child of an officer of ran'-, wli j fell in an early 
stage of the Piiinsular war: her mother had 
survived him but a short time, and the little 
orphan had been reared in great tenderness and 
luxury by her maternal uncle, a kind, thought- 
less, expensive man, speculating and sanguine, 
who, after exhausting a good fortune in vain 
attempts to realize a great one, sinking money 
successively in farming, in cotton-spinning, 
in paper-making, in a silk-mill, and a mine, 
found himself one fair inorning actually ruin- 
ed, and died (such things have happened) of 
a broken heart, leaving poor Grace at three- 
and-twenty, with the habits and education of 
an heiress, totally destitute. 

The poor girl found, as usual, plenty of 
comforters and advisers. Some recommended 
her to sink the little fortune she possessed in 
right of her father in a school ; some to lay it 
by for old age, and go out as a governess; — 
some hinted at the possibility of matrimony, 
advising, that at all events so fine a young 
woman should try her fortune by visitino- 
about amongst her friends for a year or two, 
and favoured her with a husband-hunting in- 
vitation accordingly. But Grace was too in- 
dependent and too proud for a governess; too 
sick of schemes for a school ; and the hint 
matrimonial had effectually prevented her from 
accepting any, even the most unsuspected, in- 
vitation. Besides, she said, and perhaps she 
thought, that she was weary of the world ; so 
she wrote to Mrs. Martin, once her uncle's 
housekeeper, now the substantial wife of a 
substantial farmer, and came down to lodn-e 
with her in our secluded village. 

Poor Grace, what a change! It was mid- 
winter; snowy, foggy, sleety, wet. Kinlay- 
end, an old manor-house dilapidated into its 
present condition, stood with its windows half 
closed, a huge vine covering its front, and ivy 
climbing up the sides to the roof — the very 
image of chill ness and desolation. There 
was, indeed, one habitable wing, repaired and 
fitted up as an occasional sporting residence 
for the landlord ; but those apartments were 
locked ; and she lived, like the rest of the fa- 
mily, in tlie centre of the house, made up of 
groat, low, dark rooms, with oaken panels, 
of long, rambling passages, of interminable 
galleries, and broad, gusty staircases, up 
which you might drive a coach and six. — 
Such was the prospect within doors ; and 
without, mud ! mud ! mud! nothing but mud ! 



Then the noises : — wind, in all its varieties, 
combined with bats, rats, cats, owls, pigs, 
cows, geese, ducks, turkeys, chickens, and 
children, in all varieties, also ; for besides the 
regular inhabitants of the farm-yard, — biped 
and quadruped, — Mrs. Martin had within doors 
sundry coops of poultry, two pet lambs, and 
four boys from six years old downward, who 
were, in some way or other, exercising their 
voices all day long. Mrs. Martin, too, she 
whilome so soft-spoken and demure, had now 
found her scolding tongue, and was, indeed, 
noted for that accomplishment all over the 
parish : the maid was saucy, and the farmer 
smoked. 

Poor Grace Neville ! what a trial ! what a 
contrast! she tried to draw; tried to sing; 
tried to read ; tried to work ; and, above all, 
tried to be contented. But nothing would do. 
— The vainest endeavour of all was the last. 
She was of the social, cheerful tem|)erament, 
to which sympathy is necessary ; and having 
no one to whom she could say, how pleasant 
is solitude! began to find solitude the most 
tiresome thing in the world. Mr. and Mrs. 
Martin were very good sort of people in their 
way — scolding and smoking notwithstanding; 
but their way was so different from hers : and 
the children, whom she might have found 
some amusement in spoiling, were so spoilt 
already as to be utterly unbearable. 

The only companionable person about the 
place was a slipshod urchin, significantly 
termed " the odd boy;" an extra and supple- 
mentary domestic, whose department it is to 
help all the others, out of doors and in; to do 
all that they leave undone; and to bear the 
blame of every thing that goes amiss. The 
personage in question, Dick Crosby by name, j 
was a parish boy taken from the work-house. 
He was, as nearly as could be guessed, (for ' 
nobody took the trouble to be certain about 
his age) somewhere bordering on eleven; a( 
long, lean, famished-looking boy, w^ith a pale | 
complexion, sharp thin features, and sunburnt 
hair. His dress was usually a hat without a 
crown ; a tattered round frock ; stockings that 
scarcely covered his ankles, and shoes that 
hung on his feet by the middle like clogs, 
down at heel, and open at toe. Yet, under- 
neath all these rags, and through all his buff- 
ings and cuffings from master and mistress, 
carter and maid, the boy looked, and was, 
merry and contented ; was even a sOrt of wag 
in his way ; sturdy and independent in his 
opinions, and constant in his attachments. 
He had a pet sheep-dog (for amongst his nu- 
merous avocations he oc(-asionally acted as 
under-shepberd) a spectral, ghastly-looking 
animal, with a huge white head and neck, and 
a gaunt black body. — M(>phistop!ieles might 
have put himself into such a shape. He had 
also a pet donkey, the raggedest brute u]>nn 
the common, of whom he was part owner, and 
for whose better maintenance he was some- 



GRACE NEVILLE, 



155 



times accused of such petty larceny as may 
be comprised in stealing what no other crea- 
ture would eat, refuse hay, frosty turnips, de- 
cayed cabbage-leaves, and thistles from the 
hedge. 

These two faithful followers had long shared 
Dick Crosby's affections between them; but 
from the first day of Miss Neville's appear- 
ance, the dog and the donkey found a rival. 
She happened to speak to him, and her look 
and voice won his heart at once and for ever. 
Never had a high-born damsel in the days of 
chivalry so devoted a page. He was at her 
command by night or by day; nay, "though 
she called another, Abra came." He would 
let nobody else clean her shoes, carry her 
clogs, or run her errands; was always at hand 
to open the gates, and chase away the cows 
when she walked ; forced upon her his own 
hoard of nuts ; and scoured the country to get 
her the wintry nosegays which the mildness 
of the season permitted, sweet-scented colts- 
foot, china-roses, laurustinus, and stocks. 

It was not in Grace's nature to receive such 
proofs of attachment without paying them in 
kind. Dick would hardly have been her 
choice for a pet, but being so honestly and 
artlessly chosen by him, she soon began to 
return the compliment, and showered upon 
him marks of her favour and protection ; per- 
haps a little gratified, so mixed are human 
motives ! to find that her patronage was still 
of consequence at Kinlay-end. — Halfpence 
and sixpences, apples and gingerbread, flowed 
into Dick's pocket, and his outward man un- 
derwent a thorough transformation. He cast 
his rags, and for the first time in his life put 
on an entire new suit of clothes. A proud 
boy was Dick that day. It is recorded that 
he passed a whole hour in alternate fits of 
looking in the glass and shouts of laughter. 
He laughed till he cried, for sheer happiness. 
I have been thus particular in my account 
of Dick, because, in the first place, he was 
an old ac(juaintance of mine, a constant and 
promising attendant at the cricket-ground — 
his temperament being so mercurial, that even 
in his busiest days, when he seemed to have 
work enough upon his hands for ten boys, he 
would still make time for play ; in the second, 
because I owe to him the great obligation of 
being known to his fiir patroness. He had 
persuaded her, one dry afternoon, to go with 
him, and let him show her the dear cricket- 
ground ; I happened to be passing the spot; 
and neither of us could ever exactly remem- 
ber how he managed the matter, but the boy 
introduced us. He was an extraordinary mas- 
ter of the ceremonies, to be sure; but the in- 
troduction was most effectually performed, 
and to our mutual surprise and mutual pleasure 
we found ourselves acquainted. I have always 
thought it one of the highest compliments 
ever paid me, that Dick Crosby thought me 
worthy to be known to Miss Neville. " 



We were friends in fi ;rminutes. I found 
the promise of her lovely countenance amply 
redeemed by her character. She was frank, 
ardent, and spirited, with a cultivated mind, 
and a sweet temper; not to have loved her 
would have been impossible; and she, ^eside 
the natural pleasure of talking to one who 
could understand and appreciate her, was de- 
lighted to come to a house where the mistress 
did not scold, or the master smoke; where 
there were neither pigs, chickens, nor chil- 
dren. 

As spring advanced and the roads im])roved, 
we saw each other almost every day ; the 
soft skies and mild breezes of April, and the 
profuse floweriness of hedge-row, wood and 
field, gave a never-failing charm to our long 
rural walks. Grace was fond of wild flowers, 
which her protege Dick was assiduous in 
procuring. He had even sacrificed the vanity 
of sticking the first bunch of primroses in his 
Sunday-hat to the pleasure of offering them 
to her. They supplied her with an in-door 
amusement ; she drew well, and copied his 
field nosegays with ease and delicacy. She 
had obtained, too, the loan of a piano, and 
talked stoutly of constant and vigorous prac- 
tice, and of pursuing a steady course of read- 
ing. All young ladies, I believe, make such 
resolutions, and some few may possibly keep 
them; Miss Neville did not. 

However lively and animated whilst her 
spirits were excited by society, it was evident 
that, M'hen alone, poor Grace was languid and 
listless, and given to reverie. She would 
even fall into long fits of musing in company, 
start when spoken to, droop her fair head like 
a snow-drop, and sigh, oh such sighs ! so 
long, so deep, so frequent, so drawn from the 
very heart ! They might, to be sure, have 
been accounted for by the great and sad change 
in her situation, and the death of her indul- 
gent uncle ; but these griefs seemed worn out. 
I had heard such sighs before, and could not 
help imputing them to a different cause. 

My suspicions were increased, when I found 
out accidentally that Dick and his donkey 
travelled every morning three miles to meet 
just such another Dick and such another don- 
key, who acted as letter-carriers to that side 
of the village. They would have arrived at 
Kinlay-end by noon in their natural progress, 
but Grace could not wait ; so Dick and the 
donkey made a short cut across the country to 
waylay his namesake of the letter-bag, and 
fetch disappointment four hours sooner. It 
was quite clear that whatever epistles might 
arrive, the one so earnestly desired never 
came. Then she was so suspiciously fond of 
moonlight, and nightingales, and tender poesy ; 
and in the choice of her music, she would so 
re})eat over and over one favourite duet, and 
would so blush if the repetition were remark- 
ed ! — Surely she could not always have sung 
" La ci darem " by herself. Poor Grace Ne- 



156 



OUR VILLAGE. 



ville ! Love wai'v worse disease than the 
solitude of Kinlay-end. 

Without pretending to any remarkable ab- 
sence of curiosity on the one hand, or pleading ' 
guilty to the slightest want of interest in my 
dear young friend on the other, I was chiefly 
anxious to escape the honour of being her 
confidante. So sure as you talk of love, you 
nourish it ; and I wanted hers to die away. \ 
Time and absence, and cheerful company, 
and summer amusements, would, I doubted 
not, eflect a cure ; I even began to fancy her 
spirits were improving, when one morning 
towards the middle of May, she came to me 
more hurried and agitated than I had ever 
seen her. The cause, when disclosed, seemed 
quite inadequate to produce so much emotion. 
Mrs. Martin had received a letter from her 
landlord, informing her that fie had lent to a 
friend tlie a])artments fitted up for himself at 
the farm, and that his friend would arrive on 
the succeeding day for a week's angling. 
" Well, my dear Grace, and what then ?" 
" And this friend is Sir John Gower." " But 
who is Sir John Gower]" She hesitated a 
little — " What do you know of him "?" — " Oh, 
he is the ]iroudest, sternest, cruelest man ! 
It would kill me to see him ; it would break 
my heart, if my heart is not broken already." 
And then in an inex])ressihle gush of bitter 
grief, llie tale of love which I had long sus- 
pected, burst forth. She had been engaged 
to the only son of this proud and wealthy 
baronet, with the full consent of all parties ; 
and on the discovery of her uncle's ruined 
circumstances, the marriage had been most 
harshly broken off by his commands. She 
had never heard from Mr. Gower since they 
were separated by his father's authority, but 
in the warmth and confidence of her own pas- 
sionate and trustful love, she found an as- 
surance of the continuance of his. Never 
was affection more ardent or more despairing. 
No common man could have awakened such 
tenderness in such a woman. I soothed her 
all I could; and implored her to give us the 
pleasure of her company during Sir John's 
stay : and so it was settled. He was expected 
the next evening, and she agreed to come to 
us some time in the forenoon. 

The morning, however, wore away without 
bringing Miss Neville; dinner-time arrived 
and passed, and still we heard no tidings of 
her. At last, just as we were about to send 
to Kinlay-end for intelligence, Dick Crosby 
arrived on his donkey, with a verbal request 
that I would go to her there. Of course I 
complied ; and as we proceeded on our way, 
I walked before, he riding behind, but neither 
of us much out of our usual pace, thanks to 
my rapid steps, and the grave funereal march 
of the donkey, 1 endeavoured to extract as 
much informalron as ] could from my attend- 
ant, a person whom I generally found as com- 
municative as heart could desire. 



On this occasion he was most provokingly 
taciturn. I saw that there was no great ca- 
lamity to dread, for the boy's whole face was 
evidently screwed up to conceal a grin, which, 
in spite of his elForts, broke out every moment 
in one or other of his features. He was burst- 
ing with glee, whi<!h for some unknown cause 
he did not choose to impart; and seemed to 
have put his tongue under a similar restraint 
to that which I have read of in some fairy tale, 
where an enchanter threatens a loquacious 
waiting-maid with striking her dumb, if, dur- 
ing a certain interval, she utters more than 
two words, — yes and no. Dick's vocabulary 
was equally limited. I asked him if Miss 
Neville was wein "Yes." If he knew what 
she wanted ] " No." If Sir John Gower 
was arrived ] " Yes." If Miss Neville meant 
to return with me] " No." At last, not able 
to contain himself any longer, he burst into a 
shout something between laughing and sing- 
ing, and forcing the astonished donkey into a 
pace, which, in that sober beast, might pass 
for a gallop, rode on before me, followed by 
the barking sheep-dog, to open the gate ; 
whilst I, not a little curious, walked straight 
through tlie house to Miss Neville's sitting- 
room. I paused a moment at the door, as by 
some strange counteraction of feeling one often 
does pause, when strongly interested ; and in 
that moment I caught the sweet notes of La 
ci darem, sung by a superb manly voice, and 
accompanied by Grace's piano; — and instant- 
ly the truth flashed upon me, that the old Sir 
John Gower was gathered to his fathers, and 
that this was the heir and the lover come to 
woo and to wed. No wonder that Grace for- 
got her dinner engagennent ! No wonder that 
Dick Crosby grinned ! 

I was not mistaken. As soon as decorum 
would allow. Sir John carried off his beautiful 
bride, attended by her faithful adherent, the 
proudest and happiest of all odd boys ! and 
the wedding was splendid enough to give a 
fresh impulse to village curiosity, ami a new 
and lasting theme to our village gossi])s, who 
first and last could never comprehend Grace 
Neville. 



A NEW MARRIED COUPLE. 

There is no pleasanter country sound than i 
that of a peal of village bells, as they come ; 
vibrating through the air, giving token of mar- 
riage and merriment; nor ever was that plea- 
sant sound more welcome than on this still 
foggy gloomy November morning, when all 
nature stood as if at i)ause ; the large drops 
hanging on the thatch without falling; the 
sere leaves dangling on the trees; the birds 
mute and motionless on the boughs; turkeys, 
children, geese, and pigs unnaturally silent; 



A NEW MARRIED COUPLE, 



157 



the whole world quiet and melancholy as 
some of the enchanted places in the Arabian 
tales. That merry peal seemed at once to 
break the spell, and to awaken sound, and 
life, and motion. It had a peculiar welcome 
too, as stirring up one of the most active pas- 
sions in woman or in man, and rousing the 
rational part of creation from the torpor in- 
duced by the season and the weather at the 
thrilling touch of curiosity. Never was a 
completer puzzle. Nobody in our village had 
heard that a wedding was expected ; no unac- 
customed conveyance, from a coach to a wheel- 
barrow, had been observed passing up the vi- 
carage lane; no banns had been published in 
church — no marriage of gentility, that is to 
say, of license, talked of, or thought of; none 
of our village beaux had been seen, as village 
beaux are apt to be on such occasions, smirk- 
I ing and fidgety; none of our village belles 
ashamed and shy. It was the prettiest puzzle 
that had occurred since Grace Neville's time ; 
I and, regardless of the weather, half the gos- 
I sips of the street — in other words, half the 
i inhabitants — gathered together in knots and 
clusters, to discuss flirtations and calculate 
possibilities. 

Still the bells rang merrily on, and still the 
pleasant game of guessing continued until the 
appearance of a well-known but most unsus- 
pected equipage, descending the hill from the 
church, and showing dimly through the fog 
the most unequivocal signs of bridal finery, 
supplied exactly the solution which all rid- 
dles ought to have, adding a grand climax of 
amazement to the previous suspense — the new 
married couple being precisely the two most 
unlikely persons to commit matrimony in the 
whole neighbourhood ; the only two whose 
names had never come in question during the 
discussion, both bride and bridegroom having 
been long considered the most confirmed and 
resolute old maid and old bachelor to be found 
in the country side. 

Master Jacob Frost is an itinerant chapman, 
somewhere on the wrong side of sixty, who 
traverses the counties of Hants, Berks, and 
Oxon, with a noisy lumbering cart full of 
panniers, containing the heterogeneous com- 
modities of fruit and fish, driving during the 
summer a regular and profitable barter be- 
tween the coast on one side of us and the 
cherry country on the other. We who live 
about midway between these two extreme 
points of his peregrination, have the benefit 
of both kinds of merchandise both going and 
coming ; and there is not a man, woman, or 
child in the parish, who does not know Mas- 
ter Frost's heavy cart and old grey mare half 
a mile off, as well as the stentorian cry of 
" Cherries, crabs, and salmon," sometimes 
pickled, and sometimes fresh, with which he 
makes the common and village re-echo ; for, 
with an indefatigable perseverance, he cries 

his goods along the whole line of road, pick- 
_ 



ing up customers vbere a I'ian of less experi- • 
ence would despair, and so.'used to utter those i 
sounds while marching beside iiis rumbling 
equipage, that it would not bo at all surpris- • 
ing if he were to cry ""Cherries — salmon! } 
salmon — cherries I" in his sleep. As to fa- 
tigue, that is entirely out of the question, j 
Jacob is a man of iron ; a tall, lean, gaunt 
figure, aU bone and sinew, constantly clad in 
a tight brown jacket with bre<^cher, to match, 
long leather gai'' ;s, and a kutjier • ap ; his! 
face and hair tanned by constani exposure to i 
the weather into a tint so nearly resembling 
his vestments, that he looks all of a colour, 
like the statue ghost in Don Giovanni, al- 
though the hue be different from that re- 
nowned spectre — Jacob being a brown man. 
Perhaps Master Peter in Don Quixote, him 
of the ape and the shamoy doublet, were the 
apter comparison ; or, with all reverence be it 
spoken, the ape himself. His visage is spare, 
and lean, and saturnine, enlivened by a slight 
cast in the dexter eye, and diversified by a 
partial loss of his teeth, all those on the left 
hand having been knocked out by a cricket 
ball, which, aided by the before-mentioned 
obliquity of vision, gives a peculiar one-sided 
expression to his physiognomy. 

His tongue is well hung and oily, as suits 
his vocation. No better man at a bargain than 
Master Frost: he would persuade you that 
brill was turbot, and that black cherries were 
maydukes ; and yet, to be an itinerant vender 
of fish, the rogue hath a conscience. Try to 
bate him down, and he cheats you without 
scruple or mercy ; but put him on his honour, 
and he shall deal as fairly with you as the 
honestest man in Billingsgate. Neither doth 
he ever impose on children, with whom, in 
the matter of shrimps, perriwinkles, nuts, ap- 
ples, and such boyish ware, he hath frequent 
traffic. He is liberal to the urchins; and 1 
have sometimes been amused to see the Wat 
Tyler and Robin Hood kind of spirit with 
which he will fling to some wistful penniless 
brat, the identical har>dful of cherries which, 
at the risk of his character and his customer, 
he hath cribbed from the scales, when weigh- 
ing out a long-contested bargain with some 
clamorous housewife. 

Also he is an approved judge and. devoted 
lover of country sports ; attends all pony 
races, donkey races, wrestling and cricket- 
matches, an amateur and arbiter of the very 
first water. At every revel or Maying within 
six miles of his beat, may Master Frost be 
seen, pretending to the world, and doubtless 
to his own conscience (for of all lies those 
that one tells to that stern monitor are the 
most frequent), that he is only there in the 
way of business; whilst in reality the cart 
and the old white mare, who perfectly under- 
stands the affair, may generally be found in 
happy quietude under some shady hedge; — 
whilst a black sheep-dog, his constant and 



158 



OUR VILLAGE. 



trusty follower, kepj>s jruard over the panniers, 
Master Frost himself bein^ seated in full state 
amidst the thickest ot ihe throng, gravest of 
umpires, i i >.t impartial and learned of re- 
ferees, iif !v oblivious of oart and horse, 
panniers ; <•'■ .- ''• i-dr.[r T^ ■ veriest old wo- 
man that ever stood before a stall, or carried a 
fruit-basket, w^ould beat our shrewd merchant 
out of the field on such a day as that^ he hath 
not even time to bestow a dole on his usual 
pensioners, the children. Unprofitable days 
to him, of a surety, so far as blameless plea- 
sure can be called unprofitable ; but it is 
worth something to a spectator to behold him 
in his glory, to see the earnest gravity, the 
solemn importance with which he will ponder 
the rival claims of two runners tied in sacks, 
or two grinners through a horse-collar. 

Such were the habits, the business, and the 
amusements of our old acquaintance. Master 
Frost. Home he had none, qov family, save 
the old sheep-dog, and the old grey horse, 
who lived, like himself, on the road; for it 
was his frequent boast, that he never entered 
a house, but ate, drank, and slept in the cart, 
his only dwelling-place. Who would ever have 
dreamt of Jacob's marrying ! And yet he it is 
that has just driven down the vicarage-lane, 
seated in, not walking beside, that rumbling 
conveyance, the mare and the sheep-dog deck- 
ed in white satin favours, already somewhat 
soiled, and wondering at their own finery ; 
himself adorned in a new suit of brown, ex- 
actly of the old cut, adding by a smirk and a 
wink to the usual knowingness of his squint- 
ing visage. There he goes, a happy bride- 
groom, perceiving and enjoying the wonder 
that he has caused, and chuckling over it in 
low whispers to his fair bride, whose marriage 
seems to the puzzled villagers more astonish- 
ing still. 

In one corner of an irregular and solitary 
green, communicating by intricate and seldom- 
trodden lanes with a long chain of commons, 
stands a thatched and white-washed cottage, 
whose little dove-cot windows, high chim- 
neys, and honeysuckled porch, stand out pic- 
turesquely from a richly-wooded back-ground ; 
whilst a magnificent yew-tree, and a clear 
bright pond on one side of the house, and a 
clump of horse-chestnuts overhanging some 
low weather-stained buildings on the other, 
form altogether an assemblage of objects that 
would tempt the pencil of a landscape painter, 
if ever painter could penetrate to a nook so 
utterly obscure. There is no road across the 
j green, but a well-trodden footpath leads to the 
, door of the dwelling, which the sign of a bell 
suspended from the yew-tree, and a board over 
the door announcing " Hester Hewit's Home- 
brewed Beer," denote to be a small public 
house. 

Every body is surprised to see even the 
humblest village hostel in such a situation ; 
but the Bell is in reality a house of great re- 



sort, not only on account of Hester's home- 
brewed, which is said to be the best ale in the 
county, but because, in point of fact, that ap- 
parently lonely and trackless common is the 
very high road of the drovers who come from 
different points of the west to the great mart, 
London. Seldom would that green be found 
without a flock of Welsh sheep, foot-sore and 
weary, and yet tempted into grazing by the 
short fine grass dispersed over its surface, or 
a drove of gaunt Irish pigs sleeping in a cor- 
ner, or a score of Devonshire cows straggling 
in all directions, picking the long grass from 
the surrounding ditches ; whilst dog and man, 
shepherd and drover, might be seen basking 
in the sun before the porch, or stretched on 
the settles by the fire, according to the wea- 
ther and the season. 

The damsel who, assisted by an old Chel- 
sea pensioner, minus a leg. and followed by a 
little stunted red-haired parish girl and a huge 
tabby cat, presided over this flourishing hos- 
; telry, was a spinster of some fifty years stand- 
ing, with a reputation as upright as her person ; 
a woman of slow speech and civil demeanour, 
neat, prim, precise, and orderly, stiff-starched 
and straight-laced as any maiden gentlewo- 
man within a hundred miles. In her youth 
she must have been handsome ; even now, 
abstract the exceeding primness, the pursed-up 
mouth, and the bolt-upright carriage, and Hes- 
ter is far from uncomely, for her complexion 
is delicate, and her features are regular. And 
Hester, besides her comeliness and her good 
ale, is well to do in the world, has money in 
the stocks, — some seventy pounds, — a for- 
tune in furniture, feather-beds, mattresses, 
tables, presses and chairs of shining walnut- 
tree, to say nothing of a store of homespun 
linen, and the united wardrobes of three 
maiden aunts. A wealthy damsel was Hes- 
ter, and her suitors must probably have ex- 
ceeded in number and boldness those of any 
lady in the land. W'elsh drovers, Scotch ped- 
lars, shepherds from Salisbury Plain, and pig- 
drivers from Ireland — all these had she resist- 
ed for five-and-thirty years, determined to live 
and die " in single blessedness," and " leave 
the world no copy." 

And she it is whom Jacob has won, from 
Scotchman and Irishman, pig-dealer and shep- 
herd, she who now sits at his side in sober 
finery, a demure and blushing bride ! Who 
would ever have thought of Hester's marry- 
ing ! and when can the wooing have been 1 
And how will they go on together? Will 
Master Frost still travel the country, or will 
he sink quietly into the landlord of the Bell? 
And was the match for love or for money ? 
And what will become of the lame ostler? 
And how will Jacob's sheep-dog agree with 
Hester's cat ? These, and a thousand such, 
are the questions of the village, whilst the 
bells ring merrily, and the new-married couple 
wend peaceably home. 



OLIVE HATHAWAY. 



159 



OLIVE HATHAWAY. 

One of the principal charms of this se- 
cluded villatre consists in the infinite variety 
of woody lanes, which wind alonor from farm 
to farm, and from field to field, intersecting 
each other with an intricacy so perplexintr, 
and meanderingr with such a snrprisinor ronnd- 
ahout-ness, that one often seems turning one's 
back directly on the spot to which one is 
bound. For the most part those rough and 
narrow ways, devoted merely to agricultural 
purposes, are altogether unpeopled, although 
here and there a lone barn forms a character- 
istic termination to some winding lane, or a 
solitary habitation adds a fresh interest to the 
picture. 

These lanes, with their rich hedge-rows, 
their slips of flowery greensward, and their 
profound feeling of security and retirement, 
have long been amongst my favourite walks ; 
and Farley-lane is perhaps the prettiest and 
pleasantest of all, the shadiest in warm wea- 
ther, and the most sheltered in cold, and ap- 
pears doubly delightful by the transition from 
the exposed and open common from which it 
leads. 

It is a deep narrow unfrequented road, by 
the side of a steep hill, winding between 
small enclosures of pasture land on one side, 
and the grounds of the Great House, with 
their picturesque paling and rich plantations, 
on the other; the depth and undulations of 
the wild cart-track giving a singularly roman- 
tic and secluded air to the whole scene, whilst 
occasionally the ivied pollards and shining 
holly-bushes of the hedge-row, mingle with 
the laurels, and cedars, and fine old firs of the 
park, forming, even in mid-winter, a green 
arch over-head, and contrasting vividly with 
a little sparkling spring, which runs gurgling 
along by the side of the pathway. Towards 
the centre of the lane rises an irregular 
thatched cottage, with a spacious territory of 
garden and orchard, to which you ascend, 
first by a single plank thrown across the tiny 
rivulet, and then by two or three steps cut in 
the bank — an earthen staircase. This has 
been, as long as I can remember, the habita- 
tion of Rachel Strong, a laundress of the 
highest reputation in the hamlet, and of her 
young niece, Olive Hathaway. It is just 
possible that my liking for the latter of these 
personages may have somewhat biassed my 
opinion of the beauty of Farley-lane. 

Olive Hathaway has always appeared to 
me a very interesting creature. Lame from 
her earliest childhood, and worse than an or- 
phan, — her mother being dead, and her father, 
from mental infirmity, incapable of supplying 
her place, — she seemed prematurely devoted 
to care and suflfering. Always gentle and 
placid, no one ever remembered to have seen 
Olive gay. Even that merriest of all hours, 



the noon-day play-time at school, parsed grave- 
ly and sadly with the little lame girl. A 
book, if she could borrow one, if not, knitting 
or working for her good aunt Rachel, was her 
only pastime. She had no troop of play-fel- 
lows, no chosen companion, — ^joined in none 
of the innocent cabal or mischievous mirth of 
her comrades ; and yet every one liked Olive, 
even although cited by her mistress as a pat- 
tern of sempstresship and good conduct — 
even although held up as that odious thing, a 
model, — no one could help loving poor Olive, 
so entirely did her sweetness and humility 
disarm envy and mollify scorn. 

On leaving school she brought home the 
same good qualities, and found them attetided 
by the same results. To Rachel Strong her 
assistance soon became invaluable. There 
was not such an ironer in the country. One 
could swear to the touch of her skilful fingers, 
whether in disentangling the delicate com- 
plexity of a point-lace cap, or in bringing out 
the bolder beauties of a cut-work collar ; one 
could swear to her handywork, just as safely 
as a bank clerk may do to the calligraphy of 
a monied man on 'Change, or an amateur in 
art to the handling of a great master. There 
was no mistaking her touch. Things ironed 
by her looked as good as new, some said bet- 
ter; and her aunt's trade throve apace. 

But Olive had a trade of her own. Besides 
her accomplishments as a laundress, she was 
an incomparable needle-woman ; could con- 
struct a shirt between sunrise and sunset ; 
had a genuine genius for mantua-making ; a 
real taste for millinery ; and was employed 
in half the houses round as a sempstress, at 
the rate of eight-pence a day, — devoting by 
far the greater part of her small earnings to 
the comforts of her father, a settled inhabitant 
of the village workhouse. A harmless and a 
willing creature was poor William Hathaway; 
ay, and a useful one in his little way. For 
my part, I cannot think what they would 
have done without him at the workhouse, 
where he filled the several departments of man 
and maid of all-work, digging the garden, 
dressing the dinner, running on errands, and 
making the beds. Still less can I imagine 
how the boys could have dispensed with him ; 
the ten-year-old urchins, witb whom he played 
at cricket every evening, and where the kind 
and simple old man, with his tall, lean per- 
son, his pale, withered face, and grizzled 
beard, was the fag and favourite of the party, 
the noisiest and merriest of the crew. A use- 
ful and a happy man was poor William Hath- 
away, albeit the proud and the worldly-wise 
held him in scorn ; happiest of all on the 
Sunday afternoons, when he came to dine 
with his daughter and her good aunt Rachel, 
and receive the pious dole, the hoarded half- 
pence or the "splendid shilling," which it 
was her delight to accumulate for his little 
pleasures, and which he, child-like in all his 



160 



OUR VILLAGE. 



ways, spent like a child on cakes and ginger- 
bread. I 

There was no fear of the source failing : for 
gentle, placid, grateful and humble, considerate 
beyond her years, and skilful far beyond her 
op])ortunities, every one liked to employ Olive 
Hathaway. The very sound of her crutch in 
the court, and her modest tap at the door, in- 
spired a kindly, almost a tender feeling for the 
afflicted and defenceless young creature, whom 
patience and industry were floating so gently 
dovv'n the rough stream of life. Her person, 
when seated, was far from unpleasant, though 
shrunken and thin from delicacy of habit, and 
slightly leaning to one side from the constant 
use of the crutch. Her face was interesting 
from feature and expression, in spite of the 
dark and perfectly colourless complexion, 
which gave her the appearance of being much 
older than she really was. Her eyes, espe- 
cially, were full of sweetness and power; and 
her long straight hair, parted on the forehead 
and twisted into a thick knot behind, gave a 
statue-like grace to her head, that accorded ill 
with the coarse straw bonnet, and brown stuff 
gown, of which her dress was usually com- 
posed. There was, in truth,' a something 
elegant and refined in her countenance ; and 
the taste that she displayed, even in the home- 
liest branches of her own homely art, fully 
sustained the impression produced by her ap- 
pearance. If any of our pretty damsels wanted 
a pretty gown, she had only to say to Olive, 
" Make it according to your own fancy ;" and 
she was sure to be arrayed, not only in the 
very best fashion, (for our little mantua-maker 
had an instinct which led her at once to the 
right model, and could distinguish at a glance 
between the elegance of a countess and the 
finery of her maid,) but with the nicest atten- 
tion to the becoming in colour and in form. 

Her taste was equally just in all things. 
She would select, in a moment, the most beau- 
tiful flower in a garden, and the finest picture 
in a room : and going about, as she did, all 
over the village, hearing new songs and new 
stories from the young, and old tales and old 
ballads from the aged, it was remarkable that 
Olive, whose memory was singularly tenacious 
for what she liked, retained only the pretty 
lines or the striking incidents. For the bad 
or the indifferent she literally had no memory : 
they passed by her " as the idle wind that she 
regarded not." Her fondness for poetry, and 
the justness of taste which. she displayed in it, 
exposed poor Olive to one serious inconveni- 
ence ; she was challenged as being a poetess 
herself; and although she denied the accusa- 
tion earnestly, blushingly, even tearfully, and 
her accusers could bring neither living witness 
nor written document to support their asser- 
tion, yet so difficult is it to disprove that par- 
ticular calumny, that in spite of her reiterated 
denial, the charge passes for true to this very 
hour. Habit, however, reconciles all things 



People may become accustomed even to that 
sad nickname an authoress. In process of 
time the imputed culprit ceased to be shocked 
at the sound, seemed to have made up her 
mind to bear the accusation, and even to find 
some amusement in its truth or its falsity. 
There was an arch and humorous conscious- 
ness in her eyes, on such occasions, that might 
be construed either way, and left it an even 
wager whether our little lame girl were a 
poetess or not. 

Such was, and such is Olive Hathaway, the 
humble and gentle village mantua-maker; and 
such she is likely to continue : for too refined 
for the youths of her own station, and too un- 
pretty to attract those above her, it is very 
clear to me that my friend Olive will be an 
old maid. There are certain indications of 
character, too, which point to that as her des- 
tiny; a particularity respecting her tools of 
office, which renders the misplacing a needle, 
the loss of a pin, or the unwinding half an inch 
of cotton, an evil of no small magnitude ; a 
fidgety exactness as to plaits and gathers ; a 
counting of threads and comparing of patterns, 
which our notable housewives, wlio must com- 
plain of something, grumble at as waste of 
time ; a horror of shreds and litter, vvhich 
distinguishes her from all other mantua-makers 
that ever sewed a seam ; and, lastly, a love of 
animals, which has procured for her the friend- 
ship and acquaintance of every four-fooled 
creature in the neighbourhood. This is the 
most suspicious symptom of all. Not only is 
she followed and idolized by the poor old cur 
which Rachel Strong keeps to guard her house, 
and the still more aged donkey that carries 
home her linen, but every cat, dog, or bird, 
every variety of domestic pet that she finds in 
the different houses where she works, imme- 
diately following the strange instinct by w >ich 
animals, as well as children, discover who 
likes them, makes up to, and courts Olive 
Hathaway. For her doth farmer Brookes's 
mastiff — surliest of watch-dogs! — pretermit 
his incessant bark ; for her, and for her only, 
will dame Wheeler's tabby cease to spit and 
erect her bristles, and become, as nearly as a 
spiteful cat can become so, gentle and amiable ; 
even the magpie at the Rose, most accom- 
plished and most capricious of all talking birds, 
will say, " Very well, ma'am," in answer to 
Olive's "How d'ye do?" and whistle an 
accompaniment to her " God save the King," 
after having persevered in a dumb resentment 
for a whole afternoon. Tiiere 's a magic about 
her placid smile and her sweet low voice : no 
sulkiness of bird or beast can resist their in- 
fluence. 

And Olive hath abundance of pets in return, 
from my greyhound Mayflower, downward ; 
and indeed takes the whole animal world under 
her protection, whether pets or no ; begs off 
condemned kittens, nurses sick ducklings, will 
give her last penny to prevent an unlucky 



A CHRISTMAS PARTY, 



161 



urchin from taking a bird's nest ; and is cheated 
and laughed at for her tender-heartedness, as 
IS the way of the world in such cases. 

Yes, Olive will certainly be an old maid, 
and a hapj)y one, — content and humble, and 
cheerful and beloved ! What can woman 
desire more 1 



A CHRISTMAS PARTY. 

The wedding of Jacob Frost and Hester 
Hewit took place on a Monday morning; and, 
on the next day (Tuesday), as I was walking 
along the common — blown along, would be 
the properer phrase, for it was a wind that 
impelled one onward like a steam-engine — 
what should I see but the well-known fish-cart 
sailing in the teeth of that raging gale, and 
Jacob and his old companions, the grey mare 
and the black sheep-dog, breasting, as well as 
they might, the fury of the tempest. As we 
neared, I caught occasional sounds of " her- 
rings — oysters ! — oysters — herrings ! " al- 
though the words, being as it were blown 
away, came scatteringiy and feebly on the ear; 
and when we at last met, and he began in his 
old way to recommend, as was his wont, these 
oysters of a week old (note, that the rogue 
was journeying coast-wise, outward bound), 
with a profusion of praises and asseverations 
which he never vented on them when fresh, — 
and when I also perceived that Jacob had 
donned his old garments, and that his company 
had doffed their bridal favours, — it became 
clear that our man of oysters did not intend to 
retire yet awhile to the landlordship of the 
Bell ; and it was soon equally certain that the 
fair bride, thus deserted in the very outset of 
the honey-moon, intended to maintain a full 
and undisputed dominion over her own terri- 
tories — she herself, and her whole establish- 
ment — the lame ostler, who still called her 
Mistress Hester — the red-haired charity-girl, 
and the tabby cat, still remaining in full activ- 
ity ; whilst the very inscription of her maiden 
days, " Hester Hewit's home-brewed," still 
continued to figure above the door of that re- 
spectable hostelry. Two days after the wed- 
ding, that happy event seemed to be most com- 
fortably forgotten by all the parties concerned 
— the only persons who took any note of the 
affair being precisely those who had nothing 
to do with the matter; that is to say, all the 
gossips of the neighbourhood, male and female 
— who did, it must be confessed, lift up their 
hands, and shake their heads, and bless them- 
selves, and wonder what this world would 
come to. 

On the succeeding Saturday, however, his 
regular day, Jacob re-appeared on the road, 
and, after a pretty long traffic in the village, 
took his way to the Bell ; and, the next morn- 

14* V 



ing, the whole cortege, bride and bride-groom, 
lame ostler, red-haired lass, grey mare, and 
black sheep-dog, adorned exactly as on the 
preceding Monday, made their appearance at 
church ; Jacob looking, as aforetime, very 
knowing — Hester, as usual, very demure. 
After the service there was a grand assemblage 
of Master Frost's acquaintances ; for, between 
his customers and his playmates, Jacob was 
on intimate terms with half the parish — and 
many jokes were prepared on his smuogled 
marriage and subsequent desertion ; but he of 
the brown jerkin evaded them all, by handing 
his fair lady into the cart, lifting the poor 
parish girl beside her, and even lending a 
friendly hoist to the lame ostler; after which 
he drove off, with a knowing nod, in total 
silence; being thereunto prompted partly by 
his wife's entreaties, partly by a sound more 
powerful over his associations — an impatient 
neigh from the old grey mare, who never hav- 
ing attended church before, had begun to 
weary of the length of the service, and to 
wonder on what new course of duty she and 
her master were entering. 

By this dispatch, our new-married couple 
certainly contrived to evade the main broad- 
side of jokes prepared for their reception ; but 
a few random jests, flung after them at a ven- 
ture, hit notwithstanding ; and one amongst 
them, containing an insinuation that Jacob had 
stolen a match to avoid keeping the wedding, 
touched our bridegroom, a man of mettle in 
his way, on the very point of honour — the 
more especially as it proceeded from a bluff 
old bachelor of his own standing — honest 
George Bridgwater, of the Lea — at whose 
I hospitable gate he had discussed many a jug 
of ale and knoll of bacon, whilst hearing and 
telling the news of the country side. George 
Bridgwater to suspect him of stinginess I — 
the thought was insupportable. Before he 
reached the Bell he had formed, and commu- 
nicated to Hester, the spirited resolution of 
giving a splendid party in the Christmas week 
— a sort of wedding-feast or house-warming; 
consisting of smoking and cards for the old, 
dancing and singing for the young, and eating 
and drinking for all ages; and, in spite of 
Hester's decided disapprobation, invitations 
were given and preparations entered on forth- 
with. 

Sooth to say, such are the sad contradictions 
of poor human nature, that Mrs. Frost's dis- 
pleasure, albeit a bride in the honey-moon, not 
only entirely failed in persuading Master Frost 
to change his plan, but even seemed to render 
him more confirmed and resolute in his pur- 
pose. Hester was a thrifty housewife ; and 
although Jacob was apparently, after his fash- 
ion, a very gallant and affectionate husband, 
and althougii her interest had now become his 
— and of his own interest none had ever sus- 
pected him to be careless — yet he did certainly 
take a certain sly pleasure in making an attack 



162 



OUR VILLAGE. 



at once on her hoards and her habits, and 
forcing her into a gaiety and an outlay, which 
made the poor bride start back aghast. 

The full extent of Hester's misfortune in 
this ball, did not, however, come upon her at 
once. She had been accustomed to the specu- 
lating hospitality of the Christmas parties at 
the Rose, whose host was wont at tide-times 
to give a supper to his customers, that is to say, 
to furnish the eatables thereof — the leg of mut- 
ton and turnips, the fat goose and the apple- 
sauce, and the huge plum-puddings — of which 
light viands that meal usually consisted, on an 
understanding that the aforesaid customers 
were to pay for the drinkables therewith con- 
sumed ; and, from the length of the sittings, 
as well as the reports current on such occa- 
sions, Hester was pretty well assured that the 
expenditure had been most judicious, and that 
the leg of mutton and trimmings had been 
paid for over and over. She herself being, as 
she expressed it, " a lone woman, and apt to 
be put upon," had never gone farther in these 
matters than a cup of hyson and muffins, and 
a glass of hot elder-wine, to some of her cro- 
nies in the neighbourhood ; but, having con- 
siderable confidence both in the extent of Ja- 
cob's connexions and their tippling propensi- 
ties, as well as in that faculty of getting tipsy 
and making tipsy in Jacob himself, which she 
regarded " with one auspicious and one drop- 
ping eye," as good and bad for her trade, she 
had at first no very great objection to try for 
once the experiment of a Christmas party ; 
nor was she so much startled at the idea of a 
dance — dancing, as she observed, being a 
mighty provoker of thirst; neither did she 
very greatly object to her husband's engaging 
old Timothy, the fiddler, to officiate for the 
evening, on condition of giving him as much 
ale as he chose to drink, although she perfectly 
well knew what that promise implied ; Timo- 
thy's example being valuable on such an occa- 
sion. But when the dreadful truth stared her 
in the face, that this entertainment was to be a 
bond fide treat — that not only the leg of mut- 
ton, the fat goose, and the plum-puddings, but 
the ale, wine, spirits and tobacco, were to come 
out of her coffers, then party, dancing, and 
fiddler became nuisances past endurance, the 
latter above all. 

Old Timothy was a person of some note in 
our parish, known to every man, woman, and 
child in the place, of which, indeed, he was a 
native. He had been a soldier in his youth, 
and having had the good luck to receive a sa- 
bre wound on his sknll, had been discharged 
from the service as infirm o.f mind, and passed 
to his parish accordingly ; where he had led a 
wandering pleasant sort of life, sometimes in 
one public-house, sometimes in another — toler- 
ated, as Hester said, for his bad example, until 
he ran up a score that became intolerable, at 
which times he was turned out, with the 
workhouse to go to, for aps aller, and a com- 



fortable prospect that his good-humour, his 
good-fellowship and his fiddle, would in pro- 
cess of time be missed and wanted, and that 
he might return to his old haunts and run up 
a fresh score. When half tipsy, which hap- 
pened nearly every day in the week, and at 
all hours, he would ramble up and down the 
village, playing snatches of tunes at every 
corner, and collecting about him a never-fail- 
ing audience of eight and ten-year-old urchins 
of either sex, amongst which small mob old 
Timothy, with his jokes, his songs, and his 
antics, was incredibly popular. Against jus- | 
tice and constable, treadmill and stocks, the! 
sabre-cut was a protection, although, I must j 
candidly confess, that I do not think the crack 
in the crown ever made itself visible in his 
demeanour until a sufficient quantity of ale 
had gone down his throat, to account for any 
aberration of conduct, supposing the broad- 
sword in question never to have approached 
his skull. That weapon served, however, as 
a most useful shield to our modern Timotheus, 
who, when detected in any outrageous fit of 
drunkenness, would immediately summon suf- 
ficient recollection to sigh and look pitiful, 
and put his poor, shaking, withered hand to 
the seam which the wound had left, with an 
air of appeal, which even I, with all my skep- 
ticism, felt to be irresistible. 

In short, old Timothy was a privileged per- 
son ; and, terrible sot though he were, he al- 
most deserved to be so, for his good-humour, 
his contented ness, his constant festivity of 
temper, and his good-will towards every living 
thing — a good-will which met with its usual 
reward in being heartily and universally re- 
turned. Every body liked old Timothy, with 
the solitary exception of the hostess of the 
Bell, who, having once had him as an inmate 
during three weeks, had been so scandalized 
by his disorderly habits, that, after having 
with some difficulty turned him out of her 
house, she had never admitted him into it again, 
having actually resorted to the expedient of 
buying off her intended customer, even when 
he presented himself pence in hand, by the 
gift of a pint of home-brewed at the door, ra- 
ther than suffer him to effect a lodgment in 
her tap-room — a mode of dismissal so much 
to Timothy's taste, that his incursions had be- 
come more and more frequent, insomuch that 
" to get rid of the fiddler and other scape- 
graces, who were apt to put upon a lone wo- 
man," formed a main article in the catalogue 
of reasons assigned by Hester to herself and 
the world, for her marriage with .lacob Frost. 
— Accordingly, the moment she heard that 
Timothy's irregularities and ill example were 
likely to prove altogether un))rofitable, she re- 
vived her old objection to the poor fiddler's 
morals, rescinded her consent to his admis- 
sion, and insisted so vehemently on his being 
unordered, that her astonished husband, fairly 
I out-talked and out-scolded, was fain to pur- 



A CHRISTMAS PARTY. 



163 



n 



chase a quiet evening by a promise of obe- 
dience. Havinor carried this point, she forth- 
with, according to the example of all prudent 
wives, began an attack on another, and, hav- 
intr compassed the unordering of Timothy, 
began to barsfain for uninviting her next neigh- 
bour, the widow Glen. 

Mrs. Martha Glen kept a baker's and chand- 
ler's shop in a wide lane, known by the name 
of the Broadway, and adorned with a noble 
avenue of oaks, terminating in the green where- 
on stood the Bell, which, by dint of two or 
three cottages peeping out from amongst the 
trees, and two or three farm-houses, the smoke 
from whose chimneys sailed curlingly amongst 
them, might, in comparison with that lonely 
nook, pass for inhabited. Martha was a buxom 
widow, of about the same standing with Mis- 
tress Frost. She had had her share of this 
world's changes, being the happy relict of 
three several spouses ; and was now a come- 
ly rosy dame, with a laughing eye and a mer- 
ry tongue. Why Hester should hate Martha 
Glen was one of the puzzles of the parish. — 
Hate her she did, with that venomous and 
deadly hatred that never comes to words ; and 
Martha repaid the obligation in kind, as much 
as a naturally genial and relenting temper 
would allow, although certainly the balance 
of aversion was much in favour of Mrs. Frost. 
An exceedingly smooth, genteel, and civil ha- 
tred it was on both sides ; such an one as 
would have done honour to a more polished 
society. They dealt with each other, curtsied 
to each other, sate in the same pew at church, 
and employed the same charwoman — which 
last accordance, by the way, may partly ac- 
count for the long duration of discord between 
the parties. Betty Clarke, the help in ques- 
tion, being a sharp, shrewish, vixenish wo- 
man, M'ith a positive taste for quarrels, who 
regularly reported every cool innuendo uttered 
by the slow and soft-spoken Mrs. Frost, and 
every hot retort elicited from the rash and 
hasty Martha, and contrived to infuse her own 
spirit into each. With such an auxiliary on 
either side, there could be no great wonder at 
the continuance of this animosity ; how it be- 
gan was still undecided. There were, indeed, 
rumours of an early rivalry between the fair 
dames for the heart of a certain gay shepherd, 
the first husband of Martha ; other reports as- 
signed as a reason the unlucky tricks of Tom 
Higgs, the only son of Mrs. Glen by her pen- 
ultimate spouse, and the greatest pickle within 
twenty miles; a third party had, since the 
marriage, discovered the jealousy of Jacob to 
be the proximate cause, Martha Glen having 
been long his constant customer, dealing with 
him in all sorts of fishery and fruitery for her- 
self and her shop, from red herrings to golden 
pfppins; — whilst a fourth party, still more 
scandalous, placed the jealousy, to which they 
also attributed the aversion, to the score of a 
young and strapping Scotch pedlar, Sandy 



Frazer by name, who travelled the country 
with muslins and cottons, and for whom cer- 
tain malicious gossips asserted both ladies to 
entertain a lurking penckcmt, and whose insen- 
sibility towards the maiden was said to have 
been the real origin of her match with Jacol) 
Frost, whose proffer she had accepted out of 
spite. For my own part, I disbelieve all and 
each of these stories, and hold it very hard 
that an innocent woman cannot entertain a little 
harmless aversion towards her next neighbour 
without being called to account for so natu- 
ral a feeling. It seems that Jacob thought so 
too — for on Hester's conditioning that Mrs. 
Glen should be excluded from the party, he 
just gave himself a wink and a nod, twisted 
his mouth a little more on one side than usual, 
and assented without a word ; and with the 
same facility did he relinquish the bough of 
misletoe which he had purposed to suspend 
from the bacon-rack — the ancient misletoe 
bough, on passing under which our village 
lads are apt to snatch a kiss from the village 
maidens; a ceremony which offended Hester's 
nicety, and which Jacob promised to abrogate; 
and, pacified by these concessions, the bride 
promised to make due preparation for the ball, 
whilst the bridegroom departed on his usual 
expedition to the coast. 

Of the unrest of that week of bustling pre- i 
paration, words can give but a faint image — I 
Oh, the scourings, the cleanings, the sand- ; 
ings, the dustings, the scoldings of that disas- I 
trous week ! The lame ostler and the red- ! 
haired parish girl were worked off their feet — I 
" even Sunday shone no Sabbath-day to them" \ 
— for then did the lame ostler trudge eight 
miles to the church of a neighbouring parish, | 
to procure the attendance of a celebrated bas- | 
soon-player to officiate in lieu of TimotIiy;j 
whilst the poor little maid was sent nearly as [ 
far to the next town, in quest of an itinerant | 
show-woman, of whom report had spoken at I 
the Bell, to beat the tambourine. The show j 
woman proved undiscoverable ; but the has- i 
soon-player having promised to come, and to ] 
bring with him a clarionet, Mrs. Frost was at 
ease as to her music; and having provided 
more victuals than the whole village could 
have discussed at a sitting, and having more- 
over adorned her house with berried holly, 
china roses and chrysanthemums after the 
most tasteful manner, began to enter into the 
spirit of the thing, and to wish for the return 
of her husband, to admire and to praise. 

Late on the great day Jacob arrived, his 
cart laden with marine stores for his share of 
the festival. Never had our goodly village 
witnessed such a display of oysters, mussels, 
perriwinkles and cockles, to say nothing of 
apples and nuts, and two little kegs, snugly 
covered up, which looked exceedingly as if 
they had cheated the revenue, a packet of 
green tea, which had something of the same 
air, and a new silk gown, of a flaming salmon- 



164 



OUR VILLAGE. 



coloui, straight from Paris, which he insisted 
on Hester's retiring to assume, whilst he re- 
mained to arrange the table and receive the 
company, who, it being now about four o'clock, 
p. M. — our good rustics can never have enough 
of a good thing — were beginning to assemble 
for the ball. 

The afternoon was fair and cold, and dry 
and frosty; — and Matthews's, Bridgwater, 
Whites, and Jones's, in short the whole far- 
merage and shop-keepery of the place, with a 
goodly proportion of wives and daughters, 
came pouring in apace. Jacob received them 
with much gallantry, uncloaking and unbon- 
netint, the ladies, assisted by his 'two staring 
and awkward auxiliaries, welcoming their hus- 
bands and fathers, and apologising, as he best 
might, for the absence of his helpmate; who, 
" perplexed in the extreme" by her new fine- 
ry, which happening to button down the back, 
she was fain to put on hind side before, did 
not make her appearance till the greater part 
of the company had arrived, and the music 
had struck up a country dance. An evil mo- 
ment, alas! did poor Hester choose for her 
entry ! for the first sound that met her ear was 
Timothy's fiddle, forming a strange trio with 
the bassoon and the clarionet : and the first 
persons whom she saw were Tom Higgs 
cracking walnuts at the chimney-side, and 
Sandy Frazer saluting the widow Glen under 
the misletoe. How she survived such sights 
and sounds does appear wonderful — but sur- 
vive them she did — for at three o'clock, a. m., 
when our reporter left the party, she was en- 
gaged in a sociable game at cards, which, by 
the description, seems to have been long whist, 
with the identical widow Glen, Sandy Frazer 
and William Ford, and had actually won five- 
pence-halfpenny of Martha's money ; the young 
folks were still dancing gaily, to the sound of 
Timothy's fiddle, which fiddle had the good 
quality of going on almost as well drunk as 
sober, and it was now playing solo, the clari- 
onet being hors-de-combat and the bassoon 
under the table. Tom Higgs, after showing 
off more tricks than a monkey, amongst the 
rest sewing the v.'hole card-party together by 
the skirts, to the probable damage of Mrs. 
Frost's gay gown, had returned to his old 
post by the fire, and his old amusement of 
cracking walnuts, with the shells of which he 
was pelting the little parish girl, who sate 
fast asleep on the other side ; and Jacob Frost 
in all his glory, sate in a cloud of tobacco 
smoke, roaring out catches with his old friend 
George Bridgwater, and half a dozen other 
" drovvthy cronies," whilst " aye the ale was 
growing better," and the Ciiristmas party 
went merrily on. 



A QUIET GENTLEWOMAN. 

My present reminiscence will hardly be of 
the tenderest sort, since I am about to comme- 
morate one of the oldest bores of my acquaint- 
ance, one of the few grievances of my happy 
youth. The person in question, my worthy 
friend Mrs. Aubrey, was a respectable widow 
lady, whose daughter having married a rela- 
tion of my father's, just at the time that she 
herself came to settle in the town near which 
we resided, constituted exactly that mixture 
of juxtaposition and family connexion, which 
must of necessity lead to a certain degree of 
intimacy, whatever discrepancies might exist 
in the habits and characters of the parties. 
We were intimate accordingly; dined with 
her once a year, drank tea with her occasion- 
ally, and called on her every time that the 
carriage went into W — ; visits which she re- 
turned in the lump, by a sojourn of at least a 
month every summer with us at the Lodge. 
How my dear mother endured this last inflic- 
tion, I cannot imagine : I most undutifullj con- 
trived to evade it, by so timing an annual 
visit, which I was accustomed to pay, as to 
leave home on the day before her arrival, and 
return to it the day after her departure, quite 
content with the share of ennui which the 
morning calls and the tea-drinkings (evils 
which generally fell to my lot) entailed upon 
me. 

This grievance was the more grievous, in- 
asmuch as it was one of those calamities which 
do not admit the great solace and consolation 
to be derived from complaint. Mrs. Aubrey, 
although the most tiresome person under the 
sun, without an idea, without a word, a mere 
inert mass of matter, — was yet in the fullest 
sense of those " words of fear" a good sort of 
woman, well-born, well-bred, well-jointured, 
and well-conducted, a perfectly unexceptiona- 
ble acquaintance. There were some who even 
envied me my intimacy with this human au- 
tomaton, this most extraordinary specimen of 
still life. 

In her youth she had been accounted pretty, 
a fair sleepy blue-eyed beauty, languid and 
languishing, and was much followed by that 
class of admirers, who like a woman the better 
the nearer she approaches to a picture in de- 
meanour as well as in looks.* She had, 
however, with the disparity that so often at- 
tends upon matrimony, fallen to the lot of a 
most vivacious and mercurial country squire, 

* One of her lovers, not quite so devoted to quie- 
tude in the fair sex, adventured on a genlle admoni- 
tion. He presenied to her a siiprrb copy of the 
"Castle of Indolence," and requested her to read it. 
A few days after, lie inquired of her sister if his fair 
mistress iiad condescended to look into the bonk. 
" No," was the answer, "No, hut 1 read it to her as 
she lay on the sofa." The gentleman was a man of 
senge. He shrugged his shoulderS; and six months 
after married (his identical sister. 



J 



A QUIET GENTLEWOMAN. 



165 



a thoroucrh-paced foxhunter, whose pranks 
(some of them more darinop than lawful) had 
obtained for him the cognomen of " mad Au- 
brey;" and having had the good fortune to 
lose this husband in the third year of their 
nuptials, she had never undergone the fatigue 
and trouble of marrying another. 

When I became acquainted with her, she 
was a sleek round elderly lady, with very 
small features, very light eyes, invisible eye- 
brows, and a flaxen wig. She sat all day 
long on a sofa by the fireside, with her feet 
canted up on an ottoman ; the ingenious 
machine called a pair of lazy tongs on one 
side of her, and a small table on the other, 
provided with every thing that she was likely 
or unlikely to want for the whole morning. 
The bell-pull was also within reach : but she 
had an aversion to ringing the bell, a process 
which involved the subsequent exertion of 
speaking to the servant when he appeared. 
The dumb-waiter was her favourite attendant. 
There she sat, sofa-ridden ; so immovable, 
that if the fire had been fierce enough to roast 
her into a fever, as once happened to some 
exquisitely silly king of Spain, I do think that 
she would have staid quiet, not from etiquette, 
but from sheer laziness. She was not how- 
ever unemployed ; your very idle people have 
generally some play-work, the more tedious 
and useless the better; hers was knitting with 
indefatigable perseverance little diamonds in 
white cotton, destined at some future period 
to dovetail into a counterpane. The diamonds 
were striped, and were intended to be sewed 
together so artistically, that the stripes should 
intersect each other, one row running perpen- 
dicularly and the next horizontally, so as to 
form a regular pattern ; a bit of white mosaic, 
a tesselated quilt. 

At this work I regularly found Mrs. Aubrey 
when compelled to the " sad civility" of a 
morning call, in which her unlucky visiter had 
all the trouble of keeping up the conversation. 
What a trouble it was! just like playing at 
battledore by one's self, or singing a duet 
with one's own single voice ; not the lightest 
tap would mine hostess give to the shuttle- 
cock; — not a note would she contribute to the 
concert. She might almost as well have been 
born dumb, and but for a few stray noes and 
yeses, and once in a quarter of an hour some 
savourless inquiry, she might certainly have 
passed for such. She would not even talk of 
the weather. Then her way of listening ! 
One would have wagered that she was deaf. 
News was thrown away upon her; scandal 
did not rouse her; the edge of wit fell upon 
her dulness like the sword of Richard on the 
pillow of Saladin. There never was such a 
woman ! Her drawing-room, too, lacked all 
the artificial aids of conversation ; no books, 
no newspapers, no children, no dogs ; nothing 
but Mrs. Aubrey and her knitted squares, and 
an old Persian cat, -who lay stretched on the 



hearth-rug, as impassible as his mistress ; a 
cat so iniquitously quiet, that he would neither 
play, nor pur, nor scratch, nor give any token 
of existence beyond mere breathing. I don't 
think, if a mouse had come across him, that 
he would have condescended to notice it. 

vSuch was the state of things within the 
room ; Vv'ithout, it was nearly as bad. Her 
house, one of the best in W., was situate in a 
new street standing slant-wise to one of the 
entrances ef the town ; a street of great gen- 
tility but of little resort, and, above all, no 
thoroughfare. So that after going to the win- 
dow to look for a subject, and seeing nothing 
but the dead wall of an opposite chapel, we 
were driven back to the sofa to expatiate for 
the twentieth time on Selim's beantj'^, and 
admire once again the eternal knitting. Oh 
the horror of these morning visits ! 

One very great aogravation of the calamity, 
was the positive certainty of finding Mrs. Au- 
brey at home. The gentle satisfaction with 
which one takes a ticiketfrom one's card-case, 
after hearing the welcome answer, " my mis- 
tress is just walked out !" never befell one at 
Mrs. Aubrey's. She never took a walk, al- 
thouoh she did sometimes, moved by the 
earnest advice of her apothecary, get so far as 
to talk of doing so. The M'eather was always 
too hot, or too cold ; or it had been raining; or 
it looked likely to rain; or the streets were 
dirty; or the roads were dusty; or the sun 
shone ; or the sun did not shhie (either reason 
would serve — her laziness was much indebted 
to that bright luminary) ; or somebody had 
called ; or somebody might call ; or (and this 
I believe was the excuse that she most com- 
monly made to herself) she had not time to 
walk on account of her knitting, she wanted 
to get on with that. 

The only time that I ever saw her equipped 
in out-of-door costume, was one unexception- 
able morning in April, when the sun, the wind, 
the sky and the earth, were all as bright, and 
sweet, and balmy, as if they had put them- 
selves in order on [lurpose to receive an unac- 
customed visiter. I met her just as she was 
issuing slowly from the parlour, and enchanted 
at my good fortune, entreated, with equal truth 
and politeness, that I might not keep her 
within. She entered into no contest of civil- 
ity ; but returned with far more than her usual 
alacrity into the parlour, rang the bell for her 
maid, sat down on her dear sofa, and w-as 
forthwith unclogged, unshawled, and unbon- 
neted, seemingly as much rejoiced at the res- 
pite, as a school-boy reprieved from the rod, 
or a thief from the gallows. I never saw such 
an expression of relief, of escape from a great 
evil, on any human countenance. It would 
have been quite barbarous to have pressed her 
to take her intended walk : and, moreover, it 
would have been altogether useless. She had 
satisfied her conscience with the attempt, and 
was now set in to her beloved knittinjr in con- 



166 



OUR VILLAGE. 



tented obstinacy. The whole world would 
not have moved her from that sofa. 

She did however exchange eveningf visits, 
in a quiet melancholy way, with two or three 
ladies her near neigrhbours, to whose honses 
she was carried in the stately ease of a sedan- 
chair: — for in those days ^/es were not; at 
which time the knitting was replaced by cas- 
sino. Those visits were, if not altogether so 
silent, yet very nearly as dull as the inflictions 
of the morning; her companions (if conipan- i 
ions they may be called) being for the most' 
part persons of her own calibre, although 
somewhat more loquacious. They had a beau 
or two belonging to this West Street coterie, 
which even beaux failed to enliven ; a pow- 
dered physician, rather pompous; a bald cu- I 
rate, very prim ; and a simpering semi-bald | 
apothecary, who brushed a few stragtrlino- locks 
up to the top of his crown and tried to make 
them pass for a head of hair ; he was by far the 
most gallant man of the party, and amono-st 
them might almost be reckoned amusing. 

So passed the two first years of Mrs. Au- 
brey's residence in W. The third brought 
her a guest whose presence was felt as a re- 
lief by every body, perhaps the only woman 
who could have kept her company constantly, 
to the equal satisfaction of both parties. 

Miss Dale was the daughter of a deceased 
officer, with a small independence, who board- 
ed in the winter in Charter-House Square, and 
passed her summer in visiting her friends. 
She was what is called a genteel little wo- 
man, of an age that seemed to vary with the 
light and the hour; oldish in the morning, in 
the evening almost young, always very smart- 
ly dressed, very good-humoured, and very 
lively. Her spirits were really astonishing; 
how she could not only appear gay, but be 
gay in such an atmosphere of dulness, still 
puzzles me to think of. There was no French 
blood either, which might have accounted for 
the phenomenon ; her paternal grandfather hav- 
ing been in his time high sheriff for the county 
of Notts; a genuine English country gentle- 
man — and her mother, strange to relate, a 
renegado quakeress, expelled from the Socie- 
ty of Friends for the misdemeanour of espous- 
ing an officer. Some sympathy might exist 
there ; no doubt the daughter would have been 
as ready to escape from a community of lawn 
caps and drab gowns as the mother. Her 
love of pink ribbons was certainly hereditary; 
and, however derived, her temper was as tho- 
roughly cmtleur Je roue as her cap trimming. 
Through the long quiet mornings, the formal 
visits, the slow dull dinners, she preserved 
one unvarying gaiety, carried the innovation 
of smiles amongst the insipid gravities of the 
cassino table; and actually struck up an inter- 
mitting flirtation with the apothecary — which 
I, in my ignorance, expectcid to find issue in 
a marriage, and was simple enough to be as- 
tonished, when one morning the gentleman 



brought home a cherry-cheeked bride, almost 
young enough to be his grand-daughter. 

The loss of a lover, however, had no effect 
on Miss Dale's spirits. I have never known 
any thing more enviable than the buoyancy 
of her temper. She was not by any means 
too clever for her company, or too well-in- 
formed ; never shocked their prejudices, or 
startled their ignorance, nor ever indeed said 
any thing remarkable at all. On the contrary, 
I think that her talk, if recollected, would 
seem, although always amiable and inoffen- 
sive, somewhat vapid and savourless; but her 
prattle was so effervescent, so up — the cheer- 
fulness was so natural, so real — that contrary 
to the effect of most sprightly conversation, it 
was quite contagious, and even exhilarated, as 
much as any thing could exhilarate, the sober 
circle amongst whom she moved. 

She had another powerful attraction in her 
extraordinary pliancy of mind. No sooner 
had the stage-coach conveyed her safely to 
the door of the large house in West Street, 
than all her Charter-House Square associa- 
tions vanished from. her mind ; it seemed as 
if she had left locked up in her drawers with 
her winter apparel every idea not West Stre- 
tian. She was as if she had lived in W. all 
her days : had been born there, and there 
meant to die. She even divested herself of 
the allowable London pride, which looks down 
so scornfully on country dignitaries, admired 
the Mayor, revered the corporation, prefi^rred 
the powdered pliysician to Sir Henry Hal ford, 
and extolled the bald curate as the most emi- 
nent preacher in England, Mr. Harness and 
Mr. Benson notwithstanding. 

So worthy a denizen of West Street was of 
course hailed there with great delight. Mrs. 
Aubrey, always in her silent way glad to re- 
ceive her friends, went so far as to testify some 
pleasure at the sight of Miss Dale; and the 
Persian cat, going beyond his mistress in the 
activity of his welcome, fairly sprang into her 
lap. The visits grew longer and longer, more 
and more frequent, and at last, on some di- 
minution of income, ended in her coming regu- 
larly to live with Mrs. Aubrey, partly as hum- 
ble companion, partly as friend : a most de- 
sirable increase to that tranquil establishment, 
which was soon after enlarged by the acces- 
sion of a far more important visiter. 

Besides her daughter, whom she would 
have probably forgotten if our inquiries had 
not occasionally reminded her that such a per- 
son was in existence, Mrs. Aubrey had a son 
in India, who did certainly slip her memory, 
except just twice a year when letters arrived 
from Bengal. She herself never wrote to 
either of her children, nor did I ever hear her 
niention Mr. Aubrey till one day, when she 
announced, with rather more animation than 
common, that poor William had returned to 
England on account of ill health, and that she 
expected him in W. that evening. 



A QUIET GENTLEWOMAN. 



167 



In the course of a few days my father called 
on the invalid, and we became acquainted. 
He was an elegant-looking man, in the prime 
of life, high in the .Company's service, and 
already possessed of considerable wealth. His 
arrival excited a great sensation in W. and the 
neighbourhood. It was the eve of a general 
election, and some speculating alderman did 
him the favour of making an attack upon his 
purse, by fixing on him as a candidate to op- 
pose the popular member; whilst certain 
equally speculating mammas meditated a 
more covert attack on his heart, through the 
charms of their unmarried daughters. Both 
parties were fated to disappointment; he 
waved off either sort of address with equal 
disdain, and had the good luck to get quit of 
his popularity almost as rapidly as he had ac- 
quired it. 

Sooth to say, a man with more eminent 
qualifications for rendering himself disagreea- 
ble than were possessed by Mr. Aubrey, sel- 
dom made his appearance in civilized society. 
He had nothing in common with his good- 
humoured mother but her hatred of trouble 
and of talking; and having the misfortune to 
be very clever and very proud, tall and stately 
in his person, with a head habitually thrown 
back, bright black scornful eyes and a cold 
disdainful smile, did contrive to gratify his 
own self-love by looking down upon other 
people more affrontingly than the self-love of 
the said people could possibly endure. No- 
body knew any harm of Mr. Aubrey, but no- 
body could abide him; so that it being per- 
fectly clear that he would have nothing to say, 
either to the borough or the young ladies, the 
attentions offered to him by town and country 
suddenly ceased ; it being to this hour a moot 
point whether he or the neighbourhood first 
sent the other to Coventry. 

He, on his part, right glad, as it seemed, to 
be rid of their oflicious civility, remained 
quietly in his mother's house, very fanciful 
and a little ill ; talking between whiles of an 
intended visit to Leamington or Cheltenham, 
but as easily diverted from a measure so un- 
suited to his habits as an abode at a public 
place, as Mrs. Aubrey herself had been from 
a morning walk. All the summer he lingered 
at W., and all the autumn; the winter found 
him still there; and at last, he declared that 
he had made up his mind to relinquish India 
altogether, and to purchase an estate in Eng- 
land. 

By this time our little world had become 
accustomed to his haughty manner, which 
had the advantage of being equally ungracious 
to every one (people will put up with a great 
deal in good company ; it is the insolence 
which selects its object that gives indelible 
offence) ; and a few who had access to him on 
business, such as lawyers and physicians, 
speaking in high terms of his intelligence and 



information, whilst tradesmen of all classes 
were won by his liberality, Mr. Aubrey was 
in some danger of undergoing a second attack 
of popularity, when he completely destroyed 
his rising reputation by a measure the most 
unexpected and astonishing — he married Miss 
Dale, to the inexpressible affront of every 
young lady of fashion in the neighbourhood. 
He actually married Miss Dale, and all W. 
spoke of her as the artfulest woman that ever 
wore a wedding-ring, and pitied poor Mrs. 
Aubrey, whose humble companion had thus 
ensnared her unwary son. Nothing was heard 
but sympathy for her imputed sufferings on 
this melancholy cccasion, mixed with abuse 
of the unfortunate bride, whose extraordinary 
luck in making so brilliant an alliance had 
caused her popularity to vanish as speedily as 
her husband's. 

With these reports tingling in my ears, I 
went to pay the wedding visit to Mrs. Aubrey, 
senior, delighted at the event myself, both as 
securing much of good to Miss Dale, who was 
just the person to enjoy the blessings of her 
lot, and pass lightly over the evil ; and as a 
most proper and fitting conclusion to the airs 
of her spouse ; but a little doubtful how my 
old acquaintance might take the matter, espe- 
cially as it involved the loss of her new 
daughter's company, and must of necessity 
cause her some little trouble. I was never 
more puzzled in my life, whether to assume a 
visage of condolence or of congratulation ; — 
and the certainty that her countenance would 
afford no indication either of joy or sorrow, 
enhanced my perplexity. I was, however, 
immediately relieved by the nature of her em- 
ployment; — she was sitting surrounded by 
sempstresses, at a table covered with knitting 
and wedding-cake, whilst her maidens were 
putting together, under her inspection, that 
labour of her life, the tessellated quilt ; the 
only wedding present by which she could suf- 
ficiently compliment her son, or adequately 
convey her sense of the merits and excellence 
of his fair bride ! Her pleasure in this union 
was so great, that she actually talked about it, 
presented the cake herself, and poured out with 
her own hands the wine to be drunk to the 
health of the new-married couple. 

Mr. Aubrey had purchased a place in De- 
vonshire, and six months after, his mother 
quitted W. to go and live near him. But, 
poor dear lady, she did not live there — she 
died. The unsettling and the journey, and the 
settling again, terrible operations to one who 
seemed, like the Turkish women, to have 
roots to her feet, fairly killed her. She was 
as unfit to move as a two-year old cabbage, 
and drooped, and withered, and dropped down 
dead of the transplantation. Peace to her 
memory ! the benediction that she would as- 
suredly have preferred to all others. Peace to 
her ashes ! 



168 



OUR VILLAGE. 



THE TWO VALENTINES. 

Valentine's Day is one of gfreat stir and 
emotion in our little village. In large towns, 
— estiecially in London — the wicked habit of 
quizzing has entirely destroyed the romance 
and illusion of that tender anniversary. But 
we in the country are, for the most part, unin- 
fected hy " over-wiseness," or " over-nice- 
ness," (to borrow two of Sir Walter Raleigh's 
quaint but expressive phrases), and are con- 
tent to keep the gracious festival of love- 
making and hillets-doux, as simply and con- 
fidingly as our ancestors of old. I do not mean 
to say, that every one of our youths and 
maidens pair on that day, like the " goldfinch, 
bullfinch, greenfinch, and all the finches of the 
grove." — Heaven forbid ! — Nor that the spirit 
of fun hath so utterly evaporated from us, that 
we have no display of innocent trick or harm- 
less raillery on that licensed morn: — all that 
I contend for is, that, in our parts, some truth 
may be found lurking amidst the fictions of 
those annual rhymes — that many a village 
beau hath broken the ice of courtship — and 
that many a village belle hath felt her heart 
throb, as she glanced at the emblematic scroll, 
and tried to guess the sender, in spite of the 
assumed carelessness, the saucy head-tossings, 
and the pretty poutings with which she at- 
tempted to veil her real interest. In short, 
there is something like sincerity amongst us, 
even in a Valentine; — as witness the number 
of wooings begun on the Fourteenth of Feb- 
ruary, and finished in that usual end of court- 
ships and comedies — a wedding — before Whit- 
suntide. Our little lame clerk, who keeps a sort 
of catalogue raisonnee of marriages, as a com- 
panion to the parish-register, computes those 
that issue from the bursting Valentine-bag of 
our postman, at not less than three and a lialf 
per annum — that is to say, seven between two 
years. 

But — besides the matches which spring, 
directly or indirectly, from the hiUets com- 
monly called Valentines — there is another 
superstition connected with the day, which 
has no small influence on the destinies of our 



fancy; another shall sit within doors, with her 
eyes shut, half the morning, until she hears 
the expected voice of the favourite swain; 
whilst, on their part, our country lads take 
care to place themselves each in the way of 
his chosen she ; and a pretty lass would think 
herself overlooked, if she had not three or four 
standing round her door, or sauntering beneath 
her window, before sunrise. 

Now, one of the prettiest girls in our parish, 
is, undoubtedly, Sally North. Pretty is hardly 
the proper phrase — Sally is a magnificent girl ; 
— tall, far above the common height of woman, 
and large in proportion — but formed with the 
most exact symmetry, and distinguished by 
the firm, erect, and vigorous carriage, and the 
light, elastic step, peculiar to those who are 
early accustomed to walk under burthens. 
Sally's father is an eminent baker — the most 
celebrated personage in our villasre ; besides 
supplying half the next town with genuine 
country bread, which he carries there lii'mself 
in his huge tilted cart, he hath struck into 
other arts of the oven, and furnishes all the 
breakfast-tables, within five miles, witli genu- 
ine London rolls. No family of gentility can 
possibly get through the first meal without 
them. The rolls, to be sure, are — ^just like 
other rolls — very good, and nothing more ; but 
some whim of a great man, or caprice of a fine 
lady, has put them in fashion ; and so Sally 
walks round the parish every morning, with 
her great basket, piled to the very brim, poised 
on her pretty head — now lending it the light 
sup})ort of one slender hand, and now of an- 
other; the dancing black eyes, and the bright 
blushing smile, that flash from under her bur- 
then, as well as the perfect ease and grace 
with which she trips along, entirely taking 
away all painful impression of drudgery or 
toil. She is quite a figure for a painter, is 
Sally North — and the gipsy knows it. There | 
is a gay good-humoured consciousness of her j 
power and her beauty, as she passes on her j 
morning round, carolling as merrily as the ; 
lark over her head, that makes no small part 
of her charm. The lass is clever, too — sharp ! 
and shrewd in her dealings — and, although 
sufficiently civil and res[jectful to her superiors, 
country maidens. They hold, that the first ' and never actually wanting in decorum, is said 



man whom they espy in the morning — pro 
vided that such man be neither of kin to them, 
nor married, nor an inmate of the same house 
— is to pass for their Valentine during the day ; 
and, perhaps (for this is the secret clause 
which makes the observation important,) to 
prove their husband for life. It is strange 
how much faith they put in this kind of sortes 
virgilianx — this turning over the living leaf 
of destiny ; and how umch pains they will 
take to cheat the fates, and see the man they 
like best first in spite of the stars ! One dam- 
sel, for instance, will go a quarter of a mile 
about, in the course of hi>r ordinary avocations 



to dismiss the compliments of some of her 
beaux with a repartee generally brusque, and 
frequently poignant. 

Of beaux — between the lacquey*! of the 
houses that she takes in her circuit, and the 
wayfarers whom she picks up on the road — 
Sally hath more than a court beauty; and two 
of them — Mr. Thompson, my lord's gentle- 
man, a man of substance and gravity, not much 
turned of fifty; and Daniel Tubb, one of Sir 
John's gardeners, a strapjiing red-haired youth, 
as comely and merry as herself — were seve- 
rally recouunendcd, by the old and the young, 
as fitting matches lor the pretty mistress of the 



in order to avoid a youth whom she does not I rolls. But Sally silenced IMr. TluMupson's 



THE TWO VALENTINES, 



169 



fine speeclies by a very stout, sturdy, steady 
"No;" and even inflicted a similar sentence 
(althouorh so mildly, that Daniel did not quite 
despair) on his young: rival; for Sally, who 
was seventeen last Candlemas-day, had been 
enpfagjed these three years ! 

The love affair had beo-un at the Free School 
at Aberleigh ; and the object of it, by name 
Stephen Long, was the son of a little farmer 
in the neiohbourhood, and about the same age 
with his fair mistress. There the resemblance 
ceased ; for Stephen had been as incomparably 
the shortest and ugliest boy in the school as 
Sally was the tallest and prettiest oirl — being, 
indeed, of that stunted and large-headed ap- 
pearance, which betokens a dwarf, and is usu- 
ally accompanied by features as unpleasant in 
their expression as they are grotesque in their 
form. But then he was the head boy : and 
being held up by the master as a miracle of 
reading, writimj and ciphering, was a person- 
age of no small im.portance at Aberleigh ; and 
Sally being with all her cleverness, something 
of a dunce, owed to Stephen much obligation 
for assistance in the school business. He 
arranged, cast up, and set in order on the slate, 
the few straggling figures which poor Sally 
called her sum — painted over, and reduced to 
something like form, the misshapen and dis- 
jointed letters in her copy-book — learnt all 
her lessons himself, and tried most ineffectu- 
ally to teach them to her — and, finally, covered 
her unconquerable want of memory by the 
loudest and boldest prompting ever heard out 
of a theatre. Many a rap of the knuckles 
have Sally North's blunders cost Stephen 
Long, and vainly did the master admonish 
him to hold his tongue. Prompt he would — 
although so incorrigibly stupid was his fair 
mistress, that, even when the words were put 
into her mouth, she stumbled at repeating 
them ; and Stephen's officious kindness com- 
monly ended in their being punished in com- 
pany — a consummation, for his share of which 
the bo}!- was gallant enough to rejoice. She 
was fully sensible of this flattering devotion, 
and repaid it, as far as lay in her power, by 
taking him under her protection at play-times, 
in return for the services which he rendered 
her in school ; and becoming more and more 
bound to him by a series of mutual good offices, 
finished by vindicating his ugliness, denying 
his pedantry, and, when twitted with his 
dwarfishness, boldly predicting that he would 
grow. They walked together, talked toge- 
ther, laughed, romped, and quarrelled — in 
short it was a decided attachment ; and when 
our village Romeo was taken as an apprentice 
by a cousin of his mother's — a respectable 
hosier in Cheapside — it is on record, that his 
Juliet — the lightest-hearted personage in the 
neighbourhood — cried for an hour, and moped 
for a day. All the school stood amazed at 
her constancy ! 

Stephen, on his side, bore the test of ab- 



sence, like a knight of Amadis his day. 
Never was preux chevalier so devoted to the 
lady of his love. Every letter home con- 
tained some tender message or fond inquiry; 
and although the messages became gradually 
less and less intelligible, as the small pedan- 
try of the country schoolboy ripened into the 
full-blown affectation of the London appren- 
tice, still Sally was far from quarrelling with 
a love-message, on so small a orround as not 
understanding it ; whilst, however mysterious 
his words might seem, his presents spoke his 
affection in a more homely and convincing 
language. Of such tokens there was no lack. 
The very first packet that he sent home, con- 
sisting of worsted mittens for his old grand- 
mother, a pair of cotton hose for his sisler, and 
a nightcap for his father, contained also a pair 
of scarlet garters for Sally; which attention 
was followed up at every opportunity by pin- 
cushions, ribbons, thimbles, needle-cases, and 
as great a variety of female ware as that with 
which Autolycus's basket was furnished. No 
wonder that >Sally, in spite of occasional flirta- 
tions with Daniel Tnbb, continued tolerably 
constant; especially as one of Stephen's sis- 
ters, who had been at service in London, 
affirmed that he was so much improved, as to 
be one of the smartest beaux in all Cheapside. 

So affairs continued until this identical Val- 
entine's Day. Last spring, a written Valen- 
tine, exceedingly choice in its decorations, had 
made its appearance at Master North's ; rather 
out of date, it must be owned, since, being en- 
closed in a packet, to save postage, and sent 
by an opportunity, as the country phrase goes, 
it had been detained, either by accident or 
waggery, till the first of April ; but this was 
none of Stephen's fault; there was the Valen- 
tine in the newest London taste, consisting of 
a raised group of roses and heart's-ease, exe- 
cuted on a kind of paper-cut work, which, on 
being lifted up, turned into a cage, enclosing 
a dove; — tender emblem ! — with all the rapid- 
ity of a change in a pantomime. There the 
Valentine was ; — equally known for Stephen's, 
by the savour of the verses and the flourish of 
the signature — the finest specimen of poetry 
and penmanship, as my friend the schoolmas- 
ter triumphantly asserted, that had ever been 
seen in Aberleigh. " The force of writing 
could no farther go ;" so, this year, our " good 
apprentice" determined to come himself to be 
her personal Valentine, and to renew if not 
complete their early engagement. 

On this determination being announced to 
Sally, it occasioned no small perturbation in 
that fair damsel, equally alarmed at the men- 
tal accomplishments and the personal defects 
of her constant swain. In fact, her feeling' 
towards Stephen had been almost as ideal and 
unsubstantial as the shadow of a rainbow. 
She liked to think of him when she had no- 
thing better to do ; or to talk ot him when she i 
had nothing better to say ; or to be puzzled 1 



15 



W 



170 



OUR VILLAGE 



by his verses, or laughed at for his homage ; 
but as a real substantial Valentine, a present 
wooer, a futnre husband, and he so ugly, and 
a poet too — Oil dear! she was frightened to 
think of it I This impression first broke forth 
to his sister — who communicated the news of 
his intended arrival — in a variety of questions, 
as to Stephen's height, and size, and shape, 
and complexion ; especially as compared with 
Daniel Tubb's ! and was afterwards displayed 
to that rustic adorer himself; not by words, 
indeed, but by the encouraging silence and 
saucy smile with which she listened to his 
account of the debarkation of his cockney 

rival, from the top of the B stage. " He's 

tinier than ever," quoth Daniel, "and the 
smartest dandy that ever was seen. I shall 
be your Valentine, after all, Sally," pursued 
her swain ; " for I could hide him with the 
shadow of my fist." 

This was Valentine's-eve. Valentine's- 
morn saw Sally eyeing the two rivals, through 
a peep-hole in her litile check curtain, as Ihey 
stood side by side, on the green, watching for 
the first glimpse of their divinity. Never was 
seen such a contrast. Stephen, whose original 



Valentine. I think, with the little clerk, that 
they will be married at Whitsuntide, if not 
before. 



A COUNTRY APOTHECARY. 

One of the most important personages in a 
small country town is the apothecary. He 
takes rank next after the rector and the attor- 
ney, and before the curate ; and could be 
much less easily dispensed with than either 
of those worthies, not merely as holding 
" fate and physic" in his hand, but as the 
general, and as it were official, associate, ad- 
viser, comforter, and friend, of all ranks and 
all ages, of high and low, rich and poor, 
sick and well. I am no despiser of dignities ; 
but twenty emperors shall be less intensely 
missed in their wide dominions than such a 
man as my friend John Hallett in his own 
small sphere. 

The spot which was favoured with the re- 
sidence of this excellent person, was the small 
square dwarfishness had fined down into a ] town of Hazelby, in Dorsetshire ; a pretty lit- 
miniature dandy — sallow, strutting, and all , tie place, where every thing seems at a stand- 
over small — the very Tom Thumb of appren- still. It was originally built in the shape of 
tices ! — Daniel, taller, bigger, ruddier, and the letter T; a long broad market-place (still 



heartier than ever — the actual Goliath of coun 
try lads ! Never was such a contrast seen. 
At length Sally, laughing, blushing, and bri- 
dling, sallied forth from the cottage — her huge 
roll basket, but not as usual filled with rolls, 
carried, not on her head, but in her hands 
"I'm your Valentine, Sally ! am I not?" ex 



so called, although the market be gone) serv^ 
ing for the perpendicular stem, traversed by a 
straight, narrow, horizontal street, to answer 
for the top line. Not one addition has occur- 
red to interrupt this architectural regularity 
since ; some fifty years ago, a rich London 
tradesman built, at the west end of the hori' 



claimed Daniel Tubb, darting towards her, | zontal street, a wide-fronted single house, 
"you saw me first; I know you saw me first," j with two low wings, iron palisades before, 
continued the ardent lover, proceeding to claim i and a fish-pond opposite, which still goes by 
the salute usual on such occasions. " Pshaw ! I the name of New Place, and is balanced, at 
nonsense! let me alone then, Daniel, can't the east end of the street, by an erection of 
you ?" was the reply of his mistress, advanc- j nearly the same date, a large, square, dingy 
ing to Stephen, who perhaps dazzled by the mansion, enclosed within high walls, inhabil- 
beauty, perhaps astounded by the height of i ed by three maiden sisters, and called^ proba- 



the fair giantess, remained motionless and 
speechless on the other side of the road. 
" Would you like a ride in my basket this fine 
morning, Mr. Stephen?" said the saucy lass, 
emptying all his gifts, garters, pincushions, 
ribhons, and Valentines, from their huge reser- 
voir, and depositing it on the ground at his 
feet. " Don't be afraid ; I'll be bound to carry 
you as easily as the little Italian boy carries 
his tray of images. He's not half the weight 
of the roils — is he, Daniel]" pursued the 
unmerciful btniuty. "For my part, I think he 
has grown shorter. — Come, do step in !" And, 
with the word, the triumphant Daniel lifted 
up the discomfited beau, placed him safely in 
the basket, and hoisted the burthen on Sally's 
head — to the uns})eakable diversion of that 
saucy maiden, and the complete cure of Mas- 
ter Stephen's love. — No need, after this, to 
declare which of the two rivals is Sally North's 



bly by way of nickname, the Nunnery. New 
Place being on the left of the road, and the 
Nunnery on the right, the T has now some- 
thing the air of the Italic capital T, turned up 
at one end and down on the other. The latest 
improvements are the bow-window in the mar- 
ket-place, commanding the pavement both 
ways, which the late brewer, Andrews, threw 
out in his snug parlour some twenty years 
back, and where he used to sit smoking, with 
the sash up, in summer afternoons, enjoying 
himself, good man ; and the great room at the 
Swan, originally built by the speculative pub- 
lican, Joseph AUwright, for an assembly- 
room. That speculation did not answer. The 
assembly, in spite of canvassing and patron- 
age, and the active exertions of all the young 
ladies in the neighbourhood, dwindled away 
and died at the end of two winters : then it 
became a club-room for the hunt ; but the hunt 



A COUNTRY APOTHECARY. 



171 



quarrelled with Joseph's cookery : then a mar- 
ket-room for the farmers ; but the farmers (it 
was the high-price time) quarrelled with 
Joseph's wine : then it was converted into the 
magistrate's room — the bench ; but the bench 
and the market went away together, and there 
was an end of justicing : then Joseph tried 
the novel attraction (to borrow a theatrical 
phrase) of a billiard-table; but, alas! that 
novelty succeeded as ill as if it had been thea- 
trical : there were not customers enough to 
pay the marker : at last, it has merged finally 
in that unconscious receptacle of pleasure and 
pain, a post-office; although Hazelby has so 
little to do with traffic of any sort — even the 
traffic of correspondence — that a saucy mail- 
coach will often carry on its small bag, and 
as often forget to call for the London bag in 
return. 

In short, Hazelby is an insignificant place ; 
— my readers will look for it in vain in the 
map of Dorsetshire; it is omitted, poor dear 
town ! — left out by the maprmaker with as lit- 
tle remorse as a dropped letter ! — and it is also 
an old-fashioned place. It has not even a 
cheap shop for female gear. Every thing in 
the one store which it boasts, kept by Martha 
Deane, linen-draper and haberdasher, is dear 
and good as things were wont to be. You 
may actually get there thread made of flax, 
from the gouty, uneven, clumsy, shiny fabric, 
yclept whited-brown, to the delicate commo- 
dity of Lisle, used for darning muslin. I 
think I was never more astonished than when, 
on asking, from the mere force of habit, for 
thread, I was presented, instead of the pretty 
lattice-wound balls or snowy reels of cotton, 
with which that demand is usually answered, 
with a whole drawerful of skeins, peeping 
from their plue papers — such skeins as in my 
youth a thrifty maiden would draw into the 
nicely-stitched compartments of that silken 
repository, a housewife, or fold into a conge- 
ries of graduated thread-papers, " fine by de- 
grees and beautifully less." The very litera- 
ture o'f Hazelby is doled out at the pastry- 
cook's, in a little one-windowed shop, kept 
by Rlatthew Wise. Tarts occupy one end of 
the counter, and reviews the other; whilst the 
shelves are parcelled out between books, and 
dolls, and gingerbread. It is a question, by 
which of his trades poor Matthew gains 
least ; he is so shabby, so threadbare, and so 
starved. 

Such a town would hardly have known 
what to do with a highly-informed and edu- 
cated surgeon, such as one now generally sees 
in that most liberal profession. My friend, 
John Hallett, suited it exactly. His prede- 
cessor, Mr. Simon Shuter, had been a small, 
wrinkled, spare old gentleman, with a short 
cough and a thin voice, who always seemed 
as if he needed an apothecary himself. He 
wore generally a full suit of drab, a flaxen 
wig of the sort called a Bob Jerom, and a very 



tight muslin stock ; a costume which he had 
adopted in his younger days in imitation of 
the most eminent physician of the next city, 
and continued to the time of his death. Per- 
haps the cough might have been originally an 
imitation, also, ingrafted on the system by 
habit. It had a most unsatisfactory sound, 
and seemed more like a trick than a real effort 
of nature. His talk was civil, prosy, and 
fidgety, much addicted to small scandal, and 
that kind of news which passes under the 
denomination of tittle-tattle. He was sure to 
tell one half of the town where the other 
drank tea, and recollected the blancmangers 
and jellies on a supper-table, or described a 
new gown, with as much science and unction 
as if he had been used to make jellies and 
wear gowns in his own person. Certain pro- 
fessional peculiarities might have favoured the 
supposition. His mode of practice was ex- 
actly that popularly attributed to old women. 
He delighted in innocent remedies — manna, 
magnesia, and camphor julep ; never put on a 
blister in his life; and would sooner, from 
pure complaisance, let a patient die, than ad- 
minister an unpalatable prescription. 

So qualified, to say nothing of his gifts in 
tea-drinking, casino, and quadrille (whist was 
too many for him), his popularity could not 
be questioned. When he expired, all Hazelby 
mourned. The lamentation was general. The 
women of every degree (to borrow a phrase 
from that great phrase-monger, Horace Wal- 
pole) " cried quarts ;" and the procession to 
the church-yard — that very church-yard to 
which he had himself followed so many of 
his patients — was now attended by all of them 
that remained alive. 

It was felt that the successor of Mr. Simon 
Shutter would have many difficulties to en- 
counter. My friend, John Hallett, "came, 
and saw, and overcame." John was what is 
usually called a rough diamond. Imagine a 
short, clumsy, stout-built figure, almost as 
broad as it is long, crowned by a bullet-head, 
covered with shaggy brown hair, sticking out 
in every direction; the face round and solid, 
with a complexion originally fair, but dyed 
one red by exposure to all sorts of weather; 
open good-humoured eyes of a greenish cast, 
his admirers called them hazel ; a wide mouth, 
full of large white teeth; a cocked-up nose, 
and a double chin; bearing altogether a strong 
resemblance to a print which I once saw hang- 
ing up in an alehouse parlour, of " the cele- 
brated divine" (to use the identical words of 
the legend) "Doctor Martin Luther." 

The condition of a country apothecary being 
peculiarlyliabletothe inclemency of theseason, 
John's dress was generally such as might 
bid defiance to wind or rain, or snow or hail. 
If any thing, he wrapt up most in the summer, 
having a theory that people were never so apt 
to take cold as in hot weather. He usually 
wore a bearskin great-coat, a silk handkerchief 



172 



OUR VILLAGE, 



over his cravat, top boots on those sturdy pil- I 
lars his legs, a huge pair of overalls, and a ' 
hat, which, from the day in which it first I 
came into his possession to that in which it 
was thrown aside, never knew the comfort of 
being freed from its oilskin — never was al- 
lowed to display the glossy freshness of its 
sable youth. Poor dear hat ! how its vanity 
(if hats have vanity) must have suffered ! For 
certain its owner had none, unless a lurking 
pride in his own bluffness and bluntness may 
be termed such. He piqued himself on being 
a plain downright Englishman, and on a voice 
and address pretty much like his apparel, 
rough, strong, and warm, and fit for all wea- 
thers. A heartier person never lived. 

In his profession he was eminently skilful, 
bold, confident, and successful. The neigh- 
bouring [)hysicians liked to come after Mr. 
Hailett ; they were sure to find nothing to 
undo. And blunt and abrupt as was his 
general manner, he was kind and gentle in a 
sick-room ; only nervous disorders, the pet 
diseases of Mr. Simon Shuter, he could not 
abide. He inade short work with them ; 
frightened them away, as one does by children 
when they have the hiccough ; or if the malady 
were pertinacious and would not go, he fairly 
turned off the patient. Once or twice, indeed, 
on such occasions, the patient got tlie start, 
and turned iiim off; Mrs. Emery, for instance, 
the lady's maid at New Place, most delicate 
and mincing of waiting-gentlewomen, mo- 
tioned him from her presence ; and Miss 
Deane, daughter of Martha Deane, haber- 
dasher, V/ho, after completing her education 
at a boarding-school, kept a closet full of mil- 
linery in a little den behind her mamma's 
shop, and was by many degrees the finest 
lady in Hazelby, was so provoked at being 
told by him that nothing ailed her, that, to 
prove her weakly condition, she pushed him 
by main force out of doors. 

With these exceptions Mr. Hailett was the 
delight of the whole town, as well as of all 
the farm-houses within six miles round. He 
just suited the rich yeomanry, cured their dis- 
eases, and partook of their feasts; was con- 
stant at christenings, and a man of prime 
importance at weddings. A country merry- 
making was nothing without " the Doctor." 
He was "the very prince of good fellows;" 
had a touch of ej-icurism, which, without caus- 
ing any distaste of his own homely fare, made 
dainties acceptable when they fell in his way ; 
was a most absolute carver; prided hiiriself 
upon a sauce of his own invention, for fish 
and game — "Hazelby sauce" he called it; 
and was universally admitted to be the best 
compounder of a bowl of punch in the country. 

Besides these rare convivial accomplish- 
ments, his gay and jovial temper rendered 
him the life of the table. There was no re- 
sisting his droll faces, his droll stories, his 
jokes, his tricks, or his laugh — the most con- 



tagious cachinnation that ever was heard. 
Nothing in the shape of fun came amiss to 
him. He would join in a catch or roar out a 
solo, which might be heard a mile off; would 
play at hunt the slipper, or blindman's-buff; 
was a great man in a country dance, and upon 
very extraordinary occasions would treat the 
company to a certain remarkable hornpipe, 
which put the walls in danger of tumbling 
about their ears, and belonged to him as ex- 
clusively as the Hazelby sauce. It was a 
sort of parody on a pas seul which he had 
once seen at the 0|)era-house, in which his 
face, his figure, his costume, his rich humour, 
and his strange, awkward, unexpected activity, 
told amazingly. "The force of frolic could 
no further go," than " the Doctor's hornpipe." 
It was the climax of jollity. 

But the chief scene of Mr. Hallett's gaiety 
lay out of doors, in a very beautiful spot, 
called the Down, a sloping upland, about a 
mile from Hazelby ; a side view of which, 
w ith its gardens and orchards, its pretty church 
peeping from amongst lime and yew trees, ' 
and the fine \nece of water, called Hazelby: 
Pond, it commanded. The Down itself was 
an extensive tract of land covered with the 
finest verdure, backed by a range of hills, and 
surrounded by coppice-woods, large patches 
of which were scattered over the turf, like so 
many islands on an emerald sea. Nothing 
could be more beautiful or more impenetrable 
than these thickets ; they were principally 
composed of birch, holly, hawthorn, and 
maple, woven together by garlands of wood- 
bine, interwreathed and intertwisted by bram- 
ble and briar, till even the sheep, although 
the bits of their snowy fleece left on the 
bushes bore witness to the attempt, could 
make no way in the leafy mass. Here and 
there a huge oak or beech rose towering above 
the rich underwood ; and all around, as far as 
the eye could pierce, the borders of this natu- 
ral shrubbery were studded with a countless 
variety of woodland flowers. When the old 
thorns were in blossom, or when they were 
succeeded by the fragrant woodbine and thr^ 
delicate briar-rose, it was like a garden, if it 
were possible to fancy any garden so peopled 
with birds.* 

The only human habitation on this charming 



* A circumstance of some curiosity in natural his- 
tory occurred (or several surcessive years on this 
down. 'I'here was consiantly in one of the thickets a 
blackbird's nest, of which tlie yoiins; were distin- 
guished by a striking peculiarity. The old birds (pro- 
bably the .><aine pan-,) were of the usual sable ( olour, 
but the pliimaiic of their progeny was milk-white, as 
white as a swan, wilhout a single discoloured feather. 
They were always taken, and sold at high prices to 
the'ciu'ions in such freaks of nature. The late bishop 
of Winchester had a pair of them for a long time in 
the aviary at I''arnhani Castle; they were haidy, and 
the male was a fine song-bird; but all attempts to 
breed frotn them foiled. They died, "and left the 
world no copy." 



A COUNTRY APOTHECARY. 



173 



spot was tlie cottage of the shepherd, old 
Thomas Tolfrey, who, with his grand-daugh- 
ter, Jemima, a light pretty maiden of fourteen, 
tended the flocks on the Down ; and the rustic 
carols of this little lass and the tinkling of the 
sheep-bells were usually the only sounds that 
mingled with the sweet songs of the feathered 
tribes. On May-days and holidays, however, 
the thickets resounded with othe'- notes of 
glee than those of the linnet and the wood- 
lark. P'airs, revels, May-games, and cricket- 
matches — all were holden on the Down ; and 
there would John Hallett sit, in his glory, 
universal umpire and referee of cricketer, 
wrestler, or back-sviord player, the happiest 
and greatest man in the field. Little Jemima 
never failed to bring her grandfather's arm- 
chair, and place it under the old oak for the 
good doctor; I question whether John would 
have exchanged his throne for that of the king 
of England. 

On these occasions he certainly would have 
been the better for that convenience, which he 
piqued himself on not needing — a partner. 
Generally speaking, he really, as he used to 
boast, did the business of three men ; but 
when a sickly season and a Maying happened 
to come together, I cannot help suspecting 
that the patients had the worst of it. Per- 
haps, however, a partner might not have suit- 
ed him. He was sturdy and independent to 
the verge of a fault, and would not have 
brooked being called to account, or brought 
to a reckoning by any man under the sun ; 
still less would he endure the thought of that 
more important and durable co-partnery — mar- 
riage He was a most determined bachelor ; 
and so afraid of being mistaken for a wooer, 
or encouraging the reputation of a gay de- 
ceiver, that he was as uncivil as his good-na- 
ture would permit to every unwedded female 
from sixteen to sixty, and had nearly fallen 
into some scrapes on that account with the 
spinsters of the town, accustomed to the soft 
silkiness of Mr. Simon Shuter; but they got 
used to it — it was the man's way ; and there 
was an indirect flattery in his fear of their 
charms, which the maiden ladies, especially 
the elder ones, found very mollifying; so he 
was forgiven. 

In his shop and his household he had no 
need either of partner or wife : the one was 
excellently managed by an old rheumatic jour- 
neyman, slow in speech and of vinegar aspect, 
who had been a pedagogue in his youth, and 
now used to limp about with his Livy in his 
pocket, and growl as he compounded the 
medicines over the bad latinity of the pre- 
scriptions ; the other was equally well con- 
ducted by an equally ancient housekeeper and 
a cherry-cheeked niece, the orphan daughter 
of his only sister, who kept every thing with- 
in doors in the bright and shining order in 
which he delighted. John Hallett, notwith- 
standing the roughness of his aspect, was ra- 

15* 



ther knick-knacky in his tastes ; a great patron 
of small inventions, such as the improved ne- 
plus-ultra cork-screw, and the latest patent 
snuffers. He also trifled with horticulture, 
dabbled in tulips, was a connoisseur in pinks, 
and had gained a prize for polyanthuses. The 
garden was under the especial care of his pret- 
ty niece. Miss Margaret, a grateful, warm- 
hearted girl, who thought she never could do 
enough to please her good uncle, and prove 
her sense of his kindness. He was indeed as 
fond of her as if he had been her father, and 
as kind. 

Perhaps there was nothing very extraordi- 
nary in his goodness to the gentle and cheer- 
ful little girl who kept his walks so trim and 
his parlour so neat, who always met hiin with 
a smile, and who (last and strongest lie to a 
generous mind,) was wholly dependent on 
him — had no friend on earth but himself. 
ThciC was nothing very uncommon in that. 
But John Hallett was kind to every one, even 
where the sturdy old English prejudices, 
which he cherished as virtues, miglit seem 
most likely to counteract his gentler feelings. 
One instance of his benevolence and his deli- 
cacy shall conclude this sketch. 

Several years ago an old French emigre 
came to reside at Hazelby. He lodged at 
Matthew Wise's, of whose twofold shop for 
cakes and novels I have before made honour- 
able mention, in the low three-cornered room, 
with a closet behind it, which Matthew had 
the impudence to call his first floor. Little 
was known of him but that he was a thin, 
pale, foreign-looking gentleman, who shrug- 
ged his shoulders in speaking, took a great 
deal of snuflT, and made a remarkably low 
bow. The few persons with whom he had 
any communication spoke with anmsement of 
his bad English, and with admiration of his 
good-humour; and it soon appeared, from a 
written paper placed in a conspicuous part of 
Matthew's shop, that he was an Abbe, and 
that he would do himself the honour of teach- 
ing French to any of the nobility or gentry of 
Hazelby who might think fit to employ him. 
Pupils dropt in rather slowly. The curate's 
daughters, and the attorney's son, and Miss 
Deane the milliner — but she found the lan- 
guage difficult, and left off", asserting that M. 
I'Abbe's snuff" made her nervous. At last 
poor M. I'Abbe fell ill himself, really ill, dan- 
gerously ill, and Matthew Wise went in all 
haste to summon Mr. Hallett. Now Mr. Hal- 
lett had such an aversion to a Frenchman, in 
general, as a cat has to a dog; and was wont 
to erect himself into an attitude of defiance 
and wrath at the mere sight of the object of 
his antipathy. He hated and despised the 
whole nation, abhorred the languaoe, and 
" would as lief," he assured Matthew, " have 
been called in to a toad." He went, how- 
ever, grew interested in the case, which was 
difficult and complicated ; exerted all his 



174 



OUR VILLAGE 



skill, and in about a month accomplished a 
cure. 

By this time he had also become interested 
in his patient, whose piety, meekness, and re- 
sitrnation, had won upon him in an extraordi- 
nary degree. The disease was gone, but a 
languor and lowness remained, which Mr, 
Hallett soon traced to a less curable disorder, 
poverty: the thought of the debt to himself 
evidently weighed on the poor Abbe's spirits, 
and our good apothecary at last determined to 
learn French purely to liquidate his own long 
bill. It was the drollest thing in the world to 
see this pupil of fifty, whose habits were so 
entirely unfitted for a learner, conning his 
task; or to hear him conjugating the verb 
avoir, or blundering through the first phrases 
of the easy dialogues. He was a most un- 
promising scholar, shuffled the syllables to- 
gether in a manner that would seem incredi- 
ble, and stumbled at every step of the pro- 
nunciation, against which his English tongue 
rebelled amain. Every now and then he so- 
laced himself with a fluent volley of execra- 
tions in his own language, which the Abbe 
understood well enough to return, after rather 
a politer fashion, in French. It was a most 
amusing scene. But the motive ! the gener- 
ous, noble motive ! M. I'Abbe, after a few 
lessons, detected this delicate artifice, and, 
touched almost to tears, insisted on dismiss- 
ing his pupil, who, on his side, declared that 
nothing should induce him to abandon his 
studies. At last they came to a compromise. 
The cherry-cheeked Margsret took her uncle's 
post as a learner, which she filled in a man- 
ner much more satisfactory ; and the good old 
Frenchman not only allowed Mr. Hallett to 
administer gratis to his ailments, but partook 
of his Sunday dinner as long as he lived. 



WHEAT-HOEING. 

A MORNING RAMBLE. 

May the 3d. — Cold, bright weather. All 
within doors, sunny and chilly; all without, 
windy and dusty. It is quite tantalizing to 
see that brilliant sun careering through so 
beautiful a sky, and to feel little more warmth 
from his presence than one does from that of 
his fair but cold sister, the moon. Even the 
sky, beautiful as it is, has the look of that one 
sometimes sees in a very bright moonlight 
night — deeply, intensely blue, with white 
fleecy clouds driven vigorously along by a 
strong breeze — now veiling and now exposing 
the dazzling luminary around which they sail. 
A beautiful sky ! and in spite of its coldness, 
a beautiful world ! The effect of this back- 
ward spring has been to arrest the early flow- 
ers, to which heat is the great enemy ; whilst 



the leaves and the later flowers have, never- 
theless, ventured to peep out slowly and cau- 
tiously in sunny places — exhibiting, in the 
copses and hedge-rows, a pleasant mixture of 
March and May. And we, poor chilly mor- 
tals, must follow, as nearly as we can, the 
wise example of the Mayi)lossoms, by avoid- 
ing bleak paths and open commons, and creep- 
ing up the sheltered road to the vicarage — the 
pleasant sheltered road, where the western sun 
steals in between two rows of bright green 
elms, and the east wind is fenced ofl^ by the 
range of woody hills which rise abruptly be- 
fore us, forming so striking a boundary to the 
picture. 

How pretty this lane is, with its tall elms, 
just drest in their young leaves, bordering the 
sunny path, or sweeping in a semi-circle be- 
hind the clear pools, and the white cottages 
that are scattered along the way ! You shall 
seldom see a cottage hereabout without an 
accompanying pond, all alive with geese and 
ducks, at the end of the little garden. Ah I 
here is Dame Simmons making a most origi- 
nal use of her piece of water, standing on the 
bank that divides it from her garden, and most 
ingeniously watering her onion bed with a new 
mop — now a dip, and now a twirl ! Really 
I give her credit for the invention. It is as 
good an imitation of a shower as one should 
wish to see on a summer-day. A squirt is 
nothing to it! 

And here is another break to the tall line of 
elms — the gate that leads into Farmer Thorpe's 
great enclosures. Eight, ten, fourteen people 
in this large field, wheat-hoeing. The couple 
nearest the gate, who keep aloof from all the 
rest, and are hoeing this furrow so completely 
in concert, step by step, and stroke for stroke, 
are Jem Tanner and Mabel Green. There is 
not a handsomer pair in the field or in the vil- 
lage. Jem, with his bright complexion, his 
curling hair, his clear blue eye, and his trim 
figure — set off to great advantage by his short 
jacket and trowsers and new straw hat ; Ma- 
bel with her little stuff gown, and her white 
handkerchief and apron — defining so exactly 
her light and flexible shape — and her black 
eyes flashing from under a deep bonnet lined 
with pink, whose reflection gives to her bright 
dark countenance and dimpled cheeks a glow 
innocently artificial, which was the only charm 
that they wanted. 

Jem and Mabel are, beyond all doubt, the 
handsomest couple in the field, and I am much 
mistaken if each have not a vivid sense of the 
charms of the other. Their mutual admiration 
was clear enough in their work ; but it speaks 
still more plainly in their idleness. Not a 
stroke have they done for these five minutes ; 
Jem, propped on his hoe, and leaning across 
the furrow, whispering soft nonsense ; Mabel, 
blushing and smiling — now making believe to 
turn away — now listening, and looking up with 
a sweeter smile than ever, and a blush that 



WHEAT-HOEING. 



175 



makes her bonnet-lininpr pale. Ah, Mabel ! 
Mabel ! Now they are goincr to work again ; 
— no! — after three or four strokes, the hoes 
have somehow become entangled, and, with- 
out either advancing a step nearer the other, 
they are playing with these rustic implements 
as pretty a game^t romps-^showing off as 
nice a piece of rural flirtation — as ever was 
exhibited since wheat was hoed. 

Ah, Mabel ! Mabel ! beware of Farmer 
Thorpe! He'll see, at a glance, that little 
will his corn profit by such labours. Beware, 
too, Jem Tanner ! — for Mabel is, in some sort, 
an heiress ; being the real niece and adopted 
daughter of our little lame clerk, who, although 
he looks such a tattered raggamuffin, that the 
very grave-diggers are asliamed of him, is 
well to pass in the world — keeps a scrub pony, 
— indeed he can hardly walk up the aisle — 
hath a share in the county fire-ofiice — and 
money in the funds. Mabel will be an heiress, 
despite the tatterdemalion costume of her hon- 
oured uncle, which I think he wears out of 
coquetry, that the remarks which might other- 
wise fall on his miserable person — full as 
misshapen as that of any Hunchback recorded 
in the Arabian Tales — may find a less offen- 
sive vent on his raiment. Certain such a 
figure hath seldom been beheld out of church 
or in. Yet will Mabel, nevertheless, be a for- 
tune ; and, therefore, she must intermarry with 
another fortune, according to the rule made and 
provided in such cases ; and the little clerk 
hath already looked her out a spouse, about 
his own standing — a widower in the next 
parish, with four children and a squint. Poor 
Jem Tanner! Nothing will that smart person 
or that pleasant speech avail with the little 
clerk ; — never will he officiate at your marriage 
to his niece; — "amen" would "stick in his 
throat." Poor things ! in what a happy ob- 
livion of the world and its cares. Farmer 
Thorpe and the wheat-hoeing, the squinting 
shop-keeper and the little clerk, are they laugh- 
ing and talking at this moment ! Poor things ! 
poor things ! 

Well, 1 must pursue my walk. Hbw beau- 
tiful a mixture of flowers and leaves is in the 
high bank under this north hedge — quite an 
illustration of the blended seasons of which I 
spoke. An old irregular hedge-row is always 
beautiful, especially in the spring-time, when 
the grass, and mosses, and flowering weeds 
mingle best with the bushes and creeping 
plants that overhang them. But this bank is, 
most especially, various and lovely. >Shall 
we try to analyze if? First, the clinging 
white-veined ivy, which crawls up the slope 
in every direction, the master-piece of that 
rich mosaic ; then the brown leaves and the 
lilac blossoms of its fragrant nainesake, the 
ground-ivy, which grows here so profusely; 
then the late-lingering primrose; then the de- 
licate wood-sorrel ; then the regular pink stars 
of the cranesbill, with its beautiful leaves; 



then the golden oxslip and the cowslip, — 
" cinque-spotted ;" then the blue pansy, and 
the enamelled wild hyacinth ; then the bright 
foliage of the briar-rose, which comes trailing 
its green wreaths amongst the flowers ; then 
the bramble and the woodbine, creeping round 
the foot of a pollard oak, with its brown fold- 
ed leaves; then a verdant mass — the black 
thorn, with its lingering blossoms — the haw- 
thorn, with its swelling buds — the bushy ma- 
ple — the long stems of the hazel — and between 
them, hanging like a golden plume over the 
bank, a splendid tuft of the blossomed broom; 
then, towering high above all, the tall and 
leafy elms. And this is but a faint picture of 
this hedge, on the meadowy side of which 
sheep are bleating, and where, every here and 
there, a young lamb is thrusting its pretty 
head between the trees. 

Who is this approaching'? Farmer Thorpe? 
Yes, of a certainty, it is that substantial yeo- 
man, sallying forth from his substantial farm- 
house, which peeps out from between two 
huge walnut-trees on the other side of the 
road, with intent to survey his labourers in 
the wheat-field. Farmer Thorpe is a stout, 
square, sturdy personage of fifty, or there- 
about, with a hard weather-beaten counte- 
nance, of that peculiar vermilion, all over 
alike, into which the action of the sun and 
wind sometimes tans a fair complexion ; sharp 
shrewd features, and a keen grey eye. He 
looks completely like a man who will neither 
cheat nor be cheated : and such is his charac- 
ter — an upright, downright English yeoman 
— ^just always, and kind in a rough way — but 
given to fits of anger, and filled with an ab- 
horrence of pilfering, and idleness, and trick- 
ery of all sorts, that makes him strict as a 
master, and somewhat stern at workhouse 
and vestry. I doubt if he will greatly relish 
the mode in which Jem and Mab-el are admin- 
istering the hoe in his wheat-drills. He will 
not reach the gate yet; for his usual steady 
active pace is turned, by a recent accident, 
into an unequal, impatient halt — as if he were 
alike angry with his lameness and the cause. 
I must speak to him as he passes — not merely 
as a due courtesy to a good neighbour, but to 
give the delinquents in the field notice to re- 
sume their hoeing ; but not a word of the limp 
— that is a sore subject. 

" A fine day, Mr. Thorpe !" 

" We want rain, ma'am !" 

And on, with great civility, but without 
pausing a moment, he is gone. He'll certainly 
catch Mabel and her lover philandering over 
his wheat-furrows. Well, that may take its 
chance ! — they have his lameness in their fa- 
vour — only that the cause of that lameness 
has made the worthy farmer unusually cross. 
I think I must confide the story to my readers. 

Gipsies and beggars do not in general much 
inhabit our neighbourhood ; but, about half a 
mile off, there is a den so convenient for stroll- 



176 



OUR VILLAGE, 



ers and vagabonds, that it sometimes tempts 
the rogues to a few days' sojourn. Tt is, in 
truth, nothing more than a deserted brick-kiln, 
by the side of a lonely lane. But there is 
something so snug and comfortable in the old 
building (always keeping in view gipsy no- 
tions of comfort ;) the blackened walls are so 
backed by the steep hill on whose side they 
are built — so fenced from the bleak north-east, 
and letting in so gaily the pleasant western 
sun ; and the wide rugged impassable lane 
(used only as a road to the kiln, and with that 
abandoned) is at once so solitary and deserted, 
and so close to the inhabited and populous 
world, that it seems made for a tribe whose 
prime requisites in a habitation are shelter, 
privacy, and a vicinity to farm-yards. 

Accordingly, about a month ago, a pretty 
strong encampment, evidently gipsies, took up 
their abode in the kiln. The party consisted 
of two or three tall, lean,. sinister-looking men, 
who went about the country mending pots and 
kettles, and driving a small trade in old iron; 
one or two children, unnaturally quiet, the 
spies of the crew; an old woman who sold 
matches and told fortunes; a young woman, 
with an infant strapped to her back, who beg- 
ged ; several hungry dogs, and three ragged 
donkeys. The arrival of these vagabonds 
spread a general consternation through the vil- 
I lage. Gamekeepers and housewives were in 
equal dismay. Snares were found in the pre- 
serves — poultry vanished from the farm-yards 
• — a lamb was lost from the lea — and a damask 
table-cloth, belonging to the worshipful the 

{ Mayor of W , was abstracted from the 

drying-ground of Rachel Strong, the most 
I celebrated laundress in these parts, to whom 
j it had been sent for the benefit of country 
■j washing. No end to the pilfering and the 
stories of pilfering! The inhabitants of the 
kiln were not only thieves in themselves, but 
the cause of thievery in others. " The gip- 
sies !" was the answer general to every in- 
quiry for things missing. 

I Farmer Thorpe — whose dwelling, with its 
.variety of outbuilding.s — barns, ricks, and sta- 
bles — is only separated by a meadow and a 
1 small coppice from the lane that leads to the 
I gipsy retreat — was particularly annoyed by 
j this visitation. — Two couple of full-grown 
ducks, and a whole brood of early chickens, 
I disappeared in one night; and Mrs. Thorpe 
' fretted over the loss, and the farmer was in- 
i dignant at the roguery. lie set traps, let loose 
; mastitis, and put in action all the resources of 
village police — but in vain. Every night, pro- 
perty went ; and the culprits, however strong- 
ly suspected, still continued unamenable to 
the law. 

At last, one morning, the great chanticleer 
of the farm-yard — a cock of a million, with an 
unrivalled crow — a matchless strut, and plu- 
mage all gold and green, and orange and 
purple — gorgeous as a peacock, and fierce as 



a he-turkey — chanticleer, the pride and g.ory 
of the yard, was missing! and Mrs. Thorpe's 
lamentations and her husband's anger redou- 
bled. Vowing vengeance against the gipsies, 
he went to the door to survey a young blood 
mare of his own breeding; and as he stood at 
the gate — now bemoaning: chanticleer — now 
cursing the gipsies — now admiring the bay 
filly — his neighbour, dame Simmons — the 
identical lady of the mop, who occasionally 
charred at the house — came to give him the 
comfortable information that she had certainly 
heard chanticleer — she was quite ready to 
swear to chanticleer's voice — crowing in the 
brick-kiln. No time, she added, should be 
lost, if farmer Thorpe wished to rescue that 
illustrious cock, and to punish the culprits — 
since the gipsies, when she passed the place, 
were preparing to decamp. 

No time was lost. In one moment farmer 
Thorpe was on the bay filly's unsaddled back, 
with the halter for a bridle; and, in the uext, 
they were on full gallop towards the kiln. 
But, alas ! alas ! " the more haste the worse 1 
speed," says the wisdom of nations. Just as | 
they arrived at the spot from which the pro- 
cession — gipsies, dogs, and donkeys — and 
chanticleer in a sack, shrieking most vigor- 
ously — were proceeding on their travels, the 
young blood mare — whether startled at the 
unusual cortege, or the rough ways, or the 
hideous noise of her old friend, the cock — 
suddenly reared and threw her master, who 
lay in all the agony of a sprained ankle, un- 
able to rise from the ground ; whilst the whole 
tribe, with poor chanticleer their prisoner, 
marched triumphantly past him, utterly re- 
gardless of his threats and imprecations. In 
this plight was the unlucky farmer discovered, 
about half an hour afterwards, by his wife, the 
constable, and a party of his own labourers, 
who came to give him assistance in securing 
the culprits ; of whom, notwithstanding an 
instant and active search through the neigh- 
bourhood, nothing has yet transpired. We 
shall hardly see them again in these parts, 
and have almost done talking of them. The 
village is returned to its old state of order and 

honesty; the Mayor of W has replaced 

his table-cloth, and Mrs. Thorpe her cock : 
and the poor farmer's lame ankle is all that 
remains to give token of the gipsies. 

Here we are at the turning, which, edging 
round by the coppice, branches olf to their 
sometime den : the other bend to the right 
leads up a gentle ascent to the vicarage, aT)d 
that is our way. How fine a view of tlie little 
parsonage we have from hence, between those 
arching elms, which enclose it like a picture 
in a frame ! and how pretty a picture it forms, 
with its three pointed roofs, its sung porch, 
and its casement windows glittering from 
amid the china roses ! What a nest of peace 
and comfort ! Further on, almost at the sum- 
mit of the hill, stands the old church with its 



THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 



177 



massy tower — a row of superb lime-trees run- 
ning alonpr one side of the churchyard, and a 
cluster of dark yews shading the other. Few 
country churches have so much to boast in 
architectural beauty, or in grandeur of situa- 
tion. 

We lose sight of it as v;e mount the hill, 
the lane narrowing and winding between deep 
banks, surmounted by high hedges, excluding 
all prospects till we reach the front of the 
vicarage, and catch across the gate of the op- 
posite field a burst of country the most exten- 
sive and the most beautiful — field and village, 
mansion and cot, town and river, all smiling 
under the sparkling sun of May, and united 
and harmonized by the profusion of hedge-row 
timber in its freshest verdure, giving a rich 
woodland character to the scene, till it is ter- 
minated in the distance by the blue line of the 
Hampshire hills almost melting into the hori- 
zon. Such is the view from the vicarage. 
But it is too sunny and too windy to stand 
about out of doors, and time to finish our ram- 
ble. Down the hill, and round the corner, 
and past farmer Tliorpe's house, and one glance 
at the wheat-hoers, and then we will go home. 

Ah ! it is just as I feared. Jem and Mabel 
have been parted : they are now at opposite 
sides of the fields — he looking very angry, 
working rapidly and violently, and doing more 
harm than good — she looking tolerably sulky, 
and just moving her hoe, but evidently doing 
noth-jng at all. Farmer Thorpe, on his part, 
is standing in the middle of the field, observ- 
ing, but pretending not to observe, the little 
humours of the separated lovers. There is a 
lurking smile about the corners of his mouth 
that bespeaks him more amused than angry. 
He is a kind person after all, and will cer- 
tainly make no mischief. I should not even 
wonder if he espoused Jem Tanner's cause; 
and, for certain, if any one can prevail on the 
little clerk to give up his squinting favourite 
in favour of true love, farmer Thorpe is the 
man. 



THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 

Women, fortunately perhaps for their hap- 
piness and their virtue, have, as compared 
with men, so few opportunities of acquiring 
permanent distinction, that it is rare to find a 
female unconnected with literature or with 
history, whose name is remembered after her 
monument is defaced, and the brass on her 
coffin-lid corroded. Snch, however, was the 
case with dame Eleanor, the widow of Sir 
Richard Lacy, whose name, at the end of three 
centuries, continued to be as freshly and as 
frequently spoken, as " familiar" a " house- 
hold word" in the little village of Aberleigh, 
as if she had flourished there yesterday. Her 



memory was embalmed by a deed of charity 
and of goodness. vShe had founded and en- 
dowed a girls' school for " the instruction" (to 
use the words of the deed) " of twenty poor 
children, and the maintenance of one discreet 
and godly matron ;" and tlie school still con- 
tinued to be called after its foundress, and the 
very spot on which the school-house stood, to 
be known by the name of Lady Lacy's Green. 

It was a spot worthy of its destination, — a 
spot of remarkable cheerfulness and beauty. 
The Green was small, of irregular shape, and 
situate at a confluence of shady lanes. Half 
the roads and paths of the parish met there, 
probably for the convenience of crossing in 
that place, by a stone bridge of one arch co- 
vered with ivy, the winding rivulet which 
intersected the whole village, and which, 
sweeping in a narrow channel round the school 
garden, widened into a stream of some conse- 
quence, in the richly-wooded meadows beyond. 
The banks of the brook, as it wound its glit- 
tering course over the green, were set, here 
and there, with clumps of forest trees, chiefly 
bright green elms, and aspens with their 
quivering leaves and their pale shining bark ; 
whilst a magnificent beech stood alone near 
the gate leading to the school, partly over- 
shadowing the little court in which the house 
was placed. The building itself was a beau- 
tiful small structure, in the ornamented style 
of Elizabeth's day, with pointed roofs and 
pinnacles, and clustered chimneys, and case- 
ment windows ; the whole house enwreathed 
and garlanded by a most luxuriant vine. The 
date of the erection, 1563, was cut in a stone 
inserted in the brickwork above the porch ; 
but the foundress had, with an unostentatious 
modesty, withheld her name; leaving it, as 
she safely might, to the grateful recollection 
of the successive generations who profited by 
her benevolence. Altogether it was a most 
gratifying scene to the eye and to the heart. 
No one ever saw Lady Lacy's school-house } 
v/ithout admiration, especially in the play- 
hour at noon, when the children, freed from \ 
"restraint that sweetens liberty," wereclus-i 
tered under the old beech-tree, revelling in i 
their innocent freedom, running, jumping, | 
shouting, and laughing with all their might;! 
the only sort of riot which it is pleasant to j 
witness. The painter and the philanthropist i 
might contemplate that scene with equal de-j 
light. 

The right of appointing both the mistress ' 
and the scholars had been originally vested in ! 
the Lacy family, to whom nearly the whole 
of the parish at one time belonged. But the ' 
estates, the manor, the hall-house, had long 
passed into other hands and other names, and 
this privilege of charity was now the only 
possession which the heirs of Lady Lacy re- 
tained in Aberleigh. Reserving to themselves 
the right of nominating the matron, her de- 
scendants had therefore delegated to the vicar 



178 



OUR VILLAGE. 



and the parish ofTicers the selection of the 
children and the general regulation of the 
gehool — a sort of council of regency, which, 
for as simple and as peaceful as the govern- 
ment seems, a disputatious churchwarden, or 
a sturdy overseer, would sometimes contrive 
to render sufficiently stormy. I have known 
as much canvassing and almost as much ill- 
will in a contested election for one of Lady 
Lacy's scholarships, as for a scholarship in 
grander places, or even for an M. P.-ship in 
the next borough ; and the great schism be- 
tween the late Farmer Brookes and all his co- 
adjutors, as to whether the original uniform 
of little green stuff gowns, with white bibs 
and aprons, tippets, and mob, should be com- 
muted for modern cotton frocks and cottage 
bonnets, fairly set the parish by the ears. — 
Owing to the good farmer's glorious obstinacy 
(which I suppose he called firmness), the 
green-gownians lost the day. I believe that, 
as a matter of calculation, the man might be 
right, and that his costume was cheaper and 
more convenient; but I am sure that 1 should 
have been against him, right or wrong ; the 
other dress was so pretty, so primitive, so 
neat, so becoming; the little lasses looked 
like rose-buds in the midst of their leaves : 
besides, it was the old traditionary dress — the 
dress contrived and approved by Lady Lacy. 
— Oh ! it should never have been changed, 
never ! 

Since there was so much contention in the 
election of pupils, it was, perhaps, lucky for 
the vestry that the exercise of the more splen- 
did piece of patronage, the appointment of a 
mistress, did not enter into its duties. Mr. 
Lacy, the representative of the foundress, a 
man of fortune in a distant county, generally 
bestowed the situation on some old dependant 
of his family. During the churchwardenship 
of Farmer Brookes, no less than three village 
gouvernantes arrived at Aberleigh — a quick 
succession ! It made more than half the bu- 
siness of our zealous and bustling man of 
office, an amateur in such matters, to instruct 
and overlook them. The first importation was 
Dame W hitaker, a person of no small import- 
I ance, who had presided as head nurse over 
! two generations of the Lacys, and was now, 
[ on the dispersion of the last set of her nurs- 
' lings to their different schools, and an unlucky 
quarrel with a favourite lady's maid, promoted 
and banished to this distant government. — 
Nobody could be more unfit for her new sta- 
, tion, or better suited to her old. She was a 
' nurse from top to toe. Round, portly, smiling, 
with a coaxing voice, and an indolent manner; 
j much addicted to snuff and green tea, to sit- 
ting still, to telling long stories, and to hu- 
I mouring children. She spoiled every brat she 
came near, just as she had been used to spoil 
the little Master Edwards and Miss Julias of 
her ancient dominions. She could not have 
scolded if she would — the gift was not in her. 



Under her misrule the school grew into sad 
disorder; the girls not only learnt nothing, 
but unlearnt what they knew before ; work 
w-as lost — even the new shifts of the Vicar's 
lady; books were torn; and, for the climax 
of evil, no sampler was prepared to carry 
round at Christmas, from house to house — the 
first time such an omission had occurred within 
the memory of man. Farmer Brookes was 
at his wit's end. He visited the school six 
days in the week, to admonish and reprove ; 
he even went nigh to threaten that he would 
work a sampler himself; and finally bestow- 
ed on the unfortunate ex-nurse, the nickname 
of Queen Log, a piece of disrespect, which, 
together with other grievances, proved so an- 
noying to poor Dame Whitaker, that she found 
the air of Aberleigh disagree with her, patch- 
ed up a peace with her old enemy, the lady's 
maid, abdicated that unruly and rebellious 
principality, the school, and retired with great 
delight to her quiet home in the deserted 
nursery, where, as far as I know, she still re- 
mains. 

The grief of the children on losing this 
most indulgent non-instructress, was not miti- 
gated by the appearance or demeanour of her 
successor, who at first seemed a preceptress 
after Farmer Brookes's own heart, a perfect 
Queen Stork. Dame Banks was the widow 
of Mr. Lacy's game-keeper; a little thin wo- 
man, with a hooked nose, a sharp voice, and 
a prodigious activity of tongue. She scolded 
all day long ; and for the first week passed 
for a great teacher. After that time it began 
to be discovered, that, in spite of her lessons, 
the children did not learn ; notwithstanding 
her rating they did not mind, and in the midst 
of a continual bustle, nothing was ever done. 
Dame Banks was in fact a well-intentioned, 
worthy w^oman, with a restless irritable tem- 
per, a strong desire to do her duty, and a wo- 
ful ignorance how to set about it. She was 
rather too old to be taught either ; at least she 
required a gentler instructor than the good 
churchwarden; and so much ill-will was 
springing up between them, that he had even 
been heard to regret the loss of Dame Whita- 
ker's quietness, when very suddenly poor 
Dame Banks fell ill and died. The sword 
had worn the scabbard ; but she was better 
than she seemed ; a thoroughly well-meaning 
woman — grateful, pious, and charitable; even 
our man of office admitted this. 

The next in succession was one with whom 
my trifling pen, dearly as that light and flut- 
tering instrument loves to dally and disport 
over the surfaces of things, must take no saucy 
freedom; one of whom we all felt it impossi- 
ble to speak or to think without respect ; one 
who made Farmer Brookes's office of adviser 
a sinecure, by putting the whole school, him- 
self included, into its proper ])lace, setting 
every body in order, and keeping them so. I 
don't know how she managed, unless by good I 



THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 



179! 



sense and good-hiimoiir, and that happy art of 
(Tovernment, which seems no art at all, because 
it is so perfect; but the children were busy 
and happy, the vestry pleased, and the church- 
w^arden contented. All went well under Mrs. 
Allen. 

She was an elderly woman, nearer perhaps 
to seventy than to sixty, and of an exceedinorly 
venerable and prepossessing appearance. Deli- 
cacy was her chief characteristic — a delicacy 
so complete that it pervaded her whole person, 
from her tall, slender figure, her fair, faded 
complexion, and her silver hair to the exquisite 
nicety of dress by which, at all hours and sea- 
sons, from Sunday morning to Saturday night, 
she was invariably distinguished. The soil 
of the day was never seen on her apparel ; 
dust would not cling to her snowy caps and 
handkerchiefs : such was the art magic of her 
neatness. Her very pins did their office in a 
different manner from those belonging to other 
people. Her manner was gentle, cheerful, and 
courteous, with a simplicity and propriety of 
expression that perplexed all listeners ; it 
seemed so exactly what belongs to the highest 
birth and the highest breeding. She was 
humble, very humble ; but her humility was 
evidently the result of a truly Christian spirit, 
and would equally have distinguished her in 
any station. The poor people, always nice 
judges of behaviour, felt, they did not know 
why, that she was their superior ; the gentry 
of the neighbourhood suspected her of being 
their equal — some clergyman's or officer's 
widow, reduced in circumstances ; and would 
have treated her as such, had she not, on dis- 
covering their mistake, eagerly undeceived 
them. She had been, she said, all her life a 
servant, the personal attendant of one dear 
mistress, on whose decease she bad been re- 
commended to Mr. Lacy; and to his kindness, 
under Providence, was indebted for a home 
and a provision for her helpless age, and the 
still more helpless youth of a poor orphan, far 
dearer to her than herself. This avowal, al- 
though it changed the character of the respect 
paid to Mrs. Allen, was certainly not calculated 
to diminish its amount; and the new mistress 
of Lady Lacy's school, and the beautiful order 
of her house and garden, continued to be the 
pride and admiration of Aberleigh. 
1 The orphan of whom she spoke was a little 
girl about eleven years old, who lived with 
her, and whose black frock bespoke the recent 
death of some relative. She had lately, Mrs. 
Allen said, lost her grandmother — her only 
remaining parent, and had now no friend but 
herself on earth ; but there was One above 
who was a Father to the fatherless, and He 
would protect poor .Tane ! And as she said 
this, there was a touch of emotion, a break of 
the voice, a tremour on the lip, very unlike the 
usual cheerfulness and self-command of her 
manner. The child was evidently very dear 
to her. Jane was, indeed, a most interesting 



creature : not pretty — a girl of that age seldom 
is ; the beauty of childhood is outgrown, that 
of youth not come ; and .Tane could scarcely 
ever have had any other pretensions to pretti- 
ness, than the fine expression of her dark grey 
eyes, and the general sweetness of her coun- 
tenance. She was ])ale, thin, and delicate; 
serious and thoughtful far beyond her years ; j 
averse from play, and shrinking from notice. ] 
Her fondness for Mrs. Allen, and her constant 
and unremitting attention to her health and 
comforts, were peculiarly remarkable. Every 
part of their small housewifery, that her height 
and strength and skill would enable her to per- 
form, she insisted on doing, and many things 
far beyond her power she attempted. Never 
w^as so industrious or so handy a little maiden. 
Old Nelly Chun, the char-woman, who went 
once a week to the house, to wash and bake 
and scour, declared that Jane did more than 
herself; and to all who knew Nelly's opinion 
of her own doings, this praise appeared super- 
lative. 

In the school-room she was equally assidu- 
ous, not as a learner, but as a teacher. None 
so clever as Jane in superintending the difl["er- 
ent exercises of the needle, the spelling-book, 
and the slate. From the little work-woman's 
first attempt to insert thread into a pocket 
handkerchief, that digging and ploughing of 
cambric, miscalled hemming, up to the nice 
and delicate mysteries of stitching and button- 
holing ; from the easy junction of a b, ab, and 
b a, ba, to that tremendous sesquipedalian word 
irrefrasibiliiy, at which even I tremble as I 
write; from the Numeration Table to Practice, 
nothing came amiss to her. In figures she 
was particularlj'^ quick. Generally speaking, 
her patience with the other children, however 
dull or tiresome or giddy they might be, was 
exemplary; but a false accomptant, a stupid 
arithmetician, would put her out of humour. 
The only time I ever heard her sweet, gentle 
voice raised a note above its natural key, was 
in reprimanding Susan Wheeler, a sturdy, 
square-made, rosy-cheeked lass, as big again 
as herself, the dunce and beauty of the school, 
who had three times cast up a sura of three 
figures, and three times made the total wrong. 
Jane ought to have admired the ingenuity 
evinced by such a variety of error ; but she 
did not; it fairly put her in a passion. She 
herself was not only clever in figures, but fond 
of them to an extraordinary degree — luxuriated 
in Long Division, and revelled in the Rule-of- 
Three. Had she been a boy, she would prob- 
ably have been a great mathematician, and 
have won that fickle, fleeting, shadowy wreath, 
that crown made of the rainbow, that vainest 
of all earthly pleasures, but which yet is a 
pleasure — Fame. 

Happier, far happier, was the good, the 
lowly, the pious child, in her humble duties ! 
Grave and quiet as she seemed, she had many 
moments of intense and placid enjoyment, 



180 



OUR VILLAGE, 



when the dvities of tho day were over, and she 
sat readincr in the porch, by the side of Mrs. 
Allen, or walked with her in the meadows on 
a Sunday evening after church. Jane was 
certainly contented and happy ; and yet every 
one that saw her, thoujrht of her with that 
kind of interest which is akin to pity. There 
was a pale, fragile grace about her, such as 
we sometimes see in a rose which has blown 
in the shade ; or rather, to change the simile, 
the drooping and delicate look of a tender 
plant removcid from a hot-house to the open 
air. We could not help feeling sure (notwith- 
standing our mistake with regard to Mrs. 
Allen) that this was indeed a transplanted 
flower ; and that the village school, however 
excellently her habits had become inured to 
her situation, was not her proper atmosphere. 

Several circumstances corroborated our sus- 
picions. My lively young friend Sophia Grey, 
standing with me one day at the gate of the 
school-house, where I had been talking with 
Mrs. Allen, remarked to me, in French, the 
sly, demure vanity, with which Susan Wheeler, 
whose beauty had attracted her attention, was 
observing and returning her glances. The 
playful manner in which Sophia described 
Susan's " regard furtif," made me smile ; and 
looking accidentally at .lane, I saw that she 
was smiling too, clearly comprehending, and 
enjoying the full force of the pleasantry. She 
must understand French ; and when ques- 
tioned, she confessed she did, and thankfully 
accepted the loan of books in that language. 
Another time, being sent on a message to the 
vicarage, and left for some minutes alone in 
the parlour, with a piano standing open in the 
room, she could not resist the temptation of 
touching the keys, and was discovered play- 
ing an air of Mozart, with great taste and 
execution. At this detection she blushed, as 
if caught in a crime, and hurried away in tears 
and without her message. It was clear that 
she had once learnt music. But the surest 
proof that Jane's original station had been 
higher than that which she now filled, was 
the mixture of respect and fondness with 
which Mrs. Allen treated her, and the deep 
regret she sometimes testified at seeing lier 
emj)loyed in any menial ofllice. 

At last, elicited by some warm praise of the 
charming child, our good schoolmistress dis- 
closed her story. Jane Mowbray was the 
grand-daughter of the lady in whose service 
Mrs. Allen had passed her life. Her father 
had been a man of high family and splendid 
fortune ; had married beneath himself, as it 
was called, a friendless orphan, with no por- 
tion but beauty and virtue ; and, on her death, 
which followed shortly on the birth of her 
daughter, had plunged into every kind of vice 
and extravagance. What need to tell a tale 
of sin and suflering ? Mr. Mowbray had 
ruined himself, had ruined all belonging to 
him, and finally had joined our armies abroad 



as a volunteer, and had fallen undistinguished 
in his first battle. Tiie news of his death was 
fatal to his indulgent mother; and when she 
too died, Mrs. Allen blessed the Providence 
which, by throwing in her way a recommen- 
dation to Lady Lacy's school, had enabled her 
to sup})ort the dear object of her mistress's 
love and prayers. " Had Miss Mowbray 
no connections?" was the natural question. 
" Yes ; one very near, — an aunt, the sister of 
her father, richly married in India. But Sir 
William was a proud and a stern man, upright 
in his own conduct, and implacable to error. 
Lady Ely was a sweet, gentle creature, and 
doubtless would be glad to extend a mother's 
protection to the orphan ; but Sir William — 
Oh ! he was so unrelenting! He had abjured 
Mr. Mowbray, and all connected with him. 
She had written to inform them where the 
dear child was, but had no expectation of any 
answer from India." 

Time verified this prediction. The only 
tidings from India, at all interesting to Jane 
Mowbray, were contained in the paragraph of 
a newspaper which announced lady Ely's 
death, and put an end to all hopes of protec- 
tion in that quarter. Years passed on, and 
found her still with Mrs. Allen at Lady Lacy's 
Green, more and more beloved and respected 
from day to day. She had now attained 
almost to womanhood. Strangers, I believe, 
called her plain; we, who knew her, thought 
her pretty. Her figure was tall and straight 
as a cypress, pliant and flexible as a willow, 
full of gentle grace, whether in repose or in 
motion. She had a profusion of light brown 
hair, a pale complexion, dark grey eyes, a 
smile of which the character was rather sweet 
than gay, and such a countenance ! no one 
could look at her without wishing her well, 
or without being sure that she deserved all 
good wishes. Her manners were modest and 
elegant, and she had much of the self-taught 
knowledge, which is, of all knowledge, the 
surest and the best, because acquired with 
most difficulty, and fixed in the memory, by 
the repetition of effort. Every one had as- 
sisted her to the extent of his jjower, and of 
her willingness to accept assistance; for both 
she and Mrs. Allen had a j)ride — call it inde- 
pendence — which rendered it impossible, even 
to the friends who were most honoured by 
their good opinion, to be as useful to them as 
they could have wished. To give Miss Mow- 
bray time for improvement had, however, 
proved a powerful emollient to the pride of 
our dear schoolmistress; and that time had 
been so well employed, that her acquirements 
were considerable ; whilst in mind and cha- 
racter she was truly admirable; mild, grate- 
ful, and affectionate, and inil)ued with a deep 
religious feeling, which intluenced every ac- 
tion and pervaded every thouoht. So gifted, 
she was deemed by her constant friends, the 
vicar and his lady, perfectly competent to the j 



r 



FANNY'S FAIRINGS. 



181 



care and education of children ; it was agreed 
that she should enter a neighhouring family, 
as a successor to their then governess, early 
in the ensuing spring; and she, although sad 
at the prospect of leaving her aged protectress, 
acquiesced in their decision. 

One fine Sunday in the October preceding 
this dreaded separation, as Miss Mowbray, 
with Mrs, Allen leaning on her arm, was 
slowly following the little train of Lady Lacy's 
scholars from church, an elderly gentleman, 
sickly-looking and emaciated, accosted a pretty 
yonng woman, who was loitering with some 
other girls at the church-yard gate, and asked 
her several questions res})ecting the school 
and its mistress, Susan Wheeler (for it hap- 
pened to be our old acquaintance) was de- 
lighted to be singled out by so grand a gen- 
tleman, and being a kind-hearted creature in 
the main, spoke of the school-house and its 
inhabitants exactly as they deserved, " Mrs. 
Allen," she said, " was the best woman in the 
world — the very best, except just Miss Mow- 
bray, who was better still, — only too particu- 
lar about summing, which you know, sir," 
added Susan, " people can't learn if they can't. 
She is going to be a governess in the spring," 
continued the loquacious damsel; "and it's 
to be hoped the little ladies will take kindly 
to their tables, or it will be a sad grievance to 
Miss Jane." — "A governess! Where can I 
make inquiries concerning Miss Mowbray ]" 
— " At the vicarage, sir," answered Susan, 
dropping her little curtsy, and turning away, 
well pleased with the gentleman's condescen- 
sion, and with halt-a-crown which he had 
given her in return for her intelligence. The 
stranger, meanwhile, walked straight to the 
vicarage; and in less than half an hour the 
vicar repaired with him to Lady Lacy's Green. 

This stranger, so drooping, so sickly, so 
emaciated, was the proud Indian uncle, the 
stern Sir William Ely! Sickness and death 
had been busy with him and his. He had 
lost his health, his wife, and his children; 
and, softened by affliction, was returned to 
England a new man, anxious to forgive and to 
be forgiven, and, above all, desirous to repair 
his neglect and injustice towards the only re- 
maining relative of the wife whom he had so 
fondly loved and so tenderly lamented. In 
this frame of mind, such a niece as Jane 
Mowbray was welcomed with no common 
joy. His delight in her, and his gratitude 
towards lier protectress, were unbounded. He 
wished them both to accompany him home, 
and reside with him constantly, Jane pro- 
mised to do so; but Mrs, Allen, with her 
usual admirable feeling of propriety, clung to 
the spot which had been to her a "city of 
refuge," and refused to leave it in spite of all 
the entreaties of uncle and of niece. It was a 
happy decision for Aberleigh ; for what could 
Alierlcigh have done without its good school- 
mistress? 



She lives there still, its ornament and its 
pride; and every year Jane Mowbray comes 
for a long visit, and makes a holiday in the 
school and in the whole place. Jane Mow- 
bray, did I say'? No! not Jane Mowbray 
now. She has changed that dear name for 
the only name that could be dearer : — she is 
married — married to the eldest son of Mr, 
Lacy, the lineal representative of Dame Elea- 
nor Lacy, the honoured foundress of the 
school. It .was in a voice tremulous more 
from feeling than from age, that Mrs. Allen 
welcomed the young heir, when he brought 
his fair bride to Aberleigh ; and it was with 
a yet stronger and deeper emotion that the 
bridegroom, with his own .lane in his hand, 
visited the asylum which she and her venera- 
ble guardian owed to the benevolence and the 
piety of his ancestress, whose good deeds had 
thus showered down blessings on her remote 
posterity. 



FANNY'S FAIRINGS. 

A HAPPY boy was Thomas Stokes, the black- 
smith's son, of Upton Lea, last May morning: 

he was to go to B fair, with his eldest 

brother William, and his cousin Fanny; and 
he never closed his eyes all night for thinking 
of the pleasure he should enjoy on the mor- 
row. Thomas, for shortness called "Torn," 
was a lively, merry boy of nine years old, 
rising ten, as the horse-dealers say, and had 
never been at a fair in his life ; so that his 
sleeplessness as well as t!ie frequent solilo- 
quies of triumphant ho! ho! (his usual ex- 
clamation when highly pleased,) and the per- 
petual course of broad smiles in which his 
delight had been vented for a week before, 
were nothing remarkable. His companions 
were as wakeful and happj^as himself. Now 
that might be accounted for in his cousin's 
case, since it was also her first fair ; for Fan- 
ny, a pretty dark-eyed lass of eighteen, was a 
Londoner, and, till she arrived that winter on 
a visit to her aunt, had never been out of the 
sound of bow-bell ; but why William, a young 
blacksmith of one-and-twenty, to whom fairs 
were almost as familiar as horse-shoes, why 
he should lose his sleep on the occasion is 
less easy to discover— perhaps from sympa- 
th)'. Through Tom's impatience the jiarty 
were early astir; indeed, he had roused the 
whole house long before daybreak ; and be- 
times in the forenoon they set forth on their 
progress; — Tom in a state of spirits that 
caused him to say. Ho! ho! every minute, 
and much endangered the new hat that he was 
tossing in the air ; William and Fanny, with 
a more concentrated and far quieter joy. One 
should not see a finer young couple : he, deck- 
ed in his Sunday attire, tall, sturdy, and mus- 



16 



182 



OUR VILLAGE 



cular, with a fine open countenance, and an 
air of rustic galhintry that became him well ; 
she, pretty and niddeBt, with a look of gentil- 
ity about her plain dark gown and cottasje 
bonnet, and the little straw basket that she 
carried in her hand, which even more than her 
ignorance of tree and bird, and leaf and flower, 
proclaimed her town breeding; — although that 
ignorance was such, that Tom declared that 
on her first arrival at Upton Lea, she did not 
know an oak from an elm, or a sparrow from 
a blackbird. Tom himself had yet to learn 
poor Fanny's excuses, how much oaks and 
elms resemble each other in the London air, 
and how very closely in colour, though not in 
size, a city sparrow approaches to a blackbird. 

Their way led through pleasant footpaths ; 
every bank covered with cowslips and blue- 
bells, and overhung with the budding haw- 
thorn, and the tasselled hazel ; now between 
orchards, whose trees, one flush of blossom, 
rose from amidst beds of daflfodils, with their 
dark weaving spear-like leaves and golden 
flowers ; now along fields, newly sown with 
barley, where the doves and wood-pigeons, 
pretty innocent thieves, were casting a glanc- 
ing shadow on the ground as they flew from 
furrow to furrow, ])icking up the freshly plant- 
ed grain ; and now between close lanes peo- 
pled with nightingales ; until at last they 
emerged into the gaj'' high road, where their 
little party fell into the flood of people pour- 
ing on to the fair, much after the manner in 
which a tributary brooklet is lost in the wa- 
ters of some mighty stream. 

A mingled stream in good sooth it was, a 
most motley procession ! Country folks in 
all varieties, from the pink-ribboned maiden, 
the belle of her parish, tripping along so mer- 
rily, to the sober and demure village matron, 
who walked beside her with a slow lagging 
pace, as if tired already ; from the gny Lo- 
thario of the hamlet, with his clean smock- 
frock, and his hat on one side, who strutted 
along, ogling the lass in the pink ribbons, to 
the " grave and reverend seignor," the pa- 
triarch of the peasantry, with his straight 
white hair, and his well-preserved wedding- 
suit, who hobbled stoopingly on, charged with 
two great-grandchildren — a sprightly girl of 
six lugging him forward, a lumpish boy of 
three dragging him back. Children were 
there of all conditions, from "mamma's dar- 
lings," in the coronet carriage — the little lords 
and ladies, to whom a fair was, as yet, only a 
"word of power," down to the brown gipsy 
urchins strapped on their mother's back, to 
whom it was a familiar sight — no end to the 
children ! no end to the grown people ! no end 
to the 7ehicles I Carts crammed as full as 
they could be stowed, gigs with one, two, 
three, and four inside passengers; wagons la- 
den with men instead of corn; droves of pigs; 
flocks of sheep; herds of cattle; strings of 
horses; with their several drovers and drivers 



of all kinds and countries — English, Irish, 
Welsh, and Scotch — all bound for the fair. — 
Here an Italian boy with his tray of images ; 
there a Savoyard with her hurdy-gurdy; and, 
lastly, struggling through the midst of the 
throng, that painful minister of pleasure, an 
itinerant showman, with his box of puppets 
and his tawdry wife, pushing and toiling, and 
straining every nerve for fear of being too 
late. No end to the people ! no end to the 
din ! The turnpike-man opened his gate and 
shut his ears in despairing resignation. Never 
was known so full a May-fair. 

And amongst the thousands assembled in 

the market-place at B it would have been 

difficult to find a happier group than our young 
cousins. Tom, to be sure, had been conscious 
of a little neglect on the part of his compa- 
nions. The lectures on ornithology, with 
which, chemin faisant, he had thought fit to 
favour Fanny (children do dearly love to teach 
grown people, and all country boys are learned 
in birds,) had been rather thrown away on 
that fair damsel. William and she had walked 
arm-in-arm ; and when he tried to join them 
on one side, he found himself cast off, — and 
when on the other, let go. Poor Tom was, 
evidently, de-trop in the party. However, he 
bore the affront like a philosopher, and soon 
forgot his grievances in the solid luxuries of 
tarts and gingerbread ; in the pleasant business 
of purchasing and receiving petty presents; 
in the chatter, the bustle, and the merriment 
of the fair. Amidst all his delight, however, 
he could not but feel a little curiosity, when 
William having lured him to a stall, and fixed 
him there in the interesting occupation of se- 
lecting a cricket-ball, persuaded Fanny to go 
under his escort to make some private pur- 
chases at the neighbouring shops. Tom's 
attention to his own important bargain was 
sadly distracted by watching his companions 
as they proceeded from the linen-drapers to 
the jewellers, and from the jewellers to the 
pastry-cooks ; looking, the whilst, the one 
proud and happy, the other shy and ashamed. 
Tom could not tell what to make of it, and 
chose, in his perplexity, the very worst ball 
that was offered to him; but as he had seen 
their several parcels snugly deposited in the 
straw basket, he summoned courage to ask, 
point blank, what it contained ; at which ques- 
tion, Fanny blushed, and William laughed ; 
and on a repetition of the inquiry answered, 
with an arch smile — "Fanny's fairings." 
Now as Fanny had before purchased toys, and 
cakes, and such like trifles, for the whole 
family, this reply and the air with which it 
was delivered, served rather to stimulate than 
to repress the vague suspicions that were float- 
ing in the hoy's brain. A crowd, however, 
is no place for impertinent curiosity. Lone- 
liness and ennui are necessary to the growth 
of that weed. If there had been a fair in 
Bluebeard's castle, his wives would havo 



THE CHALK-PIT. 



183 



kept their heads on their shoulders ; the blue 

chamber and the diamond key would have THE CHALK-PIT. 

tempted in vain. So Tom betook himself to 

the enjoyment of the scene before him, apply- One of the most admirable persons whom I 
ing himsplf the more earnestly to the business ' have ever known, is my friend Mrs. Mansfield, ] 
of^'pleasnre, as they were to return to Upton the wife of the good vicar of Aberleigh. Her , 
Lea at four o'clock. daughters are just what might be expected j 

Four o'clock arrived, and found our hero, | from girls trained under such a mother. Of | 
Thomas Stokes, still untired of stuffing and j Clary, the youngest, I have spoken elsewhere. [ 
staring. He had eaten more cakes, oranges, | Ellen, the elder sister, is as delightful a piece ' 
and gingerbread, than the gentlest reader would I of sunshine and gaiety as ever gladdened a 
deem credible ; and he had seen well nigh all country home. One never thinks whether she 
the sights of the fair;— the tall man, and the ' is pretty, there is such a play of feature, such 
short woman, and the calf with two heads; a lijxht in her dark eye, such an alternation of 

blush and smile on her animated countenance; 
for Ellen has her mother's trick of blushing, 
although her "eloquent blood" speaks through 
the medium of a richer and browner skin. 
One forgets to make up one's mind as to her 
prettiness; but it is quite certain that she is 
charming. 

She has, in the very highest degree, those 
invaluable every-day spirits which require no 
artificial stimuli, no public amusements, no 
company, no flattery, no praise. Her spright- 
liness is altogether domestic. Her own dear 
family, and a few dear friends, are all the lis- 
teners she ever thinks of. No one doubts but 
Ellen might be a wit, if she would : she is 
saved from that dangerous distinction as much 



had attended the in-door horsemanship and 
the out-door play ; the dancing dogs and two 
raree-shows ; and lastly, had visited and ad- 
mired the wonders of the menagerie, scraped 
acquaintance with a whole legion of parrots 
and monkeys, poked up a boa-constrictor, 
patted a lioness, and had the honour of pre- 
senting his blunderbuss to the elephant, al- 
though he was not much inclined to boast of 
this exploit, having been so frightened at his 
own temerity, as to run away out of the booth 
before the sagacious but deliberate quadruped 
had found lime to fire. 

Not a whit tired was Tom. He could 
have wished the fair to last a week. Never- 
theless, he obeyed his brother's summons ; 



and the little party set out on their return, the , by natural modesty as by a kind and constant 
two elder ones again linked arm-in-arm, and | consideration for the feelings of others. I have 
apparently forgetting that the world contained often seen a repartee flashing and laughing in 



any human being except their own two selves 
Poor Tom trudged after, beginning to feel, in 
the absence of otber excitement, a severe 
relapse of his undefined curiosity, respecting 
Fanny's fairings. On tripped William and 
Fanny, and after trudged Tom, until a string 
of unruly horses passing rapidly by, threw 
the whole group into confusion : no one was 
hurt; but the pretty Londoner was so much 
alarmed as to afford her companion ample 
employment in placing her on a bank, sooth- 
ing her fears, and railing at the misconduct of 
the horse-people. As the cavalcade disap- 
peared, the fair damsel recovered her spirits, 
and began to inquire for her basket, which 
she had dropped in her terror, and for Tom, 
who was also missing. They were not far to 
seek. Perched in the opposite hedge sat 
master Tom, in the very act of satisfying his 
curiosity by examining her basket, smiling 
and ho! ho !-inff with all his miabt. Parcel 



her bright eyes, but seldom, very seldom, 
heard it escape her lips; never unless quite 
equally matched and challenged to such a bout 
of " bated foils" by some admirer of her play- 
ful conversation. They who have themselves 
that splendid but delusive talent, can best es- 
timate the merit of such forbearance. Go- 
verned as it is in her, it makes the delight of 
the house, and supplies perpetual amusement 
to herself and to all about her. 

Another of her delightful and delighting 
amusements, is her remarkable skill in draw- 
ino- flowers. I have never seen any portraits 
so'exactly resembling the originals, as her car- 
nations and geraniums. If they could see 
themselves in her paintings, they might think 
that it was their own pretty selves in their 
looking-glass, the water. One reason for this 
wonderful verisimilitude is, that our fair artist 
never flatters the flowers that sit to her; never 
puts leaves that ought to be there, but are not 



after parcel did he extract and unfold :— first \ there, never makes them hold up their heads 



a roll of white satin ribbon — " ho! ho!" — 
then a pair of white cambric gloves — " ho ! 
ho!" again; — then a rich-looking, dark-co- 
loured, small plum-cake, nicely frosted with 
white sugar, — " bo ! ho ! Miss Fanny !" — last 
of all a plain gold ring wrapped in three 
papers, silver, white, and brov\'n, — "ho, ho! 
once more shouted the boy, twirling the wed- 
ding-ring on his own red finger, the fourth of 
the left hand, — "so these are Fanny's fair- 
ings! Ho! ho! — ho! ho!" 



unreasonably, or places them in an attitude, or 
forces them into a group. Just as they are, 
she sets them down ; and if she does make 
any slight deviation from her models, she is 
so well acquainted with their person* and 
habits, that all is in keeping; you feel that so 
the plant might have looked. By the way, I 
do not know any accomplishment that I would 
more earnestly recommend to my young friends 
than this of flower-painting. It is a most quiet, 
unpretending, womanly employment ; a great 



184 



OUR VILLAGE, 



amusempnt within doors, and a constant plea- 
sure without. The enjoyment of a country 
I walk is much enhanced when the checkered 
I fritillary or the tinted wood anemone are to he 
souQ[ht, and found, and gfathered, and made our 
own ; and the dear domestic spots haunted by 

" Rptirer) leisure. 
Who in trim gardens takes his pleasure," 

are doubly tjardens when the dahlias and china- 
asters, after flourishinor there for their little day, 
are to re-blossom on paper. Then it supplies 
such pretty keepsakes, the uncostly remem- 
brances which are so pleasant to frive and to 
take; and, above all, it fosters and sharpens 
the habit of observation and the love of truth. 
How much of what is excellent in art, in lite- 
rature, in conversation, and in conduct, is com- 
prised in that little word ! 

Ellen had great delight in comparing our 
S}dvan Flora with the minute and fairy blos- 
soms of the South Downs, where she had 
passed the greater part of her life. She could 
not but admit the superior luxuriance and va- 
riety of our woodland plants, and yet she had 
a good deal to say in favour of the delicate, 
flowery carpet, which clothes the green hills 
of Sussex ; and in fact was on that point of 
honour a little jealous — a little, a very little, 
the least in the world, touchy. She loved her 
former abode, the abode of childhood, with 
enthusiasm ; the downs ; the sea, whose sound 
as she said seemed to follow her to her inland 
home, to dwell within her as it does in the 
folds of the sea-shell ; and, above all, she 
loved her old neighbours, blob and low. I do 
not know whether Mrs. Mansfield or her 
daughters returned oftenest to the " simple 
annals of the Sussex poor." It was a subject 
of which they never wearied ; and we to 
whom they came, liked them the more for their 
clinging and lingering affection for those whom 
they had left. We received it as a pledge of 
what they would feel for us when we became 
better acquainted, — a pledge which has been 
amply redeemed. I flatter myself that Aber- 
leigb now almost rivals their dear old parish ; 
only that Clara, who has been here three years, 
and is now eighteen, says, very gravely, that 
" people as they grow old, cannot be expected 
to form the very strong local attachments which 
they did when they were young." I wonder 
how old Clara will think herself when she 
comes to be eight-and-twenty 1 

Between Ellen's stories and her mother's 
there is usually a characteristic difference; 
those of the one being merry, those of the 
other grave. One occurrence, however, was 
equally impressed on the mind of either. I 
shall Uy to tell it as shortly and simply as it 
was told to me ; but it will want the charm of 
Mrs. Mansfield's touching voice, and of 
Ellen's glistening eyes. 

Toward the bottom of one of the green hills 
of the parish of Lanton, was a large deserted 



chalk-pit; a solemn and ghastly-looking place, 
blackened in one part by an old lime-kiln, 
whose ruinous fragments still remained, and 
in others mossy and weather-stained, and tinted 
with every variety of colour — green, yellow, 
and brown. The excavation extended far 
within the sides of the hill, and the edges 
were fringed by briar and bramble and ivy, 
contrasting strongly with the smooth, level 
verdure of the turf above, whilst plants of a 
ranker growth, nettles, docks, and fumatory, 
Sfirang up beneath, adding to the wildness and 
desolation of the scene. The road that led by 
the pit was little frequented. The place had 
an evil name ; none cared to pass it even in 
the glare of the noon-day sun ; and the vil- 
lagers would rather go a mile about than catch 
a glimpse of it when the pale moonlight 
brought into full relief those cavernous white 
walls, and the dark briars and ivy waved fit- 
fully in the night wind. It was a vague and 
shuddering feeling. None knew why he 
feared, or what; but the awe and the avoidance 
were general, and the owls and the bats re- 
mained in undisturbed possession of Lanton 
chalk-pit. 

One October day, the lively work of plough- 
ing, and wheat-sowing, and harrowing, was 
going on all at once in a great field just beyond 
the dreaded spot: a pretty and an interesting 
scene, especially on sloping ground, and under 
a gleaming sun throwing an ever-shifting play 
of light and shadow over the landscape. To- 
wards noon, however, the clouds began to ga- 
ther, and one of the tremendous pelting show- 
ers, peculiar to the coast, came suddenly on. 
Seedsmen, ploughmen, and carters, hastened 
home with their team, leaving the boys to fol- 
low; and they, five in number, set out at their 
fullest speed. The storm increased apace; 
and it was evident that their thin jackets and 
old smock-frocks would be drenched through 
and through long before they could reach Lan- 
ton Great Farin. In this dilemma, .Tames 
Goddard, a stout lad of fifteen, the biggest and 
boldest of the party, proposed to take shelter 
in the chalk-pit. Boys are naturally thought- 
less and fearless; the real inconvenience was 
more than enough to counterbalance the ima- 
ginary danger, and they all willingly adopted 
the plan, except one timid child, eight years 
old, who shrunk and hung back. 

Harry Lee was a widow's son. His father, 
a fisherman, had perished at sea, a few months 
after the birth of thjs only child ; and his mo- 
ther, a fond and delicate woman, had reared 
him delicately and fondly, beyond her apparent 
means. Night and day had she laboured for 
her poor Harry ; and nothing but a long illness 
and the known kindness of the farmer in whose 
service he was placed, had induced her to part 
with him at so early an age. 

Harry was, indeed, a sweet and gracious 
boy, noticed by every stranger fur his gentle- 
ness and beauty. He had a fair, blooming. 



WHITSUN-EVE, 



185 



open countenance, large, mild, blue eyes, 
which seemed lo asiv kindness in every glance ; 
and a quantity of shining, light liair, curling 
in ringlets round his neck. He was the best 
reader in Mrs. Mansfield's Sunday-school ; and 
only the day before, Miss Clara had given him 
a dinner to carry home to his motiier, in reward 
of his proficiency: indeed, although they tried 
to conceal it, Harry was the decided favourite 
of both the young ladies. James Goddard, 
under whom he worked, and to whose care he 
had been tearfully committed by the widow 
Lee, was equally fond of him, in a rougher 
■way; and in the present instance, seeing the 
delicate boy shivering between cold and fear 
at the outside of the pit, (for the same consti- 
tutional timidity which prevented his entering, 
hindered him from going home by himself,) 
he caught him up in his arms, brought him in, 
and deposited him in the snuggest recess, on 
a heap of dry chalk, " Well, Harry, is not 
this better than standing in the wet]" said lie 
kindly, sitting down by his protege, and 
sharing with him a huge luncheon of bread 
and cheese; and the poor child smiled in his 
face, thanked him, and kissed him as he had 
been used to kiss his mother. 

Half an hour had passed away in boyish 
talk, and still the storm continued. At last 
James Goddard thought that he heard a strange 
and unaccustomed sound, as of bursting or 
cracking — an awful and indescribal)le sound — 
low, and yet distinctly audible, although the 
wind and rain were raging, and the boys loud 
in mirth and laughter. He seemed to feel the 
sound, as he said afterwards; and was just 
about to question his companions if- they too 
heard that unearthly noise ; when a horseman 
passed along the road, making signs to them 
and shouting. His words were drowned in 
the tempest; James rushed out to inquire his 
meaning, and in that moment the side of the 
chalk-pit fell in! He heard a crash and a 
scream — the death scream! — felt his back 
grazed by the descending mass; and turning 
round, saw the hill rent, as by an eartliquake, 
and the excavation which had sheltered them, 
filled, piled, heaped up, by the still quivering 
and gigantic fragments — no vestige left to tell 
where it was, or where his wretched compan- 
ions lay buried ! 

" Harry ! Harry ! the child ! the child !V 
was his first thought and his first exclamation ; 
" Help ! instant help !" was the next, and, 
assisted by the' stranger horseman, whose 
speed had been stayed by the awful catas- 
trophe, the village of Lanton was quickly 
alarmed, and its inhabitants assembled on the 
spot. Who may describe that scene ■? Fathers, 
brothers, kinsmen, friends, digging literally 
for life ! every nerve quivering with exertion, 
and yet all exertion felt to be unavailing. Mo- 
thers and sisters looking on in agony; and the 
poor widow Lee, and poor, poor, James God- 
dard, the self-accuser ! A thousand and a 

16* Y ~~ 



thousand times did he crave pardon of that 
distracted mother, for the peril — the death of 
her son ; for James felt that there could be no 
hope for the helpless child, and tears, such as 
no personal calamity could have drawn from 
the strong-hearted lad, fell fast for his fate. 
Hour after hour the men of Lanton laboured, 
and all was in vain. The mass seemed im- 
penetrable, inexhaustible. Toward sunset one 
boy appeared, crushed and dead ; another, who 
showed some slight signs of life, and who 
still lives, a cripple; a third dead ; and then, 
last of all, Harry Lee. Alas ! only by his 
raiment could that fond mother know her 
child ! His death must have been instanta- 
neous. She did not linger long. The three 
boys were interred together in Lanton church- 
yard on the succeeding Sabbath ; and before 
the end of the year, the widow Lee was laid 
by her son. 



WHITSUN-EVE. 

The pride of my heart and the delight of 
my eyes is my garden. Our house, which is 
in dimensions very much like a bird-cage, and 
might, with almost equal convenience, be laid 
on a shelf, or hung up in a tree, would be 
utterly unbearable in warm weather, were it 
not that we have a retreat out of doors, — and 
a very pleasant retreat it is. To make my 
readers fully comprehend it, I must describe 
our whole territories. 

Fancy a small plot of ground, with a pretty 
low irregular cottage at one end ; a large gran- 
ary, divided from the dwelling by a little court 
running along one side; and a long thatched 
shed open towards the garden, and supported 
by wooden pillars on the other. The bottom 
is bounded, half by an old wall, and half by 
an old paling, over which we see a pretty dis- 
tance of woody hills. The house, granary, 
wall and paling, are covered with vines, cherry- 
trees, roses, honeysuckles, and jessamines, 
with great clusters of tall hollyhocks running 
up between them ; a large elder overhanging 
the little gate, and a magnificent bay-tree, such 
a tree as shall scarcely be matched in these 
parts, breaking with its beautiful conical form 
the horizontal lines of the buildings. This is 
my garden; and the long pillared shed, the 
sort of rustic arcade which runs along one side, 
parted from the flower-beds by a row of rich 
geraniums, is our out-of-door drawing-room. 

I know nothing so pleasant as to sit there 
on a summer afternoon, with the westerp sun 
flickering through the great elder-tree, and 
lighting up our gay parterres, where flowers 
and flowering shrubs are set as thick as grass 
in a field, a wilderness of blossom, inter- 
woven, intertwined, wreathy, garlandy, pro- 
fuse beyond all profusion^ where we may guess 



186 



OUR VILLAGE, 



that there is such a thing as mould, but never 
see it. I know nothing- so pleasant as to sit 
in the shade of that dark bower, with the eye 
restinor on that bricrht piece of colour, lighted 
so gloriously by the evening sun, now catch- 
ing a glimpse of the little birds as they fly 
rapidly in and out of their nests — for there 
are always two or three birds'-nests in the 
thick tapestry of cherry-trees, honeysuckles, 
and China-roses, which cover our walls — now 
tracing the gay gambols of the common but- 
terflies as they sport around the dahlias; now 
watching that rarer moth, which the country 
people, fertile in pretty names, call the bee- 
bird ;* that bird-like insect, which flutters in 
the hottest days over the sweetest flov.'ers, 
inserting its long proboscis into the small 
tube of the jessamine, and hovering over the 
scarlet blossoms of the geranium, whose 
bright colour seems reflected on its own fea- 
thery breast ; that insect which seems so 
thoroughly a creature of the air, never at rest ; 
always, even when feeding, self-poised, and 
self-supported, and whose wings, in their 
ceaseless motion, have a sound so deep, so 
full, so lulling, so musical. Nothing so 
pleasant as to sit amid that mixture of the 
flower and the leaf, watching the bee-bird I 
Nothing so pretty to look at as my garden ! 
It is quite a picture ; only unluckily it resem- 
bles a picture in more qualities than one, — it 
is fit for nothing but to look at. One might 
as well think of walking in a bit of framed 
canvass. There are walks to be sure — tiny 
paths of smooth gravel, by courtesy called 
such — but they are so overhung by roses and 
lilies, and such gay encroachers — so overrun 
by convolvulus, and heart's-ease, and migni- 
onette, and other sweet stragglers, that, ex- 
cept to edge through them occasionally, for 
the purposes of planting, or weeding, or wa- 
tering, there might as well be no paths at all. 
Nobody thinks of walking in my garden. 
Even May glides along with a delicate and 
trackless step, like a swan through the water ; 
and we, its two-footed denizens, are fain to 
treat it as if it were really a saloon, and go 
out for a walk towards sun-set, just as if we 
had not been sitting in tlie open air all day. 

What a contrast from the quiet garden to 
the lively street ! Saturday night is always a 
time of stir and bufjtle in our Village, and 
this is Whitsun-Eve, the pleasantest Saturday 
of all the year, when London journeymen 
and servant lads and lasses snatch a short 
holiday to visit their families. A short and 
precious holiday, the happiest and liveliest 
of any ; for even tlie gambols and merry- 
makings of Christmas otfer but a poor enjoy- 
ment, compared with the rural diversions, the 
Mayings, revels, and cricket-matches of Whit- 
suntide. 

We ourselves are to have a cricket-match 



' Sphynx ligustri, privet hawk-moth. 



on Monday, not played by the men, who, 
since a certain misadventure with the Beech- ' 
hillers, are, I am sorry to say, rather chap- 
fallen, but by the boys, who, zealous for the 
honour of their parish, and headed by their 
bold leader, Ben Kirby, marched in a body to 
our antagonists' ground the Sunday after our 
melancholy defeat, challenged the boys of 
that proud hamlet, and beat them out and ont 
on the spot. Never was a more signal vic- 
tory. Our boys enjoyed this triumph with so 
little moderation that it had like to have pro- 
duced a very tragical catastrophe. The cap- 
tain of the Beech-hill youngsters, a capital 
bowler, by name Amos Stone, enraged past 
all bearing by the crowing of his adversaries, 
flung the ball at Ben Kirby with so true an 
aim, that if that sagacious leader had not 
warily ducked his head when he saw it com- 
ing, there would probably have been a coro- 
ner's inquest on the case, and Amos Stone 
would have been tried for manslaughter. He 
let fly with such vengeance, that the cricket- 
ball was found embedded in a bank of clay 
one hundred yards off, as if it had been a 
cannot-shot. Tom Coper and Farmer Thack- 
um, the umpires, both say that they never 
saw so tremendous a ball. If Amos vStone 
live to be a man, (I mean to say if he be not 
hanged first,) he'll be a pretty player. He 
is coming here on Monday with his party to 
play the return match, the umpires iiaving re- 
spectively engaged Farmer Thackum that 
Amos shall keep the peace, Tom Coper that 
Ben shall give no unnecessary or wanton pro- 
vocation — a nicely-worded and lawyer-like 
clause, and one that proves that Tom Coper 
hath his doubts of the young gentleman's 
discretion ; and, of a truth, so have I. I 
would not be Ben Kirby's surety, cautiously 
as the security is worded, — no! not for a 
white double dahlia, the present object of my 
amtiition. 

This village of ours is swarming to-night 
like a hive of bees, and all the church-bells 
round are pouring out their merriest peals, as 
if to call them together. I must try to give 
some notion of the various figures. 

First there is a group suited to Teniers, a 
cluster of out-of-door customers of the Rose, 
old benchers of the inn, who sit round a table 
smoking and drinking in high solemnity to 
the sound of Timothy's fiddle. Next, a mass 
of eager boys, the combatants of Monday, 
who are surrounding the shoemaker's shop, 
where an invisible hole in their ball is mended 
by Mast(;r Keep himself, under the joint su- 
perintendence of Ben Kirby and Tom Coper. 
Ben showing much verbal respect and out- 
ward deference for his umpire's judgment 
and experience, but managing to get the ball 
done his own way after all ; whilst outside 
the shop, the rest of the eleven, the less- 
trusted commons, are shouting and bawling 
round Joel Brent, who is twisting the waxed 



JESSY LUCAS. 



187 



twine round the handles of the bats — the poor 
bats, which please nobody, which the taller 
youths are despising as too little and too light, 
and the smaller are abusing as too heavy 
and too large. Happy critics I winning their 
match can hardly be a greater delight — even 
if to win it tliey be doomed ! Farther down 
the street is the pretty black-eyed girl, Sally 
Wheeler, come home for a holiday from B., 
escorted by a tall footman in a dashing livery, 
whom she is trying to curtsy off before her 
deaf grandmother sees him. I wonder whe- 
ther she will succeed ! 

Ascending the hill are two couples of a dif- 
ferent description. Daniel Tubb and his fair 
Valentine, walking boldly along like licensed 
lovers ; they have been asked twice in church, 
and are to be married on Tuesday ; and closely 
following that happy pair, near each other, 
but not together, come Jem Tanner and Mabel 
Green, the poor culprits of the wheat-hoeing. 
Ah I the little clerk hath not relented ! The 
course of true-love doth not yet run smooth 
in that quarter. Jem dodges along, whistling 
" cherry-ripe," pretending to walk by himself, 
and to be thinking of nobody; but every now 
and then he pauses in his negligent saunter, 
and turns round outright to steal a glance at 
Mabel, who, on her part, is making believe to 
walk with poor Olive Hathaway, the lame 
mantna-maker, and even affecting to talk and 
to listen to that gentle, humble creature, as 
she points to the wild flowers on the common, 
and the laml)s and children disporting amongst 
the gorse, but whose thoughts and eyes are 
evidently fixed on Jem Tanner, as she meets 
his backward glance with a blushing smile, 
and half springs forward to meet him ; whilst 
Olive has broken off the conversation as soon 
as she perceived the pre-occupation of her 
companion, and begun humming, perhaps 
unconsciously, two or three lines of Burns, 
whose " Whistle and I '11 come to thee, my 
love," and " Gi'e me a glance of thy bonnie 
black ee," were never better exemplified than 
in the couple before her. Really it is curious 
to watch them, and to see how gradually the 
attraction of this tantalizing vicinity becomes 
irresistible, and the rustic lover rushes to his 
preity mistress like the needle to the magnet. 
On they go, trusting to the deepening twilight, 
to the little clerk's absence, to the good-humour 
of the happy lads and lasses, who are passing 
and repassing on all sides — or rather, perhaps, 
in a happy oblivion of the cross uncle, the 
kind villagers, the squinting lover, and the 
whole world. On they trip, linked arm-in- 
arm, he trying to catch a glimpse of her glow- 
ing face under her bonnet, and she hanging 
down her head and avoiding his gaze with a 
mixture of modesty and coquetry, which well 
becomes the rural beauty. On they go, with 
a reality and intensity of affection, which 
must overcome all obstacles ; and poor Olive 
follows with an evident sympathy in their 



happiness, which makes her almost as envia- 
ble as they ; and we pursue our walk amidst 
the moonshine and the nightingales, with Jacob 
Frost's cart looming in the distance, and the 
merry sounds of Whitsun-tide, the shout, the 
laugh, and the song echoing all around us, 
like " noises of the air." 



JESSY LUCAS. 

About the centre of a deep, winding, and 
woody lane, in our neighbouring village of 
Aberleigh, stands an old farm-house, whose 
stables, out-buildings, and ample barn-yard, 
have a peculiarly forlorn and deserted appear- 
ance; they can, in fact, scarcely be said to 
be occupied ; the person who rents the land, 
preferring to live at a large farm about a mile 
distant, leaving this lonely house to the care 
of a labourer and his wife, who reside in one 
end, and have the charge of a few colts and 
heifers, that run in the orchard and an adjoin- 
ing meadow; while the vacant rooms are 
tenanted by a widow in humble circumstances, 
and her young family. 

The house is beautifully situated ; deep, 
as I have said, in a narrow woody lane, which 
winds between high banks, now feathered 
with hazel, now studded with pollards and 
forest trees ; until opposite Kibe's farm, it 
widens sufficiently to admit a large clear pond, 
round which the hedge, closely and regularly 
set, with a row of tall elms, sweeps in a grace- 
ful curve, forming for that bright mirror, a rich 
leafy frame. A little way farther on, the lane 
widens, and makes an abrupt winding, as it is 
crossed by a broad shallow stream, a branch 
of the Loddon, which comes meandering along 
from a chain of beautiful meadows, then turns 
in a narrower channel, by the side of the road, 
and finally spreads itself into a large piece of 
water, almost a lakelet, amidst the rushes and 
willows of Hartley Moor. A foot-bridge is 
flung over the stream, where it crosses the lane, 
which, with a giant oak growing on the bank, 
and throwing its broad branches far on the 
opposite side, forms, in every season, a pretty 
rural picture. 

Kibe's farm is as picturesque as its situation ; 
very old, very irregular, with gable-ends, clus- 
tered chimneys, casement windows, a large 
porch, and a sort of square wing, jutting out 
even with the porch, and covered with a luxu- 
riant vine, which has quite the effect, espe- 
cially W'hen seen by moon-light, of an ivy- 
mantled tower. On one side, extend the ample, 
but disused farm-buildings, on the other, the 
old orchard, whose trees are so wild, so hoary, 
and so huge, as to convey the idea of a fruit 
forest. Behind the house is an ample kitchen 
garden, and before, a neat flower-court, the 
exclusive demesne of Mrs. Lucas and her 



188 



OUR VILLAGE. 



family, to whom indeed, the labourer, John 
Miles, and his good wife Dinah, served, in 
some sort, as domestics. 

Mrs. Lucas had known far better days ; her 
husband had been an officer, and died fiirhtinij 
bravely in one of the o-reat victories of the last 
war, leaving her with three children, one lovely 
boy, and two delicate girls, to strutygle through 
the world, as best she might. She was an 
accomplished woman, and at first settled in a 
great town, and endeavoured to improve her 
small income by teaching music and languages. 
But she was country-bred ; her children too 
had been born in the country, amidst the 
sweetest recesses of the New Forest, and 
pining herself for liberty, and solitude, and 
green fields, and fresh air, she soon began to 
fancy that her children were visibly deterior- 
ating in health and appearance, and pining for 
them also; and finding that her old servant, 
Dinah Miles, was settled with her husband in 
this deserted farm-house, she applied to his 
master, to rent, for a few months, the unten- 
anted apartments, came to Aberleigh, and fixed 
there apparently for life. 

We lived in diiferent parishes, and she de- 
clined company, so that I seldom met Mrs. 
Lucas, and had lost sight of her for some time, 
retaining merel}^ a general recollection of the 
mild, placid, elegant mother, surrounded by 
three rosy, romping, bright-eyed children, 
when the arrival of an intimate friend at Aber- 
leigh vicarage, caused me frequently to pass 
the lonely farm-house, and threw this interest- 
ing family again under my observation. 

The first time that I saw them, was on a 
bright summer evening, when the nightingale 
was yet in the coppice, the briar-rose blossom- 
ing in the hedge, and the sweet scent of the 
bean-fields perfuming the air. Mrs. Lucas, 
still lovely and elegant, though somewhat 
faded and care-worn, was walking pensively 
up and down the grass-path of the pretty 
flower-court: her eldest daughter, a rosy bright 
brunette, with her dark hair floating in all di- 
rections, was darting about like a bird : now 
tying up the pinks, now watering the gera- 
niums ; now collecting the fallen rose-leaves 
into the straw bonnet, which dangled from her 
arm ; and now feeding a brood of bantams 
from a little barley measure, which that saga- 
cious and active colony seemed to recognise as 
if by instinct, coming, long before she called 
them, at their swiftest pace, between a run 
and a fly, to await with their usual noisy and 
bustling patience, the showers of grain, which 
she flung to them across the paling. It was a 
beautiful picture of youth, and health, and 
happiness; and her clear, gay voice, and bril- 
liant smile, accorded well with her shape and 
motion, as light as a butterfly, and as wild as 
the wind. A beautiful picture was that rosy 
lass of fifteen, in her tinconscious loveliness, 
and I might have continued gazing upon her 
longer, had I not been attracted by an object 



no less charming, although in a very different 
way. 

It was a slight elegant girl, apparently about 
a year younger than the pretty romp of the 
flower-garden, not unlike her in form and 
feature, but totally distinct in colouring and 
expression. 

She sate in the old porch, wreathed with 
jessamine and honeysuckle, with the western 
sun floating round her like a glory, and dis- 
playing the singular beauty of her chestnut 
hair, brown, with a golden light, and the ex- 
ceeding delicacy of her smooth and finely- 
grained complexion, so pale, and yet so health- 
ful. Her whole face and form had a bending 
and statue-like grace, increased by the adjust- 
ment of her splendid hair, which was parted 
on her white forehead, and gathered up behind 
in a large knot, a natural coronet. Her eye- 
brows, and long eye-lashes, were a few shades 
darker than her hair, and singularly rich and 
beautiful. She was plaiting straw, rapidly, 
and skilfully, and bent over her work with a 
mild and placid attention, a sedate pensiveness 
that did not belong to her age, and which con- 
trasted strangely and sadly with the gaiety of 
her laughing and brilliant sister, who at this 
moment darted up to her with a handful of 
pinks and some groundsel. Jessy received 
them with a smile : such a smile ! spoke a 
few sweet words, in a sweet sighing voice; 
put the flowers in her bosom, and the ground- 
sel in the cage of a linnet that hung near her; 
and then resumed her seat, and her work, imi- 
tating, better than I have ever heard them imi- 
tated, the various notes of a nightingale, who 
was singing in the opposite hedge, whilst I, 
ashamed of loitering longer, passed on. 

The next time I saw her, my interest in this 
lovely creature was increased tenfold, for I 
then knew that Jessy was blind ; a misfortune 
always so touching, especially in early youth, 
and in her case rendered peculiar affecting by 
the personal character of the individual. We 
soon became acquainted, and even intimate, 
under the benign auspices of the kind mistress 
of the vicarage, and every interview served to 
increase the interest excited by the whole fam- 
ily, and most of all, by the sweet blind girl. 

Never was any human being more gentle, 
generous and grateful, or more imfeignedly 
resigned to her great calatnity ; the pensive- 
ness that marked her character arose, as I soon 
perceived, from a different source. Her blind- 
ness had been of recent occurrence, arising 
from inflammation, unskilfully treated, and 
was pronounced incurable ; but from coming 
on so lately, it admitted of several alleviations, 
of which she was accustomed to speak with a 
devout and tender gratitude. " She could 
work," she said, " as well as ever ; and cut 
out, and write, and dress herself, and keep the 
keys, and run errands in the house she knew 
so well, without making any mistake or con- 
fusion. Reading, to be sure, she had been I 



JESSY LUCAS. 



189 



forced to give up, and drawing, and some 
day or other she would show me, only that 
it seemed so vain, some verses which her 
brother William had written upon a group of 
wild flowers which she had begun before her 
misfortune. Oh ! it was almost worth while 
to be blind, to be the subject of such verse, 
and the object of such affection. Her dear 
mamma was very good to her, and so was 
Emma, but William! oh she wished that I 
knew William ! no one could be so kind as 
he ! oh it was impossible ! He read to her, 
he talked to her, he walked with her, he taught 
her to feel confidence in walking alone ; he 
had made for her the wooden steps up the 
high bank which led to Kibe's meadow. He 
had put the hand-rail on the old bridge, so 
that now she could get across without danger, 
even when the brook was flooded. He had 
tamed her linnet ; he had constructed the 
wooden frame, by the aid of which she could 
write so comfortably and evenly ; could write 
letters to him, and say her own self, all that 
she felt of love and gratitude; and that," she 
continued with a deep sigh, " was her chief 
comfort now, for William was gone, and they 
should never meet again; never alive, that 
she was sure of, she knew it." " But why, 
Jessy ?" " Oh because William was so much 
too good for this world, there vt'as nobody 
like William ! and he was gone for a soldier. 
Old General Lucas, her father's uncle, had 
sent for him abroad, had given him a com- 
mission in his regiment, and he would never 
come home, at least they should never meet 
again, of that she was sure — she knew it!" 

This persuasion was evidently the master 
grief of poor Jessy's life ; the cause, which 
far more than her blindness, faded her cheek, 
and saddened her spirit. How it had arisen, 
no one knew, partly perhaps from some lurk- 
ing superstition, some idle word, or idler omen 
which had taken root in her mind, nourished 
by the calamity which, in other respects, she 
bore so calmly,but which left her so often in 
darkness and loneliness, to brood over her 
own gloomy forebodings ; partly from her 
trembling sensibility, and partly from the 
delicacy of frame and of habit, which had 
always characterized the object of her love, 
a slender youth, whose ardent spirit was but 
too apt to overtask his body. 

However it found admittance, there the pre- 
sentiment was, banging lilio a dark cloud over 
the sun-shine of lessy's young life. Reason- 
ing was useless ; they know little of the 
passions who seek to argue with that most 
intractable of them all, the fear that is born 
of love. So Mrs. Lucas and Emma tried to 
amuse away these sad thoughts, trusting to 
time, to William's letters, and above all, to 
William's return to eradicate the evil. The 
letters came punctually and gaily ; letters 
that might have quieted the heart of any sister 
in England, except the fluttering heart of 



Jessy Lucas. William spoke of improved 
health, of increased strength, of actual pro- 
motion, and expected recall. At last he even 
announced his return, under auspices the most i 
gratifying to his mothei*, and the most bene- 
ficial to her family. The regiment was or- i 
dered home, and the old and wealthy relation, j 
under whose protection he had already risen 
so rapidly, had expressed his intention to ac- 
company him to Kibe's farm, to be introduced 
to his nephew's widow, and daughters, es- ' 
pecially Jessy, for whom he expressed him- i 
self greatly interested.# A letter from General 
Lucas himself, which arrived by the same 
post, was still more explicit; it adduced the 
son's admirable character, and exemplary 
conduct, as reasons for befriending the mother, 
and avowed his design of providing for each 
of his young relations, and of making Wil- 
liam his heir. 

For half an hour after the first hearing of 
these letters, Jessy was happy ; till the peril 
of a winter voyage, for it was deep January, 
crossed her imagination, and checked her joy. 
At length, long before they were expected, 
another letter arrived, dated Portsmouth. 
They had sailed by the next vessel to that 
which' conveyed their previous despatches, 
and might be expected hourly at Kibe's farm. 
The voyage was past, safely past, and the 
weight seemed now really taken from Jessy's 
heart. She raised her sweet face, and smiled ; 
yet still it was a fearful and trembling joy, 
and somewhat of fear was mingled even with 
the very intensity of her hope. 

It had been a time of wind and rain, and 
the Loddon, the beautiful Loddon, always so 
affluent in water, had overflowed its bounda- 
ries, and swelled the smaller streams which 
it fed into torrents. The brook which crossed 
Kibe's lane, had washed away part of the 
foot-bridge, destroying poor William's railing, 
and was still foaming and dashing, like a 
cataract. Now this was the nearest way ; 
and if William should insist on coming that 
way ! To be sure, the carriage-road was 
round by Grazeley Green, but to cross the 
road would save half a mile ; and William, 
dear William, would never think of danger, 
to get to those whom he loved. These were 
Jessy's thoughts; the fear seemed impossi- 
ble, for no postilion would think of breasting 
that roaring stream ; but the fond sister's 
heart was fluttering like a new-caught bird, 
and she feared she knew not what. 

All day she paced the little court, and stop- 
ped and listened, and listened and stopped. 
About sun-set, with the nice sense of sound, 
which seemed to come with her fearful calam- 
ity, and that fine sense quickened by anxiety, 
expectation, and love, she heard, she thought 
she heard, she was sure she heard the sound 
of a carriage rapidly advancing on the other 
side of the stream. " It is only the noise of 
the rushing waters," cried Emma. "I hear 



190 



OUR VILLAGE. 



a carriage, the horses, the wheels," replied 
Jessy ; and darted off at once, with the double 
purpose of meeting William and warning the 
posiiiion against crossing the stream. Emma 
and her mothi^r followed, fast! fast! but 
what speed could vie with Jessy's^ when the 
object was William ! They called, but she 
neither heard or answered. Before they had 
won to the bend in the lane, she had reached 
the brook, and long before either of her pur- 
suers had gained the bridge, her foot had 
slipt, from the wet and tottering plank, and 
she was borne resistlessly down the stream. 
Assistance was immediately procured ; men, 
and boats, and ropes ; for the sweet blind 
girl was beloved by all ; and many a poor 
man perilled his life, in a fruitless endeavour 
to save Jessy Lucas. And William too, was 
there, for Jessy's quickened sense had not 
deceived her. William was there, strug- 
gling with all the strength of love and agony, 
to rescue that dear and helpless creature ; 
but every effort, although he persevered, till 
he too was taken out senseless — every effort 
was vain. The fair corse was recovered, 
but life was extinct. Poor Jessy's prediction 
was verified to the letter; and the brother 
and his favourite sister never met atrain. 



A COUNTRY BARBER. 

In the little primitive town of Cranley, 
where I spent the first few years of my life — 
a town which, but for the distinction of a 
market and a post-office, might have passed 
for a moderately-sized village — the houses in 
that y^art of the great western road which 
passed through it, were so tumbled about, so 
intermixed with garden walls, garden palings, 
and garden hedges, to say nothing of stables, 
farm-yards, pigsties and barns, that it dero- 
gated nothing from the dignity of the hand- 
some and commodious dwelling in which I 
had the honour to be born, that its next-door 
neighbour was a barber's shop, a real, genu- 
ine, old-fashioned barber's shop, consisting 
of a low-browed cottage, with a pole before 
it; a basin, as bright as Mambrino's helmet, 
in the window; a half-hatch always open, 
through which was visible a little dusty hole, 
where a few wigs, on battered wooden blocks, 
were ranged round a comfortable shaving 
chair; and a legend over the door, in whicii 
" William Skinner, wig-maker, hair-ilresser, 
and barber," was set forth in yellow letters 
on a blue ground. I left Cranley before I 
was four years old ; and, next to a certain 
huge wax-doll, called Sophy, who died the 
usual death of wax-dolls, by falling out of 
the nursery window, the most vivid and the 
pleasantest of my early recollections is our 
good neighbour Will Skinner — for by that en- 



dearing abbreviation he was called every- 
where but in his own inscription. So agree- 
able, indeed, is the impression which he has 
left on my memory, that although, doubtless, 
the he-people find it more convenient to shave 
themselves, and to dispense with wigs and 
powder, yet I cannot help regretting, the more 
for his sake, the decline and extinction of a 
race, Avhich, besides figuring so notably in 
the old novels and comedies, formed so genial 
a link between the higher and lower orders 
of society ; supplying to the rich the most 
familiar of followers and most harmless of 
gossips. 

It certainly was not Will Skinner's beauty 
thiit caught my fancy. His person was hardly 
of the kind to win a lady's favour, even al- 
though that lady were only four years of age. 
He was an elderly man, with an infirm feeble 
step, which gave him the air of being older 
than he was : a lank, long, stooping figure, 
which seemed wavering in the wind like a 
powder-puff; a spare wrinkled visage, with 
the tremulous appearance about the mouth 
and cheeks which results from extreme thin- 
ness ; a ]jale coinplexion ; scanty white hair; 
and a beard considerably longer than beseem- 
ed his craft. 

Neither did his apparel serve greatly to set 
off his lean and wrinkled person. It was 
usually composed within-doors, of a faded 
linen jacket ; without, of a grey pepper-and- 
salt coat, repaired with black ; both some- 
what the worse for wear ; both " a world too 
wide for his shrunk" sides, and both well 
covered with powder. Dusty as a miller was 
W^ill Skinner. Even the hat, which by fre- 
quent reverential applications of his finger and 
thumb, had become moulded into a perpetual 
form of salutation, was almost as richly frost- 
ed as a church-warden's wig. Add to this a 
white apron, with a comb sticking out of the 
pocket ; shoes clumsily patched — poor Will 
was his own cobbler; blue stockings, indiffer- 
ently darned — he was to boot his own semp- 
stress ; and a ragged white cravat, marvel- 
lously badly ironed — for he was also his own 
washerwoman ; and the picture will be com- 
plete. 

Good old man ! I see him in my mind's 
eye at this moment; lean, wrinkled, shabby, 
poor, slow of speech, ungainly of aspect; 
)'et pleasant to look at, and delightful to re- 
collect, in spite of rags, ugliness, age, and 
poverty. It was the contented expression of 
his withered countenance, the cheerful humil- 
ity of his deportment, and the overflowing 
kindness of his temper, that rendered W'ill 
Skinner so general a favourite. There was 
nothing within his small power that he was 
not ready to undertake for any body. At 
home in every house, and conversant in every 
business, he was the universal help of the 
place. Poor he was certainly, as poor as 
well could be, and lonely ; for he had been 



A COUNTRY BARBER. 



191 



crossed in love in his youth, and lived alone 
in his little tenement, with no other compan- 
ions than his wig-blocks and a tame starling, 
(" pretty company" he used to call them) ; 
but destitute as he was of worldly goods, and 
although people loved to talk of him with a 
kind of gentle pity, I have always considered 
him as one of the happiest persons of my ac- 
quaintance; one " who suffered all as suffer- 
ing nothing;" a f)hiloso})her rather of tem- 
perament than of reason ; the only man in the 
parish, as mine host of the Swan used to ob- 
serve, " who was foolish enough to take a 
drink of small-beer as thankfully as a draught 
of double ale." 

His fortunes had, at one time, assumed a 
more flourishing aspect. Our little insignifi- 
cant town was one of the richest livings in 
England, and had been held by the Bishop of 
* * *, in conjunction with his very poor see. 
He resided nearly half the year at Cranley 
Rectory, and was the strenuous friend and 
patron of our friend Will. A most orthodox 
person at all points was the bishop, portly, 
comely, and important; one who had won his 
way to the Bench by learning and merit, and 
was rather more finical about his episcopal 
decorations, and more jealous of his episcopal 
dignity, than a man early accustomed to arti- 
ficial distinctions is apt to be. He omitted no 
opportunity of rustling and bustling in a silk 
apron ; assumed the lawn sleeves whenever it 
was possible to introduce those inconvenient 
but pleasan-t appendages to the clerical cos- 
j tume ; and was so precise in the article of 
I perukes, as to have had one constructed in 
London on the exact model of the caxon worn 
by the then Archbishop of Canterbury, which 
our orthodox divine appears to have consider- 
ed as a sort of regulation wig. Now this 
magnificent cauliflower, (for such it w^s), had 
never been frosted to his Lordship's satisfac- 
tion until it came under the hands of Will 
Skinner, who was immediately appointed his 
shaver, wig-dresser, and wig-maker in ordi- 
nary, and recommended by him to all the 
beards and caxons in the neighbourhood. Nor 
did the kindness of his right reverend patron 
end here. Pleased with his barber's sim- 
plicity and decency of demeanour, as well as 
with the zealous manner in which he led the 
psalmody at church, quivering forth in a high 
thin voice the strains of Hoj)kins and Stern- 
hold, the good Bishop determined to promote 
him in that line; appointed him to the sex- 
tonship which happened to fall vacant ; and 
caused him to officiate as deputy to David 
Hunt, the parish-clerk — a man of eighty, 
worn out in the service, and now bed-ridden 
with the rheumatism — with a complete under- 
standing that he should succeed to the post, 
as soon as David was fairly deposited in the 
church-yard. These were comfortable pros- 
pects. But, alas ! the Bishop, a hale man of 
sixty, happened to die first; and his successor 



in the rectory, a little, thin, bald-headed person, 
as sharp as a needle, who shaved himself and 
wore no wigs, took such a disgust at certain 
small irregularities, such as marking the even- 
ing lessons instead of the morning, forgetting 
to say Amen in the proper place, and other 
mistakes committed in his trepidation by the 
clerk-deputy when the new incumbent came 
to read in, that, instead of the translation to a 
higher post, which poor Will anticipated, he 
was within an ace of losing his sextonship, 
which he was only permitted to retain, on 
condition of never raising his voice again in 
a stave so long as he lived ; the rector, a mu- 
sical amateur, having been so excruciated by 
Will's singing, as to be fain to stop his ears. 
Thus ended all his hopes of church prefer- 
ment. 

After this disaster, the world began to go 
ill with him. People learnt to shave them- 
selves, that was a great evil ; they took to 
wearing their own hair, that was a greater; 
and when the French revolution and cropped 
heads came into fashion, and powder and hair- 
dressing went out, such was the defalcation 
of his customers, and the desolate state of his 
trade, that poor Will, in spite of the smallness 
of his wants, and the equanimity of his spirit, 
found himself nearly at his v.-it's end. In this 
dilemma he resolved to turn his hand to other 
employments ; and living in the neigiibour- 
hood of a famous trout stream, and becoming 
possessed of a tattered copy of Izaak Walton's 
Complete Angler, he applied himself to the 
construction of artificial flies; in which deli- 
cate manufacture, facilitated doubtless by his 
dexterity in wig-weaving, he soon became de- 
servedly eminent. 

This occupation he usually followed in his 
territory, the church-yard, as pleasant a place 
to be buried in as heart could desire, occupy- 
ing a gentle eminence by the side of Cranley 
Down, on which the cricketers of that crick- 
eting country used to muster two elevens for 
practice, almost every fine evening, from Eas- 
ter to Michaelmas. Thither Will, who had 
been a cricketer himself in his youth, and still 
loved the wind of a ball, used to resort on 
summer afternoons; perching himself on a 
large square raised monument, whose very 
inscription was worn away, a spreading lime- 
tree above his head, Izaak Walton before him, 
and his implements of trade at his side. I 
never read that delicious book without remem- 
bering how Will Skinner used to study it. 
Skipping the fine pastoral poetry, and still 
more poetical prose of the dialogues, and por- 
ing over the notes, as a housekeeper pores 
over the receipts in the Cook's Oracle, or a 
journeyman apothecary applies himself to the 
London Pharmacopeia. Curious directions of 
a truth they were, and curiously followed. 
The very list of materials had in it something 
striking and outlandish ; camel's hair, badger's 
hair, hog's wool, seal's fur, cock's hackles, a 



192 



OUR VILLAGE 



heron's neck, a starling's wing, a mallard's 
tail, and the crest of a peacock ! 

Those and a thousand such knick-knacks, 
a wihlerness of fur and feather, were ranged 
heside him, with real nicety, but seeminor con- 
fusion ; and mingled with flies, finished or in 
progress, and with homelier and more familiar 
tools, hooks, bristles, shoemaker's-wax, nee- 
dles, scissors, marking-silk of all colours, and 
"barge sail for dubbing." And there he sate, 
now manufacturing a cannon-fly, " dubbing it 
with black wool, and Isabella-coloured mo- 
hair, and bright brownish bear's hair, warped 
on with yellow silk, shaping the wings of the 
feather of a woodcock's wing, and working 
the head of an ash colour," and now watch- 
ing Tom Taylor's unparagoned bowling, or 
throwing away the half-dubbed cannon-fly, in 
admiration of Jem Willis's hits. 

On this spot our intimacy commenced. A 
spoilt child and an only child, it was my de- 
light to escape from my nurse and nursery, 
and all the restraint of female management, 
and to follow everywhere the dear papa, my 
chief spoiler, who so fully returned my par- 
tiality, as to have a little pad constructed on 
which I used to accompany him in his excur- 
sions on horseback. 

The only place at which his fondness ever 
allowed him to think my presence burthen- 
some was the cricket-ground, to which I used 
regularly to follow him in spite of all remon- 
strance and precaution, causing him no small 
perplexity, as to how to bestow me in safety 
during the game. Will and the monument 
seemed to offer exactly the desired refuge, 
and our good neighbour readily consented to 
fill the post of deputy nursery-maid for the 
time, assisted in the superintendence by a 
very beautiful and sagacious black Newfound- 
land dog, called Coe, who partly from a sense 
of duty, and partly from personal affection, 
used when out to take me under his particular 
care, and mounted guard over the monument 
as well as Will Skinner, who assuredly re- 
quired all the aid that could be mustered to 
cope with my vagaries. 

Poor dear old man, what a life I led him ! 
— now playing at bo-peep on one side of the 
great monument, and now on the other; now 
crawling away amongst the green graves ; 
now starting up between two head-stones; 
now shouting in triumph with my small child- 
ish voice, from the low church-yard wall ; 
now gliding round before him, and laughing 
up in his face as he sate. Poor dear old man ! 
with w^hat undeviating good-humour did he 
endure my naughtiness I How he would catch 
me away from the very shadow of danger, if a 
ball came near! and how often did he inter- 
rupt his own labours to forward my amuse- 
ment, sliding from his perch to gather lime 
branches to stick in Coe's collar, or to collect 
daisies, buttercups, or ragged-robbins to make 
what I used to call daisy-beds for my doll. 



Perhaps there might be a little self-defenco 
in this last-mentioned kindness ; the picking 
to pieces of flowers and making of daisy-beds 
being, as Will well knew, the most efficacious 
means of hindering me from picking to pieces 
his oak-flies or May-flies; or, which was still 
worse, of constructing others after my own 
fashion out of his materials ; which, with a 
spirit of imitation as innocently mischievous 
as a monkey, I used to purloin for the pur- 
pose the moment his back was turned, mixing 
marten's fur and otter's fur, and dipping my 
little fingers amongst brown and red hackles, 
with an audacity that would have tried the 
patience of Job. How Will's held out I can- 
not imagine ! but he never got farther than a 
very earnest supplication that I would give 
over helping him, a deprecation of my assist- 
ance, a " pray don't, dear Miss I" that on re- 
membering the provocation seems to me a for- 
bearance surpassing that of Grisildis. What 
is the desertion of a good-for-nothing husband, 
and even the cooking his second wedding din- 
ner, (so I believe the story runs,) compared 1 
to seeing an elf of four years old mixing and i 
oversetting the thousand and one materials of j 
fly-making ! Old Chaucer hath made the most j 
of it, but in point of patience Grisildis was j 
nothing to Will Skinner. 

And yet to do myself justice, my intentions | 
towards my friend the fly-maker, were perfectly i 
friendly. Mischievous as I undoubtedly was, | 
1 did not intend to do mischief. If I filched 
from him, I filched for him ; courted the cook j 
for pheasant and partridge feathers; begged j 
the old jays and black-birds which were hung i 
up in terrorem in the cherry-trees from the | 
gardener, dragged a great bit of Turkey carpet i 
to the church-yard because I had heard him i 
say that it made good dubbing ; got into a } 
demele with a peacock in the neighbourhood } 
from seizing a piece of his tail to form the \ 
bodies of Will's dragon-flies ; and had an | 
affair with a pig, in an attempt to procure that I 
staple commodity, hog's down. N. B. the hog j 
had the better of that battle ; and but for the | 
intervention of my friend Coe, who seeing the j 
animal in chase of me, ran to the rescue, and 
pulled him back by the tail, I might have rued 
my attack upon those pig's ears (for behind 
them grows the commodity in question,) to 
this very hour. 

Besides the torment that I unconsciously 
gave him, poor W'ill had not always feason to 
congratulate himself on the acquaintance of 
my f'aithful follower, Coe. He was, as I have 
said, a dog of great accomplishment and sa- 
gacity, and possessed in perfection all the 
tricks, which boys and servants love so well 
to teach to this docile and noble race. Now 
it so happened that our barber, in the general 
defalcation of wig-wearers at Cranley, retained 
one constant customer, a wealthy grocer, who 
had been churchwarden ever since the Bishop's 
time, and still emulated that regretted prelate 



HAY-CARRYING. 



193 



in the maornificence of his peruke; wearing a 
caxon such as I have seldom seen on any head, 
except that of Mr. Favvcett on the stage, and 
of Dr. Parr off. 

Mr. Samuel Saunders, such was the name 
of our churchwarden, having had the calamity 
to lose a wife whom he had wedded some 
forty years before, was, as the talk went, pay- 
ing his addresses to pretty Jenny Wren, the 
bar-maid at the Swan. Samuel was a thick, 
short, burly person, with a red nose, a red 
waistcoat, and a cinnamon-coloured coat, alto- 
gether a very proper wearer of the buzz wig. 
If all the men in Cranley could have been 
ranged in a row, the wig would have been as- 
signed to him, in right of look and demeanour, 
just as the hats in one corner of Hogarth's 
print. The Election Ball, can be put each on 
the [iroper head without difficulty. The man 
and the wig matched each other. Now Jenny 
Wren was no match for either. She was a 
pretty, airy, jaunty girl, with a merry hazel 
eye, a ready smile, and a nimble tongue, the 
arrantest flirt in Cranley, talking to every beau 
in the parish, but listening only to tall Thomas, 
our handsome groom. 

An ill match for Samuel Saunders at sixty, 
or for Samuel Saunders' wig, was the pretty 
coquette Jenny Wren at eighteen! The dis- 
parity was painful to think of. But it was 
the old story. Samuel was wealthy and Jenny 
poor; and uncles, aunts, friends and cousins 
coaxed and remonstrated ; and poor Jenny 
pouted and cried, and vowed fifty times a day 
that she would not marry him if he were fifty 
times as rich ; till at length, worn out by im- 
portunity, exhausted by the violence of her 
own opposition, offended by the supineness of 
her favourite lover, and perhaps a little moved 
by the splendour of the churchwarden's pre- 
sents, she began to relent, and finally con- 
sented to the union. 

The match was now talked of as certain by 
all the gossips in Cranley, — some had even 
gone so far as to fix the wedding-day ; when 
one evening our handsome groom, tall Thomas, 
poor Jenny's favourite beau, passing by Will 
Skinner's shop, followed by Coe, saw a new 
wig of Samuel Saunders' pattern, doubtless 
the identical wedding wig, reposing in full friz 
on one of the battered wooden blocks. " High, 
Coe!" said Thomas, making a sign with his 
hand ; and in an instant Coe had sprung over 
the half-hatch, into the vacant shop, had seized 
the well-powdered perriwig, and in another 
instant returned with it into the street, and 
followed Thomas, wig in mouth, into the little 
bar at the Swan, where sate Mr. Samuel Saun- 
ders, making love to .Tenny W"ren. 

The sudden apparition of his wig borne in 
so unexpected a manner, wholly discomfited 
the unlucky suitor and even dumfounded his 
fair mistress. " High, Coe ! high !" repeated 
Thomas, and, at the word, Coe, letting drop 
the first caxon, sprang upon that living block, 

17 Z 



Samuel Saunders' noddle, snatched off the 
other wig, and deposited both his trophies at 
Jenny's feet! — a catastrophe, which was fol- 
lowed in less than a montli by the marriage of 
the handsome groom and the pretty bar-rnaid ; 
for the churchwarden, who had withstood all 
other rebuffs, was driven for ever from the 
field by the peals of laughter, which, after the 
first surprise was over, burst inexpressibly 
from both the lovers. In less than a month 
they were married ; and Will Skinner and 
Coe, who had hitherto avoided each other by 
mutual consent, met as guests at the v.-edding- 
dinner; and through the good offices of the 
bridegroom, were completely and permanently 
reconciled ; Coe's consciousness being far 
more difficult to conquer than the shortlived 
anger of the most placable of barbers. 



HAY-CARRYING, 

At one of the cluster of cottages and cot- 
tage-like houses, which formed the little street 
of Hilton cross — a pretty but secluded vil- 
lage, a few miles to the south, — stood the 
shop of Judith Kent, widow, " Licensed " — 
as the legend imported, " to vend tea, coffee, 
tobacco, and snuff." Tea, coffee, tobacco, 
and snuff, formed, however, but a small part 
of the multifarious merchandise of Mrs. 
Kent ; whose shop, the only repository of 
the hamlet, might have seemed an epitome of 
the wants and luxuries of humble life. In 
her window, candles, bacon, sugar, mustard, 
and soap, flourished amidst calicoes, orano-es, 
dolls, ribbons, and gingerbread. Crockery- 
ware was piled on one side of her door-way, 
Dutch cheese and Irish butter encumbered 
the other ; brooms and brushes rested against 
the wall ; and ropes of onions and bunches 
of red herrings hung from the ceiling. She 
sold bread, butcher's meat, and garden-stuflf", 
on commission ; and engrossed, at a word, 
the whole trade of Hilton Cross. 

Notwithstanding this monopoly, the world 
went ill with poor Judith. She was a mild, 
pleasant-looking, middle-aged woman, with 
a heart too soft for her calling. She could 
not say, no ! to the poor creatures who came 
to her on a Saturday night, to seek bread for 
their children, however deep they mio-ht al- 
ready be in her debt, or however certain it 
was, that their husbands were, at that mo- 
ment, spending, at the Checquers or the Four 
Horse-shoes, the money that should have 
supported their wives and families; for in 
this village, as in others, there were two 
flourishing ale-houses, although but one ill- 
accustomed shop — " but one half-pennyworth 
of bread to this intolerable deal of sack!" 

She could not say, no ! as a prudent woman 
might have said ; and, accordingly, half the 



194 



OUR VILLAGE. 



poor people in the parish might be found on 
her books, whilst she herself was gradually 
gettinor in arrears with her baker, her grocer, 
and her iandlord. Her family consisted of 
two children : Mary, a pretty, fair-haired, 
smiling lass, of twelve or thirteen, and Ro- 
bert, a fine youth, nearly ten years older, who 
worked in the gardens of a neighbouring 
gentleman. Robert, conscious that his mo- 
ther's was no gainful trade, often pressed her 
to give up business, sell off her stock, relin- 
quish her house, and depend on his labour 
for her support ; but of this she would not 
hear. 

Many motives mingled in her determination : 
a generous reluctance to burthen her dutiful 
son with her maintenance, — a natural fear of 
losing caste among her neighbours, — a strong 
love of the house which, for five-and-twenty 
years, had been her home, — a vague hope that 
times would mend and all come right again, 
(wiser persons than Mrs. Kent have lulled 
reason to sleep, with such an opiate!) and, 
above all, a want of courage, to look her dif- 
ficulties fairly in the face. Besides she liked 
her occupation, — its petty consequence, its 
bustle, and its gossipry ; and she had a sense 
of gain in the small peddling bargains, — the 
pennyworths of needles, and balls of cotton, 
and rows of pins, and yards of tape, which 
she was accustomed to vend for ready money, 
that overbalanced, for the moment, her losses 
and her debts; so that, in spite of her son's 
presages and warnings, the shop continued in 
full activity. 

In addition to his forebodings respecting his 
mother, Robert had another misfortune; — the 
poor youth was in love. 

About a quarter of a mile down the shady 
lane, which ran by one side of Mrs. Kent's 
dwelling, was the pretty farm-house, orchard, 
and homestead of Farmer Bell, whose eldest 
daughter Susan, — the beauty of the parish — 
was the object of a passion, almost amount- 
ing to idolatry. And in good sooth, Susan 
Bell was well fitted to inspire such a passion. 
Besides a light graceful figure, moulded with 
the exactest symmetry, she had a smiling, 
innocent countenance, a complexion coloured 
like the brilliant blossoms of the balsam, and 
hair of a shining golden brown, like the fruit 
of the horse-chestnut. Her sjjeech was at 
once modest and playful, her temper sweet, 
and her heart tender. She loved Robert dear- 
ly, although lie often gave lier cause to wish, 
that she loved him not ; for Robert was sub- 
ject to the intermitting fever, called jealousy, 
causelessly — as he himself would declare, 
when a remission of the disease gave room 
for liis natural sense to act — causelessly and 
penitently, but still pertinaciously jealous. 

I have said that he was a fine young man, 
tall, dark, and slender; I should add, that he 
was a good son, a kind brother, a pattern of 
sobriety and industry, and possessed of talent 



and acquirement far beyond his station. But 
there was about him an ardour, a vigour, a 
fiery restlessness, commonly held proper to 
the natives of the south of Europe, but which 
may be found sometimes amongst our own 
peasantry ; all his pursuits, whether of sport 
or labour, took the form of passion. At ten 
years old, he had far outstripped his fellow- 
pupils at the Foundation School, to which, 
through the kindness of the 'squire of the 
parish, his mother had been able to send him ; 
— at eighteen he was the best cricketer, the 
best flute-player, the best bell-ringer, and the 
best gardener in the county ; and some odd 
volumes of Shakspeare having come into his 
possession, there was some danger at twenty 
of his turning out a dramatic {)oet, had not 
the kind discouragement of his master, to 
whom some of his earl}^ scenes were shown 
by his patron and admirer, the head gardener, 
acted as a salutary check. Indeed, so strong 
at one time was the poetical furor, that such 
a catastrophe as an entire play niigiit, proba- 
bly, have ensued, notwithstanding Mr. Les- 
comb's judicious warnings, had not love, the 
master-passion, fallen, about this time, in poor 
Robert's way, and engrossed all the ardour of 
his hardened temperament. 

The beauty and playfulness of his mistress, 
whilst they enchanted his fancy, kept the 
jealous irritability of his nature in perpetual 
alarm. He sus|)ected a lover in every man 
who approached her; and the firm refusal of 
her father to sanction their union, till her im- 
patient wooer was a little more forward in the 
world, completed his disquiet. Aflairs were 
in this posture, when a new personage arrived 
at Hilton Cross. 

In addition to her other ways and means, 
Mrs. Kent tried to lessen her rent by letting 
lodgings ; and the neat, quiet, elderly gentle- 
woman, the widow of a long-deceased rector, 
who had occupied her rooms ever since Ro- 
bert was born, being at last gathered to her 
fathers, an advertisement of " pleasant apart- 
ments to let, in the airy village of Hilton 
Cross," appeared in the county paper. This 
announcement was as true, as if it had not 
formed an advertisement in a country news- 
paper. Very airy was the pretty village of 
Hilton Cross — with its breezy uplands, and 
its open common, dotted, as it were, with 
cottages and clumps of trees ; and. very plea- 
sant ivere Mrs, Kent's apartments, for those 
who had suflicient taste to appreciate their 
rustic simplicity, and sufficient humility to 
overlook their smallness. The little cham- 
ber glittering with whiteness ; its snowy 
dimity bed, and, "fresh sheets smelling of 
lavender," the sitting-room, a thonijht larger, 
carpeted with India matting, its shining cane- 
chairs, and its bright casement wreatiied, on 
one side, by a luxuriant jessamine, on the 
other by the tall cluster musk-rose sending its 
bunches of odorous blossoms into the very 



HAY-CARRYING. 



195 



window ; the little flower-court underneath, ] 
full of holly-oaks, cloves, and daiilias, and 
the large slopina^ meadow beyond, leading 
up to farntier Bell's tall irregular house, half 
covered with a flaunting vine ; his barns, and 
ricks, and orchard ; — all this formed an apart- 
ment too tempting to remain long untenanted, 
in the bright month of August : accordingly, 
it was almost immediately enfjaged by a gen- 
tleman in black, who walked over, one fair 
morning, paid ten pounds as a deposit, sent 
for his trunk from the next town, and took 
possession on the instant. 

Her new inmate, who, without positively 
declining to give his name, had yet contrived 
to evade all the questions Mrs. Kent could de- 
vise, proved a perpetual source of astonish- 
ment, both to herself and her neighbours. 

He was a well-made, little man, near upon 
forty; with considerable terseness of feature, 
a forehead of great power, whose effect was 
increased by a slight baldness on the top of 
the head, and an eye like a falcon. Such an 
eye ! It seemed to go through you — to strike 
all that it looked upon, like a coup-de-sukil. 
Luckily, the stranger was so merciful as, 
generally, to wear spectacles ; under cover of 
which those terrible eyes might see, and be 
seen, without danger. 

His habits were as peculiar as his appear- 
ance. He was moderate, and rather fanciful 
in his diet; drank nothing but water, or strong 
cotFee, made, as Mrs. Kent observed, very 
wastefully ; and had, as she also remarked, a 
great number of heathenish-looking books 
scattered about the apartment — Lord Berners's 
Froissart, for instance. Sir Thomas Brown's 
Urn Burial. theBaskerville Ariosto, — Goethe's 
Faust, — a Spanish Don Quixote — and an inter- 
leaved Philoctetes, full of ortline drawings. 
The greater part of his time was spent out of 
doors.— He would, even, ramble away, for 
three or four days together, with no other com- 
panion than a boj', hired in the village to carry 
what Mrs. Kent denominated his odds and 
ends; which odds and ends consisted, for the 
most part, of an angling-rod and a sketching 
apparatus — our incognito being, as my readers 
have, by this time, probably discovered, no 
other than an artist, on his summer progress. 

Robert speedily understood the stranger, 
and was delighted with the opportunity of 
approaching so gifted a person : although he 
contemplated, with a degree of generous envy, 
which a king's regalia would have failed to 
excite in his bosom, those chef d'' ativres of all 
nations which were to him as "sealed books," 
and the pencils, whose power seemed to him 
little less than creative. He redoubled his 
industry in the garden, that he might, con- 
scientiously, devote hours and half-hours, to 
pointing out the deeji pools and shallow eddies 
of their romantic stream, where he knew, from 
experience (for Robert, amongst his other ac- 
complishments, was no mean " brother of the 



angle,") that fish were likely to be found ; 
and, better still, he loved to lead to the haunts 
of his childhood, the wild bosky dells, and 
the sunny ends of lanes, where a sudden turn 
in the track, an overhanging tree, an old gate, 
a cottage chimney, and a group of cattle or 
children, had, sometimes, formed a picture, on 
which his mind had fed for hours. 

It was Robert's chief pleasure to entice his 
lodger to scenes such as these, and to see his 
own visions growing into reality, under the 
glowing pencil of the artist; and he, in his 
turn, would admire, and marvel at, the natural 
feeling of the beautiful, which could lead an 
uninstructed country-youth instinctively to the 
very elements of the picturesque. A general 
agreement of taste had brought about a degree 
of association unusual between persons so dif- 
ferent in rank : a particular instance of this 
accordance dissolved the intimacy. 

Robert had been, for above a fortnight, more 
than commonly busy in Mr. l/cscombe's gar- 
dens and hot-houses, so busy that he even 
slept at the hall ; the stranger, on the other 
hand, had been, during the same period, shut 
up, painting, in the little parlour. At last, 
they met ; and the artist invited his young j 
friend to look at the picture, which had en- 
gaged him during his absence. On walking 
into the room he saw on the easel, a picture in 
oils, almost finished. The style was of that 
delightful kind, which combines figures with 
landscape, the subject was Hay-cr'-rying; and 
the scene, that very si oping meadow, — crowned 
by Farmer Bell's tall irregular house, its vine- 
wreathed porch, and chimneys, the great wal- 
nut-tree bet'ore the door, the orchard and the 
homestead — which formed the actual prospect 
from the windows before them. In the fore- 
ground was a wagon piled with ha}% sur- 
rounded by the Farmer and his fine family, — 
some pitching, some loading, some raking 
after, all intent on their pleasant business. 
The only disengaged persons in the field were 
young Mary Kent and Harry Bell, an urchin 
of four years old, who rode on her knee on the 
top of the wagon, crowned and wreathed 
with garlands of vine-leaves, and hind-weed, 
and poppies, and corn-flowers. In the front 
looking up at Mary Kent, and her little bro- 
ther, and playfully tossing to them the lock of 
hay which she had gathered on her rake, stood 
Susan Bell, her head thrown back, her bonnet 
half off", her light and lovely figure shown, in 
all its grace, by the pretty attitude and the 
short cool dress ; while her sweet face, glow- 
ing with youth and beauty, had a smile play- 
ing over it, like a sunbeam. The boy was 
nodding and laughing to her, and seemed 
longing — as well he might — to escape from 
his flowery bondage, and jump into her arms. 
Never had poet framed a lovelier image of 
rural beauty ! Never had painter more felici- 
tously realized his conception ! 

" Well, Robert !" exclaimed our artist, a 



196 



OUR VILLAGE. 



little impatient of the continued silence, and 
rnissinor the expected praise, " Well I" but 
still Robert spoke not. " Don't you think it a 
good subject ?" continued the rnan of the easel : 
" I was sittinff at the window, reading- Frois- 
sart, whilst they were carry ing the after-crop, 
and by good luck happened to look up, just 
as they had arranged themselves into this very 
group, and as the evening sun came slanting, 
exactly as it does now, across the meadow ; 
so I dashed in the sketch instantly, got Mary 
to sit to me, — and a very pretty nymph-like 
figure she makes — dressed the boy with flow- 
ers, just as he was decked out for the harvest 
home — the rogue is, really, a fit model for a 
Cupid ; they are a glorious family ! — and per- 
suaded Susan — " at that name, Robert, una- 
ble to control himself longer, rushed out of the 
room, leaving the astonished painter in the full 
belief that his senses had forsaken him. 

The unhappy lover, agonized by jealousy, 
pursued his way to the farm. He had, hith- 
erto, contrived, although without confessing 
his motive, even to himself, to keep his friend 
and his mistress asunder. He had no fears 
of her virtue, or of his honour ; but, to Robert's 
romantic simplicity, it seemed that no one 
could gaze on Susan without feeling ardent 
love, and that such a man as the artist could 
never love in vain. Besides, in the conversa- 
tion which they had held together, he had 
dwelt on beauty and simplicity, as the most 
attractive points of female character: — Robert 
had felt, as he spoke, that Susan was the very 
being whom he described, and had congratu- 
lated himself that they were, still, unacquaint- 
ed. But now, they had met ; he had seen, he 
had studied, had transferred to canvass that ; 
matchless beauty ; had conquered the timidity j 
which, to Robert, had always seemed uncon- 
querable ; had won her to admit his gaze, had 
tamed that shyest, coyest dove; had become 
familiar with that sweetest face, and that dear- 
est form : — Oh ! the very thought was agony! 
In this mood, he arrived at the farm; and 
there, working at her needle under the vine- 
wreathed porch, with the evening sun shining 
full upon her, and her little brother playing at 
her feet, sate his own Susan. She heard his 
rapid step, and advanced to meet him with a 
smile and a blush of delight, just the smile 
and blush of the picture. At such a moment, 
they increased his misery; he repulsed her 
ofTered hand, and poured forth a torrent of 
questions on the subject which possessed his 
mind. Her innocent answers were fuel to his 
frenzy : — " The picture ! had he seen the pic- 
ture ? and was it not pretty 1 much too pretty, 
she thought, but every body called it like ! 
and Mary and Harry — was not he pleased 
j with tliem] What a wonderful thing it was 
! to make a bit of canvass so like living crea- 
tures ! and what a woiidi'rful man tiie strange 
gentleman was ! she had been afraid of him, 
at first — sadly afraid of those two bright eyes 



— and so had Harry : — poor Harry had cried ! 
but he was so merry and so kind, that neither 
of them minded sitting to him, now ! And 
she was so glad that Robert had seen the pic- 
ture ; she had so wanted him to see it ! it was 
too pretty, to be sure, — but, then, Robert would 
not mind that. Slie had told the gentleman" 
— "Go to the gentleman, now," interrupted 
Robert, "and tell him that I relinquish you.' 
It will be welcome news ! Go to him, Susan ! 
your heart is with him. Go to him, I say!" 
and, throwing from him, with a bitter laugh, 
the frightened and weeping girl, who had laid 
her trembling hand on his arm, to detain him, 
he darted from the door, and returned to his 
old quarters at the hall. 

Another fortnight passed, and Robert still 
kept aloof from his family and his home. His 
mother and sister, indeed, occasionally saw 
him ; and sad accounts had poor little Mary 
to give to her friend Susan, of Robert's ill 
looks and worse spirits. And Susan listened, 
and said she did not care; and burst into a 
passion of tears, and said she was very happy ; 
and vowed never to speak to him again, and 
desired Mary never to mention her to him, or 
him to her, and then asked her a hundred 
questions respecting his looks and his words, 
and his illness, and charged her with a thou- 
sand tender messages, which, in the next 
breath, she withdrew. And Mary, too young 
to understand the inconsistencies of love, pi- 
tied, and comforted, and thought it " passing 
strange." 

In the meantime misfortunes of a different 
kind were gathering round Mrs. Kent. The 
meal-man and baker, whose bread she vended, 
her kindest friend and largest creditor, died, 
leaving his affairs in the hands of an attorney 
of the next town, the pest and terror of the 
neighbourhood ; and, on the same day, she 
received two letters from this formidable law- 
yer, — one on account of his dead client, the 
baker, the other in behalf of his living client, 
the grocer, who ranked next amongst her cre- 
ditors, both threatening that if their respective 
claims were not liquidated, on or before a cer- 
tain day, proceedings would be commenced 
against her, forthwith. 

It is in such a situation that woman most 
feels her helplessness, — especially that for- 
lorn creature whom the common people, adopt- 
ing the pathetic language of Scripture, desig- . 
nate by the expressive phrase, " a lone wo- 
man !" Poor .Tudith sate down to cry, in 
powerless sorrow and vain self-pity. She 
opened, indeed, her hopeless day-book, — but 
she knew too well, that her debtors could not 
pay. She had no one to consult, — for her 
lorlger, in whose general cleverness she had 
great confidence, had been absent, on one of 
his excursions, almost as long as her son, — I 
and time pressed upon her, — for the letters,! 
sent with the usual indirectness of country I 
conveyance, originally given to the carrier, 



OUR MAYING. 



197 



confided by the carrier to the butterman, car- 
ried on by the butterman to the next village, 
left for three days at a public-house, and, 
finally, delivered at Hilton Cross, by a return 
post-boy, had been nearly a week on the road. 
Saturday was the day fixed for payment, and 
this was Friday niffht! and Michaelmas and 
rent-d:iy were approachingf! and unable even 
to look at this accumulation of misery, poor 
Judith laid her head on her fruitless accompt- 
book, and sobbed aloud ! 

It was ■with a strangely mingled feelinq- of 
comfort in such a son, and sorrow so to grieve 
him, that she heard Robert's voice at her side, 
asking, lenderly, what ailed her] She put 
the letters into his hands; and he, lonof pre- 
pared for the blow, soothed and cheered her. 
"All must be given up," he said, "and he 
would go with her the next day, to make over 
the whole property. Let us pay, as fiir as our 
means go, mother," pursued he, "and do not 
fear but, some day or other, we shall be able 
to discharge all our debts. God will speed 
an honest purpose. In the mean time, Mr. 
Lescombe will give us a cottage — I know he 
will — and I shall work for you and Mary. It 
will be something to live for — something 
worth living for. Be comforted, dear mo- 
ther!" He stooped, as he said this, and 
kissed her; and when he arose, he saw Susan 
standing opposite to him, and behind her, the 
stranger. They had entered separately, dur- 
ing the conversation between the mother and 
son, and Susan M'as still unconscious of the 
artist's presence. 

She stood, in great ag:itation, pressing 
Mary's hand, (from whom she had heard the 
story,) and immediately began questioning 
Mrs. Kent, as to the extent of the calamitj'. 
" She had twenty pounds of her own, that her 
grandmother had left her; — but a hundred! 
did they want a whole hundred ? and would 
they send Mrs. Kent to prison? and sell her 
goods'? and turn Mary out of doors? and Ro- 
bert — Oh ! how ill Robert looked ? — It would 
kill Robert! — Oh!" continued Susan, wring- 
ing her hands, "I would sell myself for a 
bondwoman, I would be like a negro-slave for 
one hundred pounds!" "Would you?" said 
the stranger advancing, suddenh' from the 
door, and producingf two bank-bills ; "would 
you ? well ! we will strike a bargain. I will 
give you two hundred pounds for this little 
hand, only this little hand !" — " What do you 
mean, sir ?" exclaimed Mrs. Kent ; " what can 
yon mean ?" " Nothing but what is fair and 
honourable," returned her lodger; "let Susan 
promise to meet me at church, to-morrovv", and 
here are two hundred pounds to dispose of, at 
her pleasure, to-night." "Susan! my dear 
Susan!" — "Let her alone, mother!" inter- 
ru|)ted Robert ; " she must choose for her- 
self!" and, for a few moments, there was a 
dead silence. Robert stood, leaning against 
the wall, pale as marble, his eyes cast down. 



and his lips compressed, in a state of forced 
composure. Mrs. Kent, her head turning, 
now towards the bank-notes, and now towards 
her son, was in a state of restless and uncon- 
trollable instability; Mary clung, crying, about 
her mother; and Susan, her colour varying, 
and her lips quivering, sate, unconsciously, 
twisting and untwisting the bank-notes in her 
hand. 

"Well, Susan !" said the artist, who had 
remained in tranq\iil expectation, surveyino- 
the group with his falcon eye, "Well, Susan ! 
have you determined ?" — The colour rose to 
her temples, and she answered firmly, " Yes, 
sir : be pleased to take back the notes. I 
love nobody but Roiiert ; and Robert lo.ves 
me dearl3S dearly ! I know he does ! Oh Mrs. 
Kent ! you would not have me vex Robert, 
your own dear son, and he so ill, — would 
you ? Let them take these things ! they never 
can he so cruel as to put you in ])rison — you, 
who were always so kind to every body ; and 
he will work for you ! and I will work for 
you! Never mind being poor! better any 
thing than be f\ilse-hearted to my Robert !" 
" God for ever bless you, my Susan !" " God 
bless you, my dear child !" burst at once, 
from Robert and his mother, as they, alter- 
nately, folded her in their arms. 

" Pray take the notes, sir," repeated Susan, 
after a short interval. " No! that I will not 
do," replied the stranger, smiling. " The 
notes shall be yours, — are yours — and what 
is more, on my own conditions. Meet me at 
church to-morrow morning, and I shall have 
the pleasure of bestowing this pretty hand, 
as I always intended, on my good friend, 
Robert, here. I have a wife of my own at 
home, my dear, whom I would not exchange 
even for you; and I am quite rich enough to 
afford myself the luxury of making you happy. 
Besides, you have a claim to the money. 
These very bank-notes were gained by that 
sweet face ! Your friend, Mr. Lescombe, 
Robert, has purchased the hay-carrying ! We 
have had a good deal of talk about you, and 
I aiTi quite certain that he will provide for 
you all. No thanks !" continued he, inter- 
rupting something that Robert was going to 
say, — "No thanks! no apologies ! I won't 
hear a word. Meet me at church to-morrow ! 
but, remember, yfiungman, no more jealousy !" 
and, followed by a glance from Susan, of 
which Robert might have been jealous, the 
artist left the shop. 



OUR MAYING. 

As party produces party, and festival brings 
forth festival in higher life, so one scene of 
rural festivity is pretty sure to be followed by 
another. The hoys' cricket-match at Whit- 
suntide, which was won inost triumphantly by 



17* 



198 



OUR VILLAGE, 



our parish, and luckily passed off without 
givin£T cause for a coroner's inquest, or indeed 
without injury of any sort, except the demoli- 
tion of Amos Stone's new straw-hat, the 
crown of which (Amos's head he'wr fortu- 
nately at a distance,) was fairly struck out by 
the cricket-ball ; this match ])roduced one 
betW(-en our eleven and the players of the 
neifjiihourinff hamlet of Whitley ; and beino- 
patronised by the yonnof lord of the manor 
and several of the grentry round, and followed 
by jumping in sacks, riding^ donkey-races, 
grinnina through horse-collars, and other di- 
versions more renowned for their antiquity 
than their elegance, gave such general satis- 
faction, that it was resolved to hold a Mayino- 
in full form in Whitley-wood, 

Now this wood of ours happens to be a 
common of twenty acres, with three trees on 
it, and the Maying was fixed to be held be- 
tween hay-time and harvest; but "what's in 
a name?" Whitley-wood is a beautiful piece 
of greensward, surrounded on three sides by 
fields, and farm-houses, and cottages, and 
woody uj)lands, and on the other by a fine 
park ; and the May-house was erected, and 
the May-games held in the beginning of July ; 
the very season of leaves and roses, when 
the days are at the longest, and the weather 
at the finest, and the whole world is longino- 
to get out of doors. Moreover, the whole 
festival was aided, not impeded, by the gen- 
tlemen amateurs, headed by that very genial 
person, our young lord of the manor; whilst 
the business part of the affair was confided 
to the well-known diligence, zeal, activity, 
and intelligence of that most popular of vil- 
lage landlords, mine host of the Rose. How 
could a Maying fail under such auspices 1 
Every body expected more sunshine and more 
fun, more flowers and more laughing, than 
ever was known at a rustic merry-making — ■ 
and really considering the manner in which 
expectation had been raised, the quantity of 
disappointment has been astonishingly small. 
Landlord Sims, the master of the revels, 
and our very good neighbour, is a portly, 
bustling man, of five-and-forty, or thereabout, 
with a hale, jovial visage, a merry eye, a 
pleasant smile, and a general air of good-fel- 
lowship. This last qualification, whilst it 
serves greatly to recommend his ale, is apt to 
mislead superficial observers, who generally 
account him a sort of slenderer Boniface, and 
imagine that, like that r-enowned hero of the 
spigot. Master Sims eats, drinks, and sleeps 
on his own anno domini. They never were 
more mistaken in their lives; no soberer man 
than Master Sims within twenty miles ! Ex- 
cept for the good of the house, he no more 
thinks of drinking beer, than a grocer of eating 
figs. To be sure when the jug lags he will 
take a hearty pull, just by way of example, 
and to set the aood ale agoing. But in gen- 
eral, he trusts to subtler and more delicate 



modes of quickening its circulation. A good 
song, a good story, a merry jest, a hearty 
laugh, and a most winning habit of assenta- 
tion ; these are his implements. There is not 
a better comjianion, or a more judicious listen- 
er in the county. His pliability is astonish- 
ing. He shall say yes to twenty different 
opinions on the same subject, within the hour ; 
and so honest and cordial does his agreement 
seem, that no one of his customers, whether 
drunk or sober, ever dreams of doubting his 
sincerity. The hottest conflict of politics 
never puzzles him : W'hig or Tory, he is both, 
or either — " the happy Mercutio, that curses 
both houses." Add to this gift of conformity, 
a cheerful, easy temper, an alacrity of atten- 
tion, a zealous desire to please, which gives 
to his duties, as a landlord, all the grace of 
hospitality, and a perpetual civility and kind- 
ness, even when he has nothing to gain by 
them ; and no one can wonder at Master Sims's 
popularity. ' 

After his good wife's death, this popularity 
began to extend itself in a remarkable man- 
ner amongst the females of the neighbour- 
hood : smitten with his portly person, his 
smooth, oily manner, and a certain soft, ear- 
nest, whispering voice, which he generally 
assumes when addressing one of the fairer 
sex, and which seems to make his very " how 
d'ye do" confidential and complimentary. 
Moreover, it vras thought that the good land- 
lord was well to do in the world, and though 
Betsy and Letty were good little girls, quick, 
civil, and active, yet, poor things, what could 
such young girls know of a house like the 
Rose"? All would go to rack and ruin with- 
out the eye of a mistress ! Master Sims 
must look out for a wife. So thought the 
whole female world, and, apparently, Master 
Sims began to think so himself. 

The first fair one to whom his attention was 
directed, was a rosy, pretty widow, a pastry- 
cook of the next town, who arrived in our 
village on a visit to her cousin, the baker, for 
the purpose of giving confectionary lessons to 
his wife. Nothing was ever so hot as that 
courtship. During the week that the lady of 
pie-crust staid, her lover almost lived in the 
oven. One would have thought that he was 
learning to make the cream-tarts without pej)- 
per, by which Bed redd in Hassan regained 
his state and his princess. It would be a 
most suitable match, as all the parish agreed ; 
the widow, for as pretty as she was, (and one 
sha'n'l often see a pleasanter, open counte- 
nance, or a sweeter smile,) being within ten 
years as old as her suitor, and having had 
two husbands already. A most proper and 
suitable match, said every body ; and when 
our landlord carried her back to B. in his new- 
painted green cart, all the village agreed that 
they were gone to be married, and the ringers 
were just setting up a peal, when Master 
Sims returned alone, single, crest-fallen, de- 



OUR MAYING. 



199 



jected ; the bells stopped of themselves, and 
we heard no more of the pretty pastry-cook. 
For three months after that rebuff, mine host, 
albeit not addicted to aversions, testified an 
eqral dislike to women and tartlets, widows 
and plum-cake. Even poor Alice Taylor, 
whose travelling basket of loUypops and gin- 
gerbread he had whilome patronized, was 
forbidden the house; and not a bun or a bis- 
cuit could be had at the Rose, for love or 
money. 

The fit, however, wore off in time; and he 
began again to follow the advice of his neigh- 
bours, and to look out for a wife, np street 
and down ; whilst at each extremity a fair 
object presented herself, from neither of whom 
he had the slightest reason to dread a repeti- 
tion of the repulse which he had experienced 
from the blooming widow. The down-street 
lady was a widow also, the portly, comely 
relict of our drunken village blacksmith, who, 
in spite of her joy at her first husband's 
death, and an old spite at mine host of the 
Rose, to whose good ale and good company 
she was wont to ascribe most of the aberra- 
tions of the deceased, began to find her shop, 
her journeymen, and her eight children (six 
unruly obstreperous pickles of boys, and two 
tom-boys of girls,) rather more than a lone 
woman could manage, and to sigh for a help- 
mate to ease her of her cares, collect the boys 
at night, see the girls to school of a morning, 
break the larger imps of running away to 
revels and fairs, and the smaller fry of birds'- 
nesting and orchard-robbing, and bear a part 
in the lectures and chastisements, which she 
deemed necessary to preserve the young re- 
bels from the bad end which she predicted to 
them twenty times a day. Master Sims was 
the coadjutor on whom she had inwardly 
pitched ; and, accordingly, she threw ont 
broad hints to that effect, every time she had 
encountered him, which, in the course of her 
search for boys and girls, who were sure to 
be missing at sc!iool-time and bed-time, hap- 
pened pretty often ; and Mr. Sims was far too 
gallant and too much in the habit of assenting 
to listen unmoved ; for really the widow was 
a fine, tall, comely woman ; and the whispers, 
and smiles, and hand-pressings, when they 
happened to meet, were becoming very tender ; 
and his admonitions and head-shakings, ad- 
dressed to the young crew (who, nevertheless, 
all liked him) quite fatherly. This was his 
down-street llame. 

The rival lady was Miss Lydia Day, the 
carpenter's sister; a slim, upright maiden, 
not remarkable for beauty, and not quite so 
young as she had been, who, on inheriting a 
small annuity from the mistress with whom 
she had spent the best of her days, retired to 
her native vill-age to live on her means. A gen- 
teel, demure, quiet personage, was Miss Lydia 
Day; much addicted to snuff and green tea, 
and not averse from a little gentle scandal — 



for the rest, a good sort of woman, and un 
tres bon parti for Master Sims, who seemed 
to consider it a profitable speculation, and 
made love to her whenever she happened to 
come into his head, which, it must be con- 
fessed, was hardly so often as her merits and 
her annuity deserved. Remiss as he was, 
he had no lack of encouragement to complain 
of — for she " to hear would seriously incline," 
and put on her best silk, and her best simper, 
and lighted up her faded complexion into 
something approaching to a blush, whenever 
he came to visit her. And this was Master 
Sims's np-street love. 

So stood affairs at the Rose when the day 
of the Maying arrived ; and the double flirta- 
tion, which, however dexterously managed, 
must have been, sometimes, one would think, 
rather inconvenient to the inamorato, proved 
on this occasion extremely useful. Each of 
the fair ladies contributed her aid to the fes- 
tival ; Miss Lydia by tying up sentimental 
garlands for the May-house, and scolding the 
carpenters into diligence in the erection of the 
booths ; the widow by giving her whole bevy 
of boys and girls a holiday, and turning them 
loose on the neighbourhood to collect flowers 
as they could. Very useful auxiliaries were 
these light foragers ; they scoured the country 
far and near — irresistible mendicants ! — par- 
donable thieves! — coming to no harm, poor 
children, except that little George got a black 
eye in tum.bling from the top of an acacia 
tree at the park, and that Sam (he's a sad 
pickle is vSam !) narrowly escaped a horse- 
whipping from the head gardener at the Hall, 
who detected a bunch of his new rhododen- 
dron, the only plant in the country, forming 
the very crown and centre of the May-pole. 
Little harm did they do, poor children, with 
all their pilfery ; and when they returned, 
covered with their flowery loads, like the May- 
day figure called "Jack of the Green," they 
worked at the Garlands and the May-houses, 
as none but children ever do work, putting all 
their young life and their untiring spirit of 
noise and motion into their pleasant labour. 
Oh, the din of that building! Talk of the 
tower of Babel ! that was a quiet piece of 
masonry compared to the May-house of Whit- 
ley-wood, with its walls of leaves and flow- 
ers — and its canvass booths at either end for 
refreshments and musicians. Never was 
known more joyous note of preparation. 

The morning rose more quietly — I had al- 
most said more dully — and promised ill for the 
fefe. The sky was gloomy, the wind cold, 
and the green filled as slowly as a balloon 
seems to do when one is watching it. Tiie 
entertainments of the day were to begin with 
a cricket-match (two elevens to be chosen on 
the ground), and the wickets pitched at twelve 
o'clock precisely. Twelve o'clock came — 
but no cricketers — except, indeed, some two 
or three punctual and impatient gentlemen ; 



200 



OUR VILLAGE. 



one o'clock came, and broutrht no other rein- 
forcement than two or three more of our younaj 
Etonians and Wykhamites — less punctual 
than their precursors, but not a whit less im- 
patient. Very provoking, certainly — hut not 
very uncommon. Your country cricketer, the 
peasant, the mere rustic, does love, on these 
occasions, to keep his betters waiting-, if only 
to display his power; and when we consider 
that it is the one solitary opportunity in which 
importance can be felt and vanity gratified, we 
must acknowledge it to be perfectly in human 
nature that a few airs should be shown. Ac- 
cordingly, our best players held aloof. Tom 
Coper would not come to the ground ; Joel 
Brent came, indeed, but would not play; 
Samuel long coquetted — he would and he 
would not. Very provoking, certainly ! Then 
two young farmers, a tall brother and a short, 
Hampshire men, cricketers born, whose good- 
humour and love of the game rendered them 
sure cards, had been compelled to go on busi- 
ness — the one, ten miles south — the other, fif- 
teen north — that very morning. No playing 
without the Goddards ! No sign of either of 

them on the B road or the F . Most 

intolerably provoking, beyond a doubt! Mas- 
ter Sims tried his best coaxing and his best 
double X on the recusant players ; but all in 
vain. In short, there was great danger of the 
match going off altogether; when, about two 
o'clock, Amos Stone, who was there with the 
crown of his straw hat sewed in wrong side 
outward — new thatched, as it were — and who 

had been set to watch the B highway, 

gave notice that something was coming as tall 
as the Maypole — which something turned out 
to be the long Goddard, and his brother ap- 
proaching at the same moment in the opposite 
direction, hope, gaiety, and good-humour re- 
vived again ; and two elevens, including Amos 
and another urchin of his calibre, were formed 
on the S[)Ot. 

I never saw a prettier match. The gentle- 
men, the Goddards, and the boys being equally 
divided, the strength and luck of the parties 
were so well balanced, that it produced quite 
a neck-and-neck race, won only by two notches, 
Amos was completely the hero of the day, 
standing out half of his side, and getting five 
notches at one hit. His side lost — but so 
many of his opponents gave him their ribbons 
(have not I said that Master Sims bestowed a 
set of ribbons'?) that the straw hat was quite 
covered with purple trophies ; and Amos, 
stalking about the ground, with a shy and 
awkward vanity, looked with his decorations 
like the sole conqueror — the Alexander or 
Napoleon of the day. The boy did not apeak 
a word ; but every now and then he displayed 
a set of hutre white teeth in a grin of inex- 
pressible delight. By far the happiest and 
proudest personage at that Maying was Amos 
Stone. 

By the time the cricket-match was over, the 



world began to be gay at Whitley-wood. 
Carts and gigs, and horses and carriages, and 
people of all sorts, arrived from all quarters; 
and, lastly, "the blessed sun himself" made 
his appearance, adding a triple lustre to the 
scene. Fiddlers, ballad-singers, cake-baskets 
— Punch — Master Frost, crying cherries — a 
Frenchman with dancing dogs — a Bavarian 
woman selling brooms — half-a-dozen stalls 
with fruit and frippery — and twenty noisy 
games of quoits, and bowls, and ninepins — 
boys throwing at boxes — girls playing at ball 
— gave to the assemblage the bustle, clatter, 
and gaiety of a Dutch fair, as one sees it in 
Teniers' pictures. Plenty of drinking and 
smoking on the green — plenty of eating in the 
booths : the gentlemen cricketers, at one end, 
dining off a round of beef, which made the 
table totter — the players, at the other, supping 
off a gammon of bacon — Amos Stone crammed 
at both — and Landlord Sims bustling every- 
where with an activity that seemed to confer 
upon him tbe gift of ubiquity, assisted by the 
little light-footed maidens, his daughters, all 
smiles and curtsies, and by a pretty black-eyed 
young woman — name unknown, with whom, 
even in the midst of his hurry, he found time, 
as it seemed to me, for a little philandering. 
What would the widow and Miss Lydia have 
said ■? But they remained in happy ignorance 
— the one drinking tea in most decorous prim- 
ness in a distant marquee, disliking to mingle 
with so mixed an assembly, — the other in full 
chase after the most unlucky of all her urchins, 
the boy called Sam, who had gotten into a 
demele with a showman, in consequence of 
mimicking the wooden gentleman Punch, and 
his wife Judy — thus, as the showman observed, 
bringing his exhibition into disrepute. 

Meanwhile, the band struck up in the May- 
house, and the dance, after a little demur, was 
fairly set afloat — an honest English country 
dance — (there had been some danger of waltz- 
ing and quadrilling) — with ladies and gentle- 
men at the top, and country lads and lasses at 
the bottom ; a happy mixture of cordial kind- 
ness on the one hand, and pleased respect on 
the other. It was droll though to see the be- 
plumed and beflowered French hats, the silks 
and the furbelows sailing and rustling amidst 
the straw bonnets and cotton gowns of the 
humbler dancers ; and not less so to catch a 
glimpse of the little lame clerk, shabbier than 
ever, peeping through the canvass opening of 
the booth, with a grin of ineffable delight, 
over the shoulder of our vicar's pretty wife. 
Really, considering^ that Mabel Green and Jem 
Tanner were standing together at that moment 
at the top of the set, so deeply engaged in 
making love that they forgot wiien they ought 
to -begin, and that the little clerk must have 
seen tliem, I cannot help takin<> his grin for a 
favourable omen to those faithful lovers. 

Well, the dance finished, the sun wentdown, 
and we departed. The Maying- is over, the 



AN ADMIRAL ON SHORE, 



201 



booths carried away, and the May-house de- 
molished. Every thing- has fallen into its old 
position, except the love affairs of Landlord 
Sims. The ])retty hiss with the black eyes, 
who first made her appearance at Whitley- 
wood, is actually staying at the Rose Inn, on 
a visit to his daughters; and the village talk 
goes that she is to be the mistress of that 
thriving hostelry, and the wife of its master; 
and both her rivals are jealous, after their 
several fashions — the widow in the tantrums, 
the maiden in the dumps. Nobody knows 
exactly who the black-eyed dainsel may be, — 
but she's jfQung, and pretty, and civil, and 
modest; and, without intending to depreciate 
the merits of either of her competitors, I can- 
not help thinking that our good neighbour has 
shown his taste. 



AN ADMIRAL ON SHORE. 

1 DO not know any moment in which the 
two undelightful truisms, which we are all so 
ready to admit and to run away from, the 
quick progress of time and the instability of 
human events, are brought before us with a 
more uncomfortable consciousness than that 
of visiting, after a long absence, a house with 
whose former inhabitants we had been on 
terms of intimacy. The feel-ing is still more 
unpleasant when it comes to us unexpectedly 
and finds us unprepared, as has happened to 
me to-day. 

A friend requested me this morning to ac- 
company her to call on her little girl, whom 
slie had recently placed at the Belvidcre, a 
Dew and celebrated boarding-school — I beg 
pardon! — establishment for young ladies, 
about ten miles off. We set out accordingly, 
and my friend being a sort of person in whose 
company one is apt to think little of any thing 
but lierself, had proceeded to the very gate of 
the Belvidere before I had at all recollected 
the road we were travelling, when in our mo- 
mentary stop at the entrance of the lawn, I 
at once recognised the large substantial man- 
sion, surrounded by magnificent oaks and elms, 
whose shadow lay broad and heavy on the 
grass in the bright sun of August; the copse- 
like shrubbery, which sunk with a pretty na- 
tural wildness to a dark clear pool, the ha ha, 
which parted the pleasure-ground from the 
open common, and the beautiful country which 
lay like a panorama beyond — in a word, I 
knew at a glance, in spite of the disguise of 
its new appellation, the White House at Han- 
nonby, where ten years ago I had so often 
visited my good old friend Admiral Floyd. 

The place had undergone other transmogri- 
fications besides its change of name; in par- 
ticular, it had gained a few prettinesses and 
had lost much tidiness. A new rustic bench, 

2A 



a green-house, and a verandah, may he laid to 
the former score; a torn book left littering on 
the seat, a broken swing dangling from the 
trees, a skipping-rope on the grass, and a 
straw bonnet on a rose-bush, to the latter; 
besides which, the lawn which, under the 
naval reign, had been kept almost as smooth 
as. water, was now in complete neglect, the 
turf in some places growing into grass, in 
others trodden quite bare by the continual 
movement of little rapid fee' ; leaves lay under 
the trees ; weeds were on the gravel ; and dust 
upon the steps. And in two or three chosen 
spots small fairy gardens had been cribbed 
from the shrubberies, where seedy mignion- 
ette and languishing sweet peas, and myrtles 
over-watered, and geraniums, trained as never 
geraniums were trained before, gave manifest 
tokens of youthful gardening. None of the 
inhabitants were visible, but it was evidently 
a place gay and busy with children, devoted 
to their sports and their exercise. As we 
neared the mansion, the sounds and sights of 
school-children became more obvious. Two 
or three pianos were jingling in ditlerent rooms, 
a guitar tinkling, and a harp twanging: a din 
of childish voices, partly French partly Eng- 
lish, issued from one end of the house; and 
a foreign looking figure advanced from the 
other; whom, from his silk stockings, his up- 
right carriage, and the boy who followed him 
carrying his kit, I set down for the dancing- 
master; whilst in an upstair apartment were 
two or three rosy laughing faces, enjoying the 
pleasure of disobedience in peeping out of 
window, one of which faces disappeared the 
moment it caught sight of the carriage, and 
was in an other instant hanging round its mo- 
ther's neck in the hall. I could not help ob- 
serving to the governess, who also met us 
there, that it was quite shocking to think how 
often disobedience prospers amongst these lit- 
tle people. If Miss Emily had not been peep- 
ing out of the window when we drove up to 
the door, she would have been at least two 
minutes later in kissing her dear mamma — 
a remark to which the little girl assented very 
heartily, and at which her accomplished pre- 
ceptress tried to look grave. 

Leaving Emily with her mother, I sallied 
forth on the lawn to reconnoitre old scenes 
and recollect old times. My first visit espe- 
cially forced itself on my remembrance. It 
had been made, like this, under the sultry 
August sun. We then lived within walking 
distance, and I had been proceeding hither to 
call on our new neighbours, Admiral and Mrs. 
Floyd, when a very unaccountable noise on 
the lawn induced me to pause at the entrance; 
a moment's observation explained the nature 
of the sounds. The admiral was shooting 
wasps with a pocket-pistol ; a most villanous | 
amusement, as it seemed to me, who ain by i 
nature and habit a hater of such poppery, and i 
indeed of all noises which are at once sudden i 



•i02 



OUR VILLAGE 



and unexpected. My first impulse was to run 
away, and 1 had actually made some motions ' 
towards a retreat, when, struck with the lu- 
dicrous nature of the sport, and the folly of 
beincr frinhtened at a sort of stjiiibbery, which 
even the unusual game (thoug-h the admiral 
was a capital marksman, and seldom failed to 
knock down his insect) did not seem to .re- 
gard, I faced about manfully, and contenting 
myself with putting my hand? to my ears to 
keep out the sound, remained at a very safe 
distance to survey the scene. There, under 
the shade of the tall elms, sate the veteran, a 
little old withered man, very like a pocket- 
pistol himself, brown, succinct, grave, and I 
fiery. He wore an old-fashioned naval uni- 
form of blue, faced with white, which set oflT 
his mahogany countenance, drawn into a thou- 
sand deep wrinkles, so that his face was as 
full of lines as if it had been tattooed, with 
the full force of contrast. At his side stood 
a very tall, masculine, large-boned middle- 
aged woman, something like a man in petti- 
coats, whose face, in spite of a quantity of 
rouge and a small portion of modest assur- 
ance, might still be called handsome, and 
could never be mistaken for belonging to other 
than an Irish woman. There was a touch of 
the brogue in her very look. She, evidently 
his wife, stood l)y marking the covies, and 
enjoying as it seemed to me, the smell of gun- 
powder, to which she had the air of being 
quite as well accustomed as the admiral. A 
younger lady was watching them at a little 
distance, apparently as much amused as my- 
self, and far less frightened ; on her advancing 
to meet me, tlie pistol was put down, and the 
admiral joined us. This was my first intro- 
duction ; we were acquainted in a moment, 
and before the end of my visit he had shown 
me all over his house, and told me the whole 
history of his life and adventures. 

In these there was nothing remarkable, ex- 
cepting their being so entirely of the sea. 
Some sixty-five years before, he had come 
into the world in the middle of the British 
channel, whilst his mother was taking a little 
trip from Portsmouth to Plymouth on board 
her husband's flag-ship, (for he too had been 
an admiral,) when, rather before be was ex- 
pected, our admiral was born. This debiit 
fixed his destiny. At twelve years old he 
went to sea, and had remained there ever 
since, till now, when an unlucky promotion 
sent him ashore, and seemed likely to keep 
him there. I never saw a man so unaffect- 
edly displeased with his own title. He for- 
bade any of his family from calling him by it, 
and took it as a sort of affront from strangers. 

Being, however, on land, bis first object 
was to make his residence as much like a 
man-of-war as possible, or rather as much like 
that hcnu-i(Ual of a habitation his last frigate, 
the Mormaiden, in which he had by diiferent 
prizes made above, sixty thousand pounds. 



By that standard his calculations were regu- 
lated ; all the furniture of the White House at 
Hannonby was adapted to the proportions of 
His Majesty's ship the Mermaiden. The great 
drawing-room was fitted up exactly on the 
model of her cabin, and the whole of that spa- 
cious and commodious mansion made to re- 
semble, as much as possible, that wonderfully 
inconvenient abode, the inside of a ship ; every 
thing crammed into the smallest possible com- 
pass ; space most unnecessarily economized, 
and contrivances devised for all tiiose matters 
which need no contriving at all. He vic- 
tualled the house as for an East-India voyage, 
served out the provisions in rations, and swung 
the whole family in hammocks. 

It will easily be believed that these innova- 
tions, in a small village in a midland county, 
where nineteen-twentieths of the inhabitants 
bad never seen a piece of water larger than 
Hannonby great pond, occasioned no small 
commotion. The poor admiral had his own 
troubles. At first every living thing about the 
place rebelled — there was a general mutiny; 
the very cocks and bens whom be had cram- 
med up in coops in the poultry-yard screamed 
aloud for liberty; and the pigs, ducks, and 
geose, equally prisoners, squeaked and gab- 
bled for water; the cows lowed in their stall 
— the sheep bleated in their pens, the whole 
live stock of Hannonby was in durance. 

The most unmanageable of these complain- 
ers were of course the servants : with the men, 
after a little while, he got on tolerably, stern- 
ness and grog (the wind and sun of the fable) 
conquered them ; his stanchest opponents were 
of the other sex, the whole tribe of housemaids 
and kitchenmaids abhorred him to a woman, 
and plagued and thwarted him every hour of 
the day. He, on bis part, returned their aver- 
sion with interest; talked of female stupidity, 
female awkwardness, and female dirt, and 
threatened to compound an household of the 
crew of the Mermaiden, that should shame all 
the twirlers of mops and brandishers of brooms 
in the county. Es|)ecially, he used to vaunt 
the abilities of a certain Bill Jones, as the best 
laundress, sempstress, cook, and housemaid 
in the navy; him he was determined to pro- 
cure, to keep bis refractory household in some 
order; accordiivgl}', he wrote to desire his pre- 
sence ; and Bill, unable to resist the stuumons 
of his old commander, arrived accordingly. 

This Avatar, wiiich had been anti^i'pall■d by 
the revolted damsels with no small dismay, 
tended considerably to ameliorate matters. 
The dreaded majnr-domo turned out to be a 
smart young sailor, of four or fivo-and-twenty, 
with an arch smile, a bright merry eye, and a 
most knowing nod, by no means insensible to 
female objurgation, or indifferent to female 
charms. The women of the house, particu- 
larly the pretty ones, soon perceived their 
power; and as this Admirable Crjebton of his 
Majesty's ship the Mermaiden, had, amongst 



AN ADMIRAL ON SHORE. 



203 



his other accomplishments, the address com- 
pletely to afovern his master, all was soon in 
the smoothest track possible. Neither, uni- 
ve'sal (renins thonoh he were, was Bill Jones 
at all disdainful of female assistance, or averse 
to the theory of a division of labour. Under 
his wise direction and discreet patronage, a 
peace was patched up between the admiral 
and his rebellious handmaids. A general am- 
nesty was proclaimed, with the solitary ex- 
ce])tion of an old crone of a she-cook, who 
had, on some occasion of culinary interfer- 
ence, turned her master out of his own kitch- 
en, and garnished Bill Jones's jacket with an 
unseemly rag yclept a dish-clout. She was 
dismissed by mutual consent; and Sally the 
kitchenmaid, a pretty black-eyed girl, promo- 
ted to the vacant post, which she filled with 
eminent ability. 

Soothed, guided, and humoured by his 
trusty adherent, and influenced perhaps a lit- 
tle by the force of example and the effect of 
the land breeze, which he had never breathed 
so long before, our worthy veteran soon began 
to show syiTiptoms of a man of this world. 
Tin? earth became, so to say, his native ele- 
ment. He took to gardening, to farming, for 
which Bill Jones had also a taste; set free 
his prisoners in the basse-cour, to the unutter- 
able glorification and crowing of cock and hen, 
and cackling and gabbling of goose and tur- 
key, and enlarged his own walk from pacing 
backwards and forwards in the dining-room, 
followed by his old shipmates, a Newfoundland 
dog- and a tame goat, into a stroll round his 
own crrounds, to the great delight of those 
faithful attendants. He even talked of going 
pheasant shooting, bought a hunter, and was 
only saved from following the fox-hounds by ac- 
cidentally taking up Peregrine Pickle, which, 
by a kind of Sortes Virgilianae, opened on the 
mischances of Lieutenant Hatchway and 
Commodore Trunnion in a similar expedi- 
tion. 

After this warning which he considered as 
nothing less than providential, he relinquished 
any attempt at mounting that formidable ani- 
mal, a horse, but having found his land legs, 
he was afoot all day long in his farm or his 
garden, setting people to rights in all quarters, 
and keeping up the place with the same scru- 
pulous nicety that he was wont to bestow on 
the planks and rigging of his dear Mermaiden. 
Amongst the country people, he soon became 
popular. They liked the testy little gentle- 
man, who dispensed his beer and grog so 
bountifully, and talked to thein so freely. He 
would have his own way, to be sure, but then 
he paid for it ; besides, he entered into their 
tastes and amusements, promoted May-games, 
revels, and other country sports, patronized 
dancing-dogs and monkeys, and bespoke plays 
in barns. Above all, he had an exceeding 
partiality to vagrants, strollers, gipsies, and 
such like persons ; listened to their tales with 



a delightful simplicity of belief; pitied them ; 
relieved them ; fought their battles at the 
bench and the vestry, and got into two or 
three scrapes with constables and magistrates, 
by the activity of his protection. Only one 
counterfeit sailor with a sham wooden-leg, he 
found out at a question, and, by aid of Bill 
Jones, ducked in the horse-pond, for an im- 
postor, till the unlucky wretch, who was, as 
the worthy seaman suspected, totally unused 
to the water, a thorough land-lnbber, was 
nearly drowned ; an adventure which turned 
out the luckiest of his life, he having carried 
his case to an attorney, who forced the ad- 
miral to pay fifty pounds for the exploit. 

Our good veteran was equally popular 
amongst the gentry of the neiohbourhood. 
His own hospitality was irresistible, and his 
frankness and simplicity, mixed with a sort 
of petulant vivacity, combined to make him 
a most welcome relief to the dulness of a 
country dinner party. He enjoyed society 
extremely, and even had a spare bed erected 
for company ; moved thereunto by an accident 
which befel the fat Rector of Kinton, who 
having unfortunately consented to sleep at 
Hannonby one wet night, had alarmed the 
whole house, and nearly broken his own 
neck, by a fall from his hammock. The ad- 
miral would have put up twenty spare beds, 
if he could have been sure of filling them, 
for besides his natural sociability, he was, it 
must be confessed, in spite of his farming, 
and gardening, and keeping a log-book, a 
good deal at a loss how to fill up his time. 
His reading was none of the most exten- 
sive: Robinson Crusoe, the Naval Chronicle, 
Southey's admirable life of Nelson, and Smol- 
let's novels, formed the greater part of his 
library ; and for other books he cared little ; 
though he liked well enough to pore over 
maps and charts, and to look at modern voy- 
ages, especially if written by landsmen or 
ladies ; and his remarks on those occasions 
often displayed a talent for criticism, which, 
under difTerent circumstances, might have 
ripened into a very considerable reviewer. 

For the rest, he was a most kind and ex- 
cellent person, although a little testy and not 
a little absolute ; and a capital disciplinarian, 
although addicted to the reverse sins of mak- 
ing other people tipsy whilst he kept himself 
sober, and of sending forth oaths in volleys, 
whilst he suffered none other to swear. He 
had besides a few prejudices incident to his 
condition — loved his country to the point of 
hating all the rest of the world, especially 
the French ; and regarded his own profession 
with a pride which made him intolerant of 
every other. To the army he had an intense 
and growing hatred, much augmented since 
victory upon victory had deprived him of the 
comfortable feeling of scorn. The battle of 
Waterloo fairly posed him. "To he sure to 
have drubbed the French was a fine thing — a 



204 



OUR VILLAGE. 



very fine tliin^ — no denyingf that ! but why 
not liave fought out the quarrel by sea ]" 

I made no mention of Mrs. Floyd in enu- 
meratinor the admiral's domestic arrangements, 
because, sooth to say, no one could have less 
concern in them than that good lady. She 
had not been Mrs. Floyd for five-and-twenty 
years without thoroughly understanding her 
husband's despotic humour, and her own light 
and happy temper enabled her to conform to 
it without the slightest appearance of reluc- 
tance or discontent. She liked to be managed 
— it saved her trouble. She turned out to be 
Irish as I had suspected. The admiral, who 
had reached the age of forty without betray- 
ing the slightest symptom of matrimony, had, 
during a sojourn in Cork Harbour, fallen in 
love with her, then a buxom widow, and mar- 
ried her in something less than three weeks 
after their accjuaintauce began, chiefly moved 
to that unexpected proceeding by the firmness 
with wiiich she bore a salute from the Lord 
Lieutenant, which threw half the ladies on 
board into hysterics. 

Mrs. Floyd was indeed as gallant a w^oman 
as ever stood tire. Her first husband had 
been an officer in the army, and she had fol- 
lowed the camp during two campaigns; had 
been in one battle and several skirmishes, and 
had been taken and re-taken with the carriages 
and baggage, without betraying the slightest 
symptom of fear. Her naval career did not 
shame her military reputation. She lived 
chiefly on board, adopted sea phrases and sea 
customs, and but for the ))etticoat might have 
passed ior a sailor herself. 

And of all the sailors that ever lived, she 
was the merriest, the most generous, the most 
unselfish ; the very kindest of that kindest 
race! There w^as no getting away from her 
hearty hospitality, no escrajiing her prodigal- 
ity of presents. It was dangerous to praise 
or even to approve of any thing belonging to 
herself in her hearing; if it had been the 
carpet under her feet, or the shawl on her 
shoulders, either would instantly have been 
stripped off to offer. Then her exquisite 
good-humour ! Coarse and boisterous she 
certainly was, and terribly L-ish ; but the se- 
verest stickler for female decorum, the nicest 
critic of female manners, would have been 
disarmed by the contagion of Mrs. Floyd's 
good-humour. 

My chief friend and favourite of the fam- 
ily was, however, one who- hardly seemed to 
belong to it — Anne, the eldest daughter. I 
liked her even better than I did her father and 
HKJtber, although for very different qualities. 
She was " inland bred," and combined in her- 
self suflicient self-possession and knowledge 
of the world, of literature, and of society, to 
have set up the whole house, provided it had 
been possible to su])j)ly their deficiency from 
her superabundance; she was three or four- 
and-twenty, too, past the age of mere young- 



ladyism, and entirely unaccomplished, if she 
could be called so, who joined to the most 
elegant manners a highly-cultivated under- 
standing, and a remarkable talent for conversa- 
tion. Nothing could exceed the fascination 
of her delicate and poignant raillery, her voice 
and smile were so sweet, and her wit so light 
and glancing. She had the still rarer merit 
of being either entirely free from vanity, or 
of keeping it in such good order, that it never 
appeared in look or word. Conversation, much 
as she excelled in it, was not necessary to her, 
as it is to most eminent talkers. I think she 
enjoyed quiet observation, full as much, if not 
more; and at such times there was something 
of good-humoured malice in her bright hazel 
eye, that spoke more than she ever allowed 
her tongue to utter. Her father's odd ways, 
for instance, and her mother's odd speeches, 
and her sister's lack-a-daisicalness, amused 
her rather more than they ought to have done ; 
but she had never lived with them, having 
been brought up by an aunt who had recently 
died leaving her a splendid fortune; and even 
now that she had come to reside at boiBie, was 
treated by her parents, although very kindly, 
rather as an honoured guest than as a cher- 
ished daughter. 

Anne Floyd was a sweet creature in spite 
of a little over-acnteness. I used to think she 
wanted nothing but falling in love to soften 
her proud spirit, and tame her bright eye; but 
falling in love was quite out of her way — she 
had the unfortunate distrust of an heiress, sa- 
tiated with professions of attachment, and sus- 
pecting every man of wooing her fortune ra- 
ther than herself. By dint of hearing exag- 
gerated praise of her beauty, she had even 
come to think herself plain ; perhaps another 
circumstance a little contributed to this per- 
suasion — she was said to be, and undoubtedly 
was, remarkably like her father. There is no 
accounting for the strange freaks that nature 
plays in the matter of family likeness. The 
admiral was certainly as ugly a little man as 
one should see in a summer day, and Anne 
was as certainly a very pretty young woman : 
yet it was quite impossible to see them toge- 
ther and not be struck with the extreme and 
even absurd resemblance between his old bat- 
tered face and her bright and sparkling coun- 
tenance. To have been so like my good friend 
the admiral, might have cured a lighter spirit 
of vanity. 

.Tulia, the younger and favourite daughter, 
was a fiue tall handsome girl of nineteen, just 
what her mother must have been at the same 
age; she had been entirely brought up by 
Mrs. Floyd, except when deposited from time 
to time in various country boarding-schools, 
whilst that good lady enjoyed the pleasure of 
a cruise. Miss .lulia exhibited the not un- 
common phenomenon of having imbibed the 
opposite faults to those of her instructress, 
and was soft, mincing, languid, affected, and 



AN ADMIRAL ON SHORE, 



205 



i'ull of airs and graces of the very worst sort; 
but I don't know that she was much more ig- 
norant and silly than a girl of nineteen, with 
a neglected education, must needs be; and 
she had the farther excuse of being a spoiled 
child. Her father doated upon her, and 
thought her the most accomplished young 
woman of the age; for certain, she could play 
a little, and sing a little, and paint a little, 
and talk a little very bad French, and dance 
and dress a great deal. She had also culti- 
vated her mind by reading all the love-stories 
and small poetry that came in her way; cor- 
responded largely with half-a-dozen bosom 
I friends picked up at her different seminaries : 
and even aspired to the character of authoress, 
having actually perpetrated a sonnet to the 
moon, which sonnet, contrary to the well- 
known recipe of Boileau and the ordinary 
practice of all nations, contained eighteen 
lines, four quatrains, and a couplet; a prodi- 
gality of words which the fair poetess endea- 
voured to counterbalance by a corresponding 
sparingness of idea. There was no harm in 
.Tulia, poor thing, with all her affectation. 
She was really warm-hearted and well-tem- 
pered, and might have improved under her 
sister's kind and judicious management, but 
for a small accident which interrupted the 
family harmonj^ and eventually occasioned 
their removal from Hannonby. 

The admiral, always addicted to favourit- 
ism, had had under his protection, from boy- 
hood to mianhood, one youth of remarkable 
promise. He had been his first-lieutenant on 
board the Mermaiden, and was now, at three- 
and-twenty, a master and commander; which 
promotion, although it ejected him from that 
paragon of frigates, the young captain did not 
seem to think so great an evil as the admiral 
had found his advancement. He was invited 
to the White House forthwith ; and the gal- 
lant veteran, who seldom took the trouble to 
conceal any of his purposes, soon announced 
that Captain Clareraont was his intended son- 
in-law, and that Miss Julia was the destined 
bride. 

The gentleman arrived, and did as much 
honour to ihe admiral's taste as his other fa- 
vourite Bill Jones. Captain Claremont was 
really a very fine young man, with the best 
part of beauty, figure and countenance, and a 
delightful mixture of frankness and feeling, of 
spirit and gaiety, in his open and gentlemanly 
manners; he was, at a word, just the image 
that one conjures up when thinking of a naval 
ofhcer. His presence added greatly to the 
enjoyment of the family ; the admiral " fought 
his battles over again," and so did his lady, 
who talked and lauahed all day long: Anne 
watched the proceedings with evident amuse- 
ment, and looked even archer than usual; 
whilst Julia, the heroine of the scene, behaved 
as is customary in such cases, walked about 
exquisitely dressed, with a book in her hand, 

18 



or reclined in a picturesque attitude expecting 
to be made love to; and Captain Claremont, 
who had never seen either sister before, pleased 
with Julia's beauty, and a little alarmed at 
Anne's wit, appeared in a fair way of losing 
his heart in the proper quarter. In short, the 
flirtation seemed going on very prosperously; 
and the admiral in high glee, vented divers 
sea jokes on the su])posed lovers, and chuckled 
over the matter to Bill Jones, who winked and 
grinned and nodded responsively. 

After a few weeks that sagacious adherent 
began to demur — "Things seemed," as he 
observed, "rather at a stand-still — the court- 
ship was a deal slacker, and his honour, the 
captain, had talked of heaving anchor, and 
sailing off for Lincolnshire." To this the 
admiral answered nothing but "tush!" and 
" pshaw !" and as the captain actually relin- 
quished, with very little pressing, his design 
of leaving Hannonby, Bill Jones's snspicions 
did seem a little super-subtle. Bill, how- 
ever, at the end of ten days, retained his 
opinion. " For certain," he said, " Miss Julia 
had all the signs of liking upon her, and moped 
and hung her head and talked to herself like 
the negro who drowned himself for love on 
board the Mermaiden ; and the captain, he 
could not say but he might be in love — he 
was very much fallen away since he had been 
in that latitude — had lost his spunk, and was 
become extraordinarily forgetsome, — he might 
be in love, likely enough, but not with Miss 
Julia — he was sure to sheer away from her; 
never spoke to her at breakfast or dinner, and 
would tack a hundred ways not to meet her, 
whilst he was always following in the wake 
of Miss Anne ; and she (Miss Julia) had taken 
to writing long letters again, and to walking 
the terrace between the watches, and did not 
seem to care for the captain. He could not 
make the matter out. Miss Anne, indeed" — 
Here the admiral, to whom the possibility of 
a failure in his favourite scheme had never 
occurred, interrupted his confidant by a thou- 
sand exclamations of " ass ! blockhead! lub- 
ber !" to which tender appellations, that faith- 
ful satellite made no other reply than a shake 
of the head as comprehensive as Lord Bur- 
leigh's. 

The next morning vindicated Bill's sagaci- 
ty. Anne, who, for obvious reasons, had taken 
the task upon herself, communicated to her 
father that Captain Claremont had proposed 
to her, and that she had accepted his offer. 
The admiral was furious, but Anne, though 
very mild, was very firm ; she would not give 
up her lover, nor would her lover relinquish 
her; and Julia, when appealed to, asserted her 
female privilege of white-lying, and declared, 
that if there was not another man in the world, 
she would never have married Captain Clare- 
mont. The admiral, thwarted by every body, 
and compelled to submit for the first time in 
his life (except in the affair of his promotion 



208 



OUR VILLAGE 



and that of the ducked sailor), stormed, and 
swore, and scolded all round, and refused to 
he pacified ; Mrs. Floyd, to whom his fiat had 
seemed like fate, was frightened at the g-ene- 
ral temerity, and vented her unusual discom- 
fort in scoldincr too; Anne took refucre in the 
house of a friend ; and poor Julia, rejected hy 
one party and lectured by the other, comforted 
herself by runningr away, one fine nioht, with 
a youiior officer of drafjoons, with whom she 
had had an off-and-on corres[)ondence for a 
twelvemonth. This elopement was the cope- 
stone of the admiral's misfortunes; he took a 
hatred to Hannonby,and left it forthwith; and 
it seemed as if he had left his anjrer behind 
him, for the next tidintrs we heard of the 
Floyds, Julia and her spouse were forgiven 
in spite of his soldiership, and the match had 
turned out far better than might have been 
expected ; and Anne and her captain were in 
hicrh favour, and the admiral gaily anticipat- 
ing a flag-ship and a war, and the delight of 
bringing up his grandsons to be the future or- 
naments of the British navy. 



THE QUEEN OF THE MEADOW. 

In a winding unfrequented road, on the 
south side of our Village, close to a low, two- 
arched bridge, thrown across a stream of more 
beauty than consequence, stood the small ir- 
regular dwelling, -^nd the picturesque build- 
ings of Hatherford Mill. It was a pretty 
scene on a summer afternoon, was that old 
mill, with its strong lights and shadows, its 
low-hrowed cottage covered with the cluster- 
ing Pyracantha, and the clear brook which, 
after dashing, and foaming, and brav/ling, and 
playing off all the airs' of a mountain river, 
while pent up in the mill-stream, was no 
sooner let loose, than it subsided into its natu- 
ral peaceful character, and crept quietly along 
the valley, meandering through the green 
woody meadows, as tranquil a trout stream, 
as ever Izaak Walton angled in. 

Many a traveller has stayed his step to ad- 
mire the old buildings of Hatherford Mill, 
backed by its dark orchard, especially wlien 
its accompanying figures, the jolly miller sit- 
ting before the door, pipe in mouth, and jug 
in hand, like one of Teniers' boors, the mealy 
miller's man with his White sack over his 
shoulders, carefully descending the out-of-door 
steps, and the miller's daughter, flitting about 
amongst her poultry, gave life and motion to 
the picture. 

The scenery at the other end of the road 
was equally attractive, in a different style. 
Its principal feature was the great farm of the 
parish, an old manorial house, solid and vene- 
rable, with a magnificent clump of witch elms 
in front of the porch, a suburb of out-build- 



ings behind, and an old-fiishioned garden with 
its rows of espaliers, its wide flower-borders, 
and its close filbert-walk, stretcliing like a 
cape into the waters, the strawberry beds, 
slo|)ing into the very stream ; so that the cows, 
which, in sultry weather, came down by twos 
and by threes, from the opposite meadows, to 
cool themselves in the water, could almost 
crop the leaves as they stood. 

In my mind, that was the pleasanter scene 
of the two; but such could hardly have been 
the general opinion, since nine out of ten pass- 
ers-by never vouchsafed a glance at the great 
farm, but kept their eyes steadily fixed on the 
mill ; perhaps to look at the old buildings, 
perhaps at the miller's j'oung daiighter. 

Katy Dawson was accounted by common 
consent the prettiest girl in the parish. Fe- 
male critics in beauty would be sure to limit 
the commendation by asserting that her fea- 
tures were irregular, that she had not a good 
feature in her face, and so forth ; but these re- 
marks were always made in her absence, and 
no sooner did she appear than even her critics 
felt the power of her exceeding loveliness. It 
was the Hebe look of youth and health, the 
sweet and joyous expression, and above all, 
the unrivalled brilliancy of colouring, that 
made Katy's face, with all its faults, so plea- 
sant to look upon. A complexion of the 
purest white, a coral lip, and a cheek like the 
pear, her namesake, " on the side that's next 
the sun," were relieved by rich curls of brown 
hair, of the deep yet delicate hue that one 
sometimes finds in the ripest and latest hazel- 
nut of the season. Her figure was well suited 
to her blossomy countenance, round, short, and 
childlike; add to this, "a pretty foot, a merry 
glance, a passing pleasing tongue," and no 
wonder that Katy was the belle of the village. 

But gay and smiling though she were, the 
fair maid of the mill was little accessible to 
wooers. Her mother had long been dead, and 
her father, who held her as the very a]iple of 
his eye, kept her carefully away from the 
rustic junketings, at which rural flirtations are 
usually begun. Accordingly our village beauty 
had reached the age of eighteen, without a 
lover. She had, indeed, had two offers; one 
from a dashing horse-dealer, who having seen 
her for five minutes one day, when her father 
called her to admire a nag that he was cheap- 
ening, proposed for her that very night as they 
were chaffering about the price, and took the 
refusal in such dudgeon, that he would have 
left the house utterly inconsolable, had ho not 
contrived to comfort himself by cheating the 
offending papa, twice as much as he intended, 
in his horse bargain. The other proffer was 
from a staid, thick, sober, silent, middle-aged 
))ersonage, who united the offices of school- 
master and land-measurer, an old crony of the 
good miller's, in whose little parlour he had 
smoked his pipe regularly every Saturday 
evening for the last thirty years, and who 



THE QUEEN OF THE MEADOW. 



207 



called him still from habit, " Younar Sam 
Roliinson." He, one eveninjr as they sat to- 
crether smoking^, outside the door, broke his 
accustniiipd silence, with a formal demand of 
his comrade's permission to present himself 
as a suitor to Miss Katy ; which permission 
being-, as soon as her father could speak for 
astonishment, civilly refused, Master Samuel 
Uobinson addressed himself to his pipe ag-ain, 
with his wonted phleirm, played a manful part 
in emptying- the ale-jug', and discussing the 
Welsh rabbit, reappeared as usual, on the fol- 
lowing Saturday, and to judge from his whole 
demeanour, seemed to have entirely forgotten 
his unlucky proposal. 

Soon after the rejection of this most philo- 
sophical of all discarded swains, an important 
change took place in the neighbourhood, in the 
shape of a new occupant of the great farm. 
The quiet respectable old couple, who had re- 
sided there for half a century, had erected the 
mossy sun-dial, and planted the great mulber- 
ry-tree, having determined to retire from busi- 
ness, were succeeded by a new tenant from a 
distant county, the youngest son of a gentle- 
man brought up to agricultural pursuits, whose 
spirit and activity, his boldness in stocking 
and cropping, and his scientific management 
of manures and machinery, formed the strong- 
est possible contrast with the old-world prac- 
tices of his predecessors. All the village was 
full of admiration of the intelligent young 
farmer, Edward Grey; who being unmarried, 
and of a kindly and sociable disposition, soon 
became familiar with high and low, and was 
nowhere a greater favourite than with his op- 
posite neighbour, our good miller. 

Katy's first feeling towards her new ac- 
quaintance, was an awe, altogether different 
from her usual shame-faced ness ; a genuine 
fear of the quickness and talent which broke 
out not merely in his conversation, but in every 
line of his acute and lively countenance. There 
was occasionally, a sudden laughing light in 
his hazel eye, and a very arch and momentary 
smile, now seen, and now gone, to which, be- 
coming as most people thought them, she had 
a particular aversion. In short, she paid the 
young farmer, for so he persisted in being 
called, the compliment of running away, as 
soon as he came in sight, for three calendar 
months. At the end of that time, appearances 
mended. First she began to loiter at the door; 
then she staid in the room ; then she listened ; 
then she smiled ; then she laughed outright ; 
then she ventured to look up ; then she began 
to talk in her turn : and before another month 
had past, would prattle to Edward Grey as 
fearlessly and freely, as to her own father. 

On his side, it was clear that the young 
farmer, with all his elegance and refinement, 
his education and intelligence, liked nothing 
better than this simple village lass. He 
passed over the little humours, proper to her 
I as a beauty and a spoiled child, with the 



kindness of an indulgent brother ; was amused 
with her artlessness, and delighted with her 
gaiety. Gradually he began to find his own 
fireside lonely, and the parties of the neigh- 
bourhood boisterous ; the little parlour of the 
miller formed just the happy medium, quiet- 
ness without solitude, and society without 
dissipation — and thither he resorted accord- 
ingly. His spaniel Ranger, taking possession 
of the middle of the hearth-rug, just as com- 
fortably as if in his master's own demesnes, 
and Katy's large tabby cat, a dog-hater by 
profession, not merely submitting to the 
usurpation, but even ceasing to erect her bris- 
tles on his approach. 

So the world waned for three months more. 
One or two little miffs had, indeed, occurred 
between the parties ; once, for instance, at a 
fair held in the next town on the first of May, 
Katy having been frightened at the lions and 
tigers painted outside a show, had nevertheless 
been half-led, half-forced into the booth to 
look at the real living monsters, by her un- 
gallant beau. This was a sad offence. But 
unluckily our village damsel had been so 
much entertained by some monkeys and par- 
rots on her first entrance, that she quite forgot 
to be frightened, and afterwards when con- 
fronted with the royal brutes, had taken so 
great a fancy to a beautiful panther, as to 
wish to have him for a pet ; so that this quar- 
rel passed away almost as soon as it began. 
The second was about the colour of a riband, 
an election riband ; Katy having been much 
caught by the graceful person and gracious 
manners of a country candidate, who called 
to request her father's vote, had taken upon 
herself to canvass their opposite neighbour, 
and was exceedingly astonished to find her 
request refused, on no better plea, than a dif- 
ference from her favourite in political opinion, 
and a previous promise to his opponent. The 
little beauty, astonished at her want of in- 
fluence, and rendered zealous by opposition, 
began to look grave, and parties would cer- 
tainly have run high at Hatherford, had not 
her candidate put a stop to the dispute, by 
declining to come to the poll. So that the 
quarrel was, per force, pretermitted. At last, 
a real and serious anxiety overclouded Katy's 
innocent happiness ; and as it often happens, 
in this world of contradictions, the grievance 
took the form of a gratified wish. 

Of all her relations, her cousin Sophy May- 
nard had long been her favourite. She was 
an intelligent unaffected young woman, a few 
years older than herself; the daughter of a 
London tradesman, excellently brought up, 
with a great deal of information and taste, 
and a total absence of airs and finery. In 
person, she might almost he called plain, but 
there was such a natural gentility about her ; 
her manners were so pleasing, and her con- 
versation so attractive, that few people after 
passiPj/ an evening in her society remem- 



208 



OUR VILLAGE. 



bered her want of beauty. She was exceed- 
ingly fond of the country, and of her pretty 
cousin, who, on her part, looked up to her 
with much of the respectful fondness of a 
youno- sister, and had thouirht to herself a 
hundred times, when most pleased with their 
new nei^rhbour, " how I wish my cousin 
Sophy could see Edward Grey !" and now 
that her cousin Sophy had seen Edward Grey, 
poor Katy would have (^iven all that she pos- 
sessed in the world, if they had never met. 
They were heartily delicrhted with each other, 
and proclaimed openly their mutual good 
opinion. Sophy praised Mr. Grey's vivacity ; 
Edward professed himself enchanted with 
Miss Maynard's voice. Each was astonished 
to find in the other, a cultivation unusual in 
that walk of life. They talked, and laughed, 
and sang together, and seemed so happy that 
Katy, without knowing why, became quite 
miserable, flew from Edward, avoided Sophy, 
shrank away from her kind father, and found 
no rest or comfort, except when she could 
creep alone to some solitary place, and give 
vent to her vexation in tears. Poor Katy ! 
she could not tell what ailed her, but she was 
quite sure that she was wretched ; and then 
she cried again. 

In the meanwhile, the intimacy between the 
new friends became closer and closer. There 
was an air of intelligence between them that 
might have puzzled wiser heads than that of 
our simple miller-maiden, A secret — Could 
it be a love secret 1 And the influence of the 
gentleman was so open and avowed, that 
Sophy, when on the point of departure, con- 
sented to prolong her visit to Hatherford, at 
his request, although she had previously re- 
sisted Katy's solicitations, and the hospitable 
urgency of her father. 

Aff'airs were in this posture, when one fine 
evening, towards the end of June, the cousins 
sallied forth ^or a walk, and were suddenly 
joined by Edward Grey, when at such a dis- 
tance from the house, as to prevent the pos- 
sibility of Katy's stealing back thither, as had 
been her usual habit on such occasions. The 
path they chose, led through long narrow 
meadows, sloping down, on either side, to the 
winding stream, enclosed by high hedges, 
and, seemingly, shut out from the world. 

A pleasant walk it was, through those 
newly-mown meadows, just cleared of the 
hay, with the bright rivuletmeanderingthrough 
banks so variously beautiful ; now fringed by 
rushes and sedges; now bordered by little 
thickets of hawthorn, and woodbine, and the 
briar-rose; now overhung by a pollard ash, 
or a silver-barked beech, or a lime-tree in full 
blossom. Now a smooth turfy slope, green 
to the eye, and soft to the foot ; and now 
again a rich embroidery of the golden flag, 
the pur|)le willow-herb, the blue forget-me- 
not, and " a thousand fresh-water flowers of 



several colours," making the banks as gay as 
a garden. 

It was impossible not to pause in this 
lovely spot; and Sophy, who had been col- 
lecting a bright bunch of pink blossoms, the 
ragged-robin, the wild rose, the crane's-bill, 
and the fox-glove, or, to use the prettier Irish 
name of that superb plant, the fairy-cap, ap- 
pealed to Katy to "read a lecture of her 
country art," and show "what every flower, 
as country people hold, did signify." A 
talent for which the young maid of the mill 
was as celebrated as Bellario. But poor 
Katy, who declined Edward's offered arm, 
had loitered a little behind, gathering a long 
wreath of the woodbine, and the briony, and 
the wild vetch, was, or pretended to be, deeply 
engaged in twisting the garland round her 
straw bonnet, and answered not a word. She 
tied on her bonnet, however, and stood by 
listening, whilst the other two continued to 
talk of the symbolic meaning of flowers, 
quoting the well-known lines from the Win- 
ter's Tale, and the almost equally charming 
passage from Philaster. 

At length Edward, who, during the con- 
versation, had been gathering all that he could 
collect of the tall almond-scented tufts of the 
elegant meadow-sweet, whose crested blos- 
soms arrange themselves in a plumage so 
richly delicate, said, holding up his nosegay, 
" I do not know what mystical interpretation 
may be attached to this plant in Katy's 'coun- 
try art,' but it is my favourite amongst flow- 
ers ; and if I were inclined to follow the east- 
ern manner of courtship, and make love by a 
nosegay, I should certainly send it to plead 
my cause. Arid it shall be so," he added, 
after a short pause, his bright and sudden 
smile illumining his whole countenance ; " the 
botanical name signifies, the Queen of the 
Meadow, and wherever I offer this tribute, 
wherever 1 place this tuft, the homage of my 
heart, the proffer of my hand shall go also. 
Oh, that the oflfering might find favour with 
my queen !" Katy heard no more. Slie 
turned away to a little bay formed by the 
rivulet, where a bed of pebbles, overhung by 
a grassy bank, afforded a commodious seat, 
and there she sat her down, trembling, cold, 
and wretched; understanding for the first 
time her own feelings, and wondering if any 
body in all the world had ever been so un- 
happy before. 

There she sat, with the tears rolling down 
her cheeks, unconsciously making " rings of 
rushes that grew thereby," and Edward's dog 
Ranger, who had been watching a shoal of 
minnows at play in the shallow water, and 
every now and then inserting his huge paw 
into the stream, as if trying to catch one, 
came to her, and laid his rough head, and liis 
long curling brown ears into her lap, and 
looked at her with " eyes whose human mean- 
iniT did not need the aid of speech" — eyes 



DORA CRESWELL. 



209 



full of pity and of love ; for Ranger, in com- 
mon with all the four-footed world, loved 
Katy dearly; and now he looked up in her 
face, and licked her cold hand. Oh! kinder 
and faithfuller than your master, thought poor 
Katy, as, with a fresh gush of tears, she laid 
her sweet face on the dog's head, and sat in 
that position, as it seemed to her, for ages, 
whilst her companions were hocking and 
landing some white water-lilies. 

At last they approached, and she arose 
hastily and trembling, and walked on, anxious 
to escape observation. " Your garland is 
loose, Katy," said Edward, lifting his hand 
to her bonnet : " Come and see how nicely I 
have fastened it ! No clearer mirror than the 
dark smooth basin of w^ater, under those 
hazels ! Come !" He put her hand under his 
arm, and led her thither ; and there, when 
mechanically she cast her eyes on the stream, 
she saw the rich tuft of meadow-sweet, the 
identical Queen of the Meadow, waving like 
a plume, over her own straw bonnet : felt her- 
self caught in Edward's arms; for between 
surprise and joy, she had well-nigh fallen ; 
and when, with instinctive modesty, she es- 
caped from his embrace, and took refuge with 
her cousin, the first sound that she heard was 
Sophy's affectionate whisper, " I knew it all 
the time, Katy ! every body knew it but you ! 
and the weddinjr must be next week, for I 
have promised Edward to stay and be bride's- 
maid ;" and the very next week they were 
married. 



DORA CRESWELL. 

Few things are more delightful than to 
saunter along these green lanes of ours, in 
the busy harvest-time ; the deep verdure of 
the hedge-rows, and the strong shadow of 
the trees, contrasting so vividly with the 
fields, partly waving with golden corn, partly 
studded with regular piles of heavy wheat- 
sheaves ; the whole population abroad ; the 
whole earth teeming with fruitfulness, and 
the bright autumn sun careering over-head, 
amidst the deep-blue sky, and the fleecy 
clouds of the most glowing, and least fickle 
of the seasons. Even a solitary walk loses 
its loneliness in the general cheerfulness of 
nature. The air is jjay with bees and butter- 
flies ; the robin twitters from amongst the 
ripening hazel-nuts ; and you cannot proceed 
a quarter of a mile, without encountering 
some merry group of leasers, or some long 
line of majestic wains, groaning under their 
rich burthen, brushing the close hedges on 
either siile, and knocking their tall tops 
against the overhano-ing trees ; the very imaore 
ot pondernns plenty. 

Pleasant, however, as such a procession is 



to look at, it is somewhat dangerous to meet, 
especially in a narrow lane; and I thought 
myself very fortunate one dviy last August, 
in being so near a five-barred gate, as to be 
enabled to escape from a cortege of labourers, 
and harvest-wagons, sufficiently bulky and 
noisy to convoy half the wheat in the parish. 
On they went, men, women, and children, 
shouting, laughing, and singing in joyous ex- 
pectation of the coming harvest-home ; the 
very wagons nodding from side to side, as if 
tipsy, and threatening every moment to break 
down bank, and tree, and hedge, and crush 
every obstacle that opposed them. It would 
have been as safe to encounter the car of 
Juggernaut; I blest my stars; and after lean- 
ing on the friendly gate until the last gleaner 
had passed, a ragged rogue of seven years 
old, who, with hair as white as flax, a skin 
as brown as a berry, and features as grotesque 
as an Indian idol, was brandishing his tuft 
of wheat-ears, and shrieking forth, in a shrill 
childish voice, and with a most ludicrous 
gravity, the popular song of " Buy a broom I" 
— after watching this young gentleman, (the 
urchin is of my acquaintance) as long as a 
curve in the lane would permit, I turned to 
examine in what spot chance had placed me, 
and found before my eyes another picture of 
rural life, but one as different from that which 
I had just witnessed, as the Arcadian peasants 
of Poussin, from the Boors of Teniers, or 
weeds from flowers, or poetry from prose. 

I had taken refuge in a harvest-field be- 
longing to my good neighbour, Farmer Cres- 
well ; a beautiful child lay on the ground at 
some little distance, whilst a young girl, rest- 
ing from the labour of reaping, was twisting 
a rustic wreath of enamelled corn-flowers, 
brilliant poppies, snow-white lilybines, and 
light fragile harebells, mingled with tufts of 
the richest wheat-ears, around its hat. 

There was something in the tender youth- 
fulness of these two innocent creatures, in 
the pretty, though somewhat fantastic, occu- 
pation of the girl, the fresh wild-flowers, the 
ripe and swelling corn that harmonized with 
the season and the hour, and conjured up 
memories of " Dis and Proserpine," and of 
all that is gorgeous and graceful, in old my- 
thology ; of the lovely Lavinia of our own 
poet, and of that finest pastoral of the world, 
the fiir lovelier Ruth. But these fanciful as- 
sociations soon vanished before the real sym- 
pathy excited by the actors of the scene, both 
of whom were known to me, and both objects 
of a sincere and lively interest. 

The young girl, Dora Creswell, was the 
orphan niece of one of the wealthiest yeomen 
in our part of the word, the only child of his 
only brother ; and having lost both her parents 
whilst still an infant, had been reared by her 
widowed uncle as fondly and carefully as his 
own son Walter. He said that he loved her 
quite as well, perhaps he loved her better; for 



18* 



2B 



210 



OUR VILLAGE, 



thoufjh it was impossible for a father not to be 
proud of the bold handsome youth, who, at 
eighteen, had a man's strength, and a man's 
stature ; was the best ringer, the best cricketer, 
and the best shot in the county; yet the fairy 
Dora, who, nearly ten years younger, was at 
once his handmaid, his housekeeper, his play- 
thing, and his companion, was evidently the 
apple of his eye. Our good farmer vaunted 
her accomplishments, as men of his class are 
wont to boast of a high-bred horse, or a favour- 
ite greyhound. 

She could make a shirt and a pudding, darn 
stockings, rear poultry, keep accounts, and 
read the newspaper; was as famous for goose- 
berry wine as Mrs. Primrose, and could com- 
pound a syllabub with any dairy-woman in the 
county. There was not so handy a little crea- 
ture any where ; so thoughtful and trusty about 
the house, and yet out of doors as gay as a 
lark, and as wild as the wind ; nobody was 
like his Dora. So said, and so thought Far- 
mer Creswell : and before Dora was ten years 
old, he had resolved that in due time she 
should marry his son, Walter, and had in- 
formed both parties of his intention. 

Now Farmer Creswell's intentions were 
well known to be as unchangeable as the laws 
of the Medes and Persians. He was a fair 
specimen of an English yeoman, a tall, square- 
built, muscular, stout and active man, with a 
resolute countenance, a keen eye, and an in- 
telligent smile; his temper was boisterous and 
irascible, generous and kind to those whom he 
loved, but quick to take offence, and slow to 
pardon, expecting and exacting implicit obedi- 
ence from all about him. With all Dora's 
good gifts, the sweet and yielding nature of 
the gentle and submissive little girl, was un- 
doubtedly the chief cause of her uncle's par- 
tiality. Above all, he was obstinate in the 
highest degree, had never been known to yield 
a point, or change a resolution ; and the fault 
was the more inveterate, because he called it 
firmness, and accounted it a virtue. For the 
rest, he was a person of excellent principle, 
and perfect integrity ; clear-headed, prudent, 
and sagacious ; fond of agricultural experi- 
ments, which he pursued cautiously, and 
successfully ; a good farmer, and a good 
man. 

His son Walter, who was in person a hand- 
some likeness of his father, resembled him 
also in many points of character, was equally 
obstinate, and far more, fiery, hot, and bold. 
He loved his pretty cousin, much as he would 
have loved a favourite sister, and might very 
possibly, if let alone, have become attached 
to her as his father wished ; but to be dictated 
to, to be chained down to a distant engage- 
ment, to hold himself bound to a mere child ; 
the very idea was absurd ; and restraining with 
difficulty an abrupt denial, he walked down 
into the village, predisposed, out of sheer con- 
tradiction, to fall in love with the first young 



woman who should come in his way ; and he 
did fall in love accordingly. 

Mary Hay, the object of his ill-fated passion, 
was the daughter of the respectable mistress 
of a small endowed school at the other end of 
the parish. She was a delicate, interesting 
creature, with a slight, drooping figure, and a 
fair, downcast face, like a snow-drop, forming 
such a contrast with her gay and gallant wooer, 
as Love, in his vagaries, is often pleased to 
bring together. 

The courtship was Secret and tedious, and 
prolonged from months to years ; for Mary 
shrank from the painful contest which she 
knew that an avowal of their attachment would 
occasion. At length her mother died, and de- 
prived of home, and maintenance, she reluc- 
tantly consented to a private marriage ; an 
immediate discovery ensued, and was followed 
by all the evils, and more than all, that her 
worst fears had anticipated. Her husband 
was turned from the house of his father, and 
in less than three months, his death, by an 
inflammatory fever, left her a desolate and 
penniless widow — unowned and unassisted 
by the stern parent, on whose unrelenting tem- 
per neither the death of his son, nor the birth 
of his grandson, seemed to make the slightest 
impression. But for the general sympathy 
excited by the deplorable situation, and blame- 
less demeanour of the widowed bride, she and 
her infant might have taken refuge in the work- 
house. The whole neighbourhood was zeal- 
ous to relieve, and to serve them; but their 
most liberal benefactress, their most devoted 
friend, was poor Dora. Considering her 
uncle's partiality to herself as the primary 
cause of all this misery, she felt like a guilty 
creature; and casting off" at once her native 
timidity, and habitual submission, she had 
repeatedly braved his anger, by the most earn- 
est supplications for mercy and for pardon ; 
and when this proved unavailing, she tried to 
mitigate their distresses by all the assistance 
that her small means would permit. Every 
shilling of her pocket-money, she expended 
upon her poor cousins ; worked for them, 
begged for them, and transferred to them every 
present that was made to herself, from a silk 
frock, to a penny tartlet. Every thing that 
was her own she gave, but nothing of her 
uncle's; for, though sorely tempted to transfer 
some of the plenty around her, to those whose 
claims seemed so just, and whose need was 
so urgent, Dora felt that she was trusted, and 
that she must prove herself trust-worthy. 

Such was the posture of afll'airs, at the time 
of my encounter with Dora, and little Walter, 
in the harvest-field ; the rest will be best told 
in the course of our dialogue. 

" And so. Madam ! I cannot bear to see my 
dear cousin Mary so sick, and so melancholy; 
and the dear, dear child, that a king might be 
proud of — only look at him !" exclaimed Dora, 
interrupting herself, as the beautiful child, 



DORA CRESWELL. 



211 



sitting- on the ground, in all the placid dignity 
of infancy, looked up at me and smiled in my 
face ; " only look at him," continued she, " and 
think of that dear boy, and his dear mother 
livingr on charity, and they my uncle's lawful 
heirs, whilst I, who have no right whatever, 
no claim at all, — I, that compared to them, am 
but a far-off kinswoman, the mere creature of 
his bounty, should revel in comfort, and in 
plenty, and they starving ! I cannot bear it, 
and I will not. And then the wrong that he 
is doing himself, he that is really so good and 
kind, to be called a hard-hearted tyrant, by the 
whole countryside. And he is unhappy him- 
self too; I know that he is; so tired as he 
comes home, he will walk about his room half 
the night; and often at meal times, he will 
drop his knife and fork, and sigh so heavily. 
He may turn me out of doors, as he threat- 
ened ; or, what is worse, call me ungrateful, 
or undutiful, but he shall see this boy." 

" He never has seen him then ■? and that is 
the reason you are tricking him out so pret- 
tily."- 

" Yes, ma'am. Mind what I told j^ou, 
Walter ! and hold up your hat, and say what 
I bid you." 

" Gan-papa's fowers !" stammered the pret- 
ty boy, in his sweet childish voice, the first 
words that I had ever heard him speak. 

" Grand-papa's flowers I" said his zealous 
preceptress. 

" Gan-papa's fowers !" echoed the boy. 

" Shall you take the child to the house, 
Dora !" asked I. 

" No, ma'am, for I look for my uncle here 
every minute, and this is the best place to ask 
a favour in, for the very sight of the great 
crop puts him in good-humour ; not so much 
on account of the profits, but because the land 
never bore half so much before, and it's all 
owing to his management in dressing and 
drilling. I came reaping here to-day, on pur- 
pose to please him ; for though he says he 
does not wish me to work in the fields, I 
know he likes it; and here he shall see little 
Walter. Do you think he can resist him, 
ma'am," continued Dora, leaning over her in- 
fant cousin, with the grace and fondness of a 
youngMadonna ; "do you think he can resist 
him, poor child ! so helpless, so harmless ; his 
own blood too, and so like his father, no heart 
could be hard enough to hold out, and I am 
sure that his will not. Only," pursued Dora, 
relapsing into her girlish tone and attitude, as 
a cold fear crossed her enthusiastic hope, — 
" only, 1 am half-afraid, that Walter will cry. 
It's strange, when one wants any thing to 
behave particularly well, how sure it is to be 
naughty; my pets especially. I remember 
when my Lady Countess came on purpose to 
see our white peacock, that we got in a pre- 
sent from India, the obstinate bird ran away 
behind a bean-stack, and would not spread his 
train, to show the dead-white spots on his 



glossy white feathers, all we could do. Her 
ladyship was quite angry. And my red and 
yellow marvel of Peru, which used to blow 
at four in the afternoon, as regular as the 
clock struck, was not open the other day at 
five, when dear Miss Ellen came to paint it, 
though the sun was shining as bright as it 
does now. If Walter should scream and cry, 
for my uncle does sometimes look so stern ; 
and then it's Saturday, and he has such a 
beard ! if the child should be frightened ! — 
Be sure, Walter, you don't cry !" said Dora, 
in great alarm. 

"Gan-papa's fowers," replied the smiling 
boy, holding up his hat; and his young pro- i 
tectress was comforted. | 

At that moment the farmer was heard whist- ' 
ling to his dog in a neighbouring field, and | 
fearful that my presence might injure the I 
cause, I departed, my thoiights full of the j 
noble little girl, and her generous purpose. | 

I had promised to call the next afternoon, i 
to learn her success ; and passing the harvest- 
field in my way, I found a group assembled 
there, which instantly dissipated my anxiety, i 
On the very spot where we had parted, I saw \ 
the good farmer himself, in his Sunday clothes, ; 
tossing little Walter in the air; the child] 
laughing and screaming, with delight, and his j 
grandfather, apparently quite as much delight- j 
ed as himself. A pale, slender, young \vo- 
man, in deep mourning, stood looking at their | 
gambols with an air of intense thankfulness ; 1 
and Dora, the cause and sharer of all this hap- 
piness, was loitering behind, playing with the j 
flowers in Walter's hat, which she was hold- 
ing in her hand. Catching my eye, the sweet 
girl came to me instantly. 

" I see how it is, my dear Dora ! and I give 
you joy from the bottom of my heart. Little 
Walter behaved well then ■?" 

" Oh, he behaved like an angel." 

" Did he say, gan-papa's fowers ]" 

"Nobody spoke a word. The moment the 
child took off" his hat, and looked up, the truth 
seemed to flash on my uncle, and to melt his 
heart at once — the boy is so like his father. 
He knew him, instantly, and caught him up 
in his arms, and hugged him just as he is 
hugging him now." 

"And the beard, Dora]" 

" Why, that seemed to take the child's 
fancy, he put up his little hands and stroked 
it ; and laughed in his grandfather's face, and 
flung his chubby arms round his neck, and 
held out his sweet mouth to be kissed ; and 
how my uncle did kiss him ! I thought he 
never would have done; and then he sate 
down on a wheat-sheaf and cried ; and I cried 
too ! Very strange that one should cry for 
happiness I" added Dora, as some large drops 
fell on the wreath which she was adjusting 
round Walter's hat ; " Very strange," repeat- 
ed she, looking up, with a bright smile, and j 
brushing away the tears from her rosy cheeks, 



212 



OUR VILLAGE 



with a bunch of corn-flowers; "Very strange 
that I should cry, when I am the happiest 
creature alive; for Mary and Walter are to 
live with us; and my dear uncle, instead of 
bein^ angry with me, says that he loves me 
better than ever. How very strange it is," 
said Dora, as the tears poured down, faster 
and faster, " that I should be so foolish as to 
cry !" 



THE BIRD-CATCHER. 

A London fog is a sad thing, as every in- 
habitant of London knows full well : dingy, 
dusky, dirty, damp; an atmosphere black as 
smoke, and wet as steam, that wraps round 
you like a blanket; a cloud reaching from 
earth to heaven ; a "palpable obscure," which 
not only turns day into night, hut threatens 
to extinguish the lamps and lanthorns, with 
which the poor street-wanderers strive to il- 
lumine their darkness, dimming and paling the 
"ineffectual fires," until the volume of gas at 
a shop-door cuts no better figure than a hedge 
glow-worm, and a duchess's flambeau would 
veil its glories to a Will-o'-the-wisp. A Lon- 
don fog is, not to speak profanely, a sort of 
renewal and reversal of Joshua's miracle; the 
sun seems to stand still as on that occasion, 
only that now it stands in the wrong place, 
and gives light to the Antipodes. The very 
noises of the street come stifled and smothered 
through that suffocating medium ; din is at a 
pause; the town is silenced; and the whole 
population, biped and quadruped, sympathise 
with the dead and chilling weight of the out- 
of-door world. Dogs and cats just look up 
from their slumbers, turn round, and go to 
sleep again ; the little birds open their pretty 
eyes, stare about them, wonder that the night 
is so long, and settle themselves afresh on 
their perches. Silks lose their gloss, cravats 
their stiffness, hackney-coachmen their way ; 
young ladies fall out of curl, and mammas out 
of temper; masters scold ; servants grumble; 
and the whole city, from Hyde Park Corner 
to Wapping, looks sleepy and cross, like a 
fine gentleman roused before his time, and 
forced to got up by candle-light. Of all de- 
testable things, a London fog is the most de- 
testable. 

Now a country fog is -quite another matter. 
To say nothing of its rarity, and in this dry 
and healthy midland county, few of the many 
variations of our variable English climate are 
rarer; to say nothing of its unfrequent recur- 
rence, liiere is about it much of the jieculiar 
and characteristic beauty which almost all 
natural phenomena exhibit to those who have 
themselves that faculty, oftener perhaps 
claimed than possessed, a genuine feeling of 
nature. This last lovely autumn, when the 



flowers of all seasons seemed mingling as one 
sometimes sees them in a painter's garland — 
the violets and primroses re-blossoming, and 
new crops of sweet-peas and mignionette blend- 
ing with the chrysanthemum, the Michaelmas 
daisy, and the dahlia, the latest blossoms of 
the year — when the very leaves clung to the 
trees with a freshness so vigorous and so 
youthful, that they seemed to have determined, 
in spite of their old bad habit, that for once 
they would not fall — this last lovely autumn 
has given us more foggy mornings, or rather 
more foggy days, than I ever remember to 
have seen in Berkshire : days beginning in a 
soft and vapoury mistiness, enveloping the 
whole country in a veil, snowy, fleecy, and 
light, as the smoke which one often sees cir- 
cling in the distance from some cottage chim- 
ney, or as the still whiter clouds which float 
around the moon : and finishing in sunsets of 
a surprising richness and beauty, when the 
mist is lifted up from tylie earth, and turned 
into a canopy of unrivalled gorgeousness, 
purple, rosy, and golden, and disclosing the 
splendid autumn landscape, with its shining 
rivulets, its varied and mellow vi^oodland tints, 
and its deep emerald pasture lands, every blade 
and leaf covered with a thousand little drops, 
as j)ure as crystal, glittering and sparkling in 
the sunbeams like the dew on a summer morn- 
ing, or the still more brilliant scintillations of 
frost. 

It was in one of these days, early in No- 
vember, that we set out about noon to pay a 
visit to a friend at some distance. The fog 
was yet on the earth, only some brightening 
in the south-west gave token that it was likely 
to clear away. As yet, however, the mist held 
complete possession — a much prettier, lighter, 
and cleaner vapour than that which is defiled 
with London smoke, but every whit as power- 
ful and as delusive. We could not see the 
shoemaker's shop across the road — no! nor 
our chaise when it drew up before our door; 
were fain to guess at our own laburnum tree; 
and found the sign of the Rose invisible, even 
when we ran against the sign-post. Our little 
maid, a kind and careful lass, who, perceiving 
the dreariness of the weather, followed us 
across the court with extra wraps, had well- 
nigh tied my veil round her master's hat, and 
enveloped me in his bearskin; and my dog 
Mayflower, a white greyhound of the largest 
size, who had a mind to give us thetindesired 
honour of her company, earned her point in 
spite of the united efforts of half-a-dozen active 
pursuers, simply because the fog was so thick 
that nobody could see her. It was a complete 
game at bo-peep. Even mine host of the 
Rose, one of the most alert of her followers, 
remained invisible, although we heard his 
voice close beside us. 

A misty world it was, and a watery ; and I, 
that had been praising the beauty of the fleecy 
white fog every day for a week before, began 



THE BIRD-CATCHER. 



213 



to siffh, and shiver, and quake, as much from 
dread of an overturn as from damp and chilli- 
ness, whilst my careful driver and his saga- 
cious steed went on gropinor their way through 
the woody lanes that lead to the Loddon. 
Nothing hilt the fear of confessing my fear, 
that feeling which makes so many cowards 
brave, prevented me from begging to turn back 
again. On, however, we went, the fog be- 
coming every moment heavier as we ap- 
proached that beautiful and brimming river, 
which always, even in the midst of summer, 
brings with it such images of coolness and 
freshness as haunt the fancy after reading 
Undine; and where on the present occasion 
we seemed literally to breathe water — as Dr. 
Clarke said in passing the Danube. My com- 
panion, nevertheless, continued to assure me 
that the day would clear — nay, that it was 
already clearing: and I soon found that he 
was right. As we left the river, we seemed 
to leave the fog; and before we had reached 
the pretty village of Barkham, the mist had 
almost disappeared ; and I began to lose at 
once my silent fears and my shivering chilli- 
ness, and to resume my cheerfulness and my 
admiration. 

It was curious to observe how object after 
object glanced out of the vapour. First of all, 
tiie huge oak, at the corner of Farmer Locke's 
field, which juts out into the lane like a crag 
into the sea, forcing the road to wind around 
it, stood like a hoary giant, with its head lost 
in the clouds ; then Farmer Hewitt's great 
barn — the house, ricks, and stables still invisi- 
ble; then a gate, and half a cow, her head 
being projected over it in strong relief, whilst 
the hinder part of her body remained in the 
haze ; then more and more distinctly, hedge- 
rows, cottages, trees and fields, until, as we 
reached the top of Barkham Hill, the glorious 
sun broke forth, and the lovely picture lay 
before our eyes in its soft and calm beauty, 
emerging gradually from the vapour that over- 
hung it, in such a manner as the image of his 
sleeping Geraldine is said to have been re- 
vealed to Surrey in the magic glass. A beau- 
tiful picture it forms at all times, that valley 
of Barkham. Fancy a road winding down a 
hill between high banks, richly stucJed with 
huge forest trees, oak and beech, to a sparkling 
stream, with a foot-bridge thrown across, 
which runs gurgling along the bottom; then 
turning abruptly', and ascending the opposite 
hill, whilst the rich plantations and old paling 
of a great park " come cranking in " on one 
side, and two or three irregular cottages go 
straggling up on the other; the whole bathed 
in the dewy sunshine, and glowing with the 
vivid colouring of autumn. The picture had, 
at the moment of which I speak, an additional 
interest, by presenting to our eyes the first 
human being whom we had seen during our 
drive (we had heard several) ; one, too, who, 
although he bore little resemblance to the fair 



mistress of Lord Surrey, was yet sufficiently 
picturesque, and in excellent keeping with the 
surrounding scene. 

It was a robust, sturdy, old man, his long 
grey hair appearing between his well-worn 
hat and his warm but weather-beaten coat, 
with a large package at his back, covered with 
oilskin, a bundle of short regular poles in one 
hand, and a large bunch of thistles in the 
other; and even before Mayflower, who now 
made her appearance, and was endeavouring 
to satisfy her curiosity by pawing and poking 
the knapsack, thereby awakening the noisy 
fears of two call-birds, who, together with a 
large bird-net, formed its contents, — before 
this audible testimony of his vocation, or the 
still stronger assurance of his heart)' good- 
humoured visage, my companion, himself 
somewhat of an amateur in the art, had recog- 
nised his friend and acquaintance Old Robin, 
the bird-catcher of B. 

We soon overtook the old man, and after 
apologizing for Mayflower's misdemeanour, 
who, by the way, seemed sufficiently disposed 
to renew the assault, we proceeded at the 
same slow pace up the hill, holding disjointed 
chat on the badness of the weather these foggy 
mornings, and the little chance there was of 
doing much good with the nets so late in the 
afternoon. To which Robin gave a doleful 
assent. He was, however, going, he said, to 
try for a few linnets on the common beyond 
the Great House, and was in hopes to get a 
couple o'"woodlarks from the plantations. He 
wanted the woodlarks, above all things, for 
Mrs. Bennett, the alderman's lady of B., 
whose husband had left the old shop in the 
Market-place, and built a fine white cottage 
just beyond the turnpike-gate — so madam had 
set her heart on a couple of woodlarks, to 
h-ang up in her new shrubbery and make the 
place look rural. 

"Hang up, Robin! Why there is not a 
tree a foot high in the whole plantation ! 
Woodlarks! Why they'll be dead before 
Christmas." 

"That's sure enough, your honour," re- 
joined Robin. 

" A soft-billed bird, that requires as much 
care as a nightingale !" continued my compa- 
nion. " By the way, Robin, have you any 
nightingales now?" 

"Two, sir; a hen " 

" A hen ! That 's something remarkable !" 

"A great curiosity, sir; for your honour 
knows that we always set the trap for night- 
ingales by ear like ; the creature is so shy that 
one can seldom see it, so one is forced to put 
the mealworm near where one hears the song; 
and it's the most uncommon thing that can 
be to catch a hen ; but I have one, and a fine 
cock too, that I caught last spring just afore 
building time. Two as healthy birds as ever 
were seen." 

" Is the cock in song still ■?" 



214 



OUR VILLAGE. 



"Ay, sir, in full song; pipinrr away, jug-, 
jug, jug, all the day, and half the night. 1 
wish yovir honour would come and heai it." 
And, with a f)romise to that effect, we parted, 
each our several ways ; we to visit our friend, 
he to catch, if catch he could, a couple of 
woodlarks to make Mrs. Bennett's villa look 
rural. 

Old Robin had not always been a bird- 
catcher. He had, what is called, fallen in 
the world. His father had been the best-ac- 
customed and most fashionable shoemaker in 
the town of B., and Robin succeeded, in right 
of eldership, to his house, his business, his 
customers, and his debts. No one was ever 
less fitted for the craft. Birds had been his 
passion from the time that he could find a nest 
or string an egg: and the amusement of the 
boy became the pursuit of the man. No 
sooner was he his own master than his whole 
house became an aviary, and his whole time 
was devoted to breeding, taming, and teaching 
the feathered race; an employment that did 
not greatly serve to promote his success as a 
cordwainer. He married; and an extravagant 
wife, and a neglected, and, therefore, unpros- 
perous business, drove him more and more 
into the society of the pretty creatures, whose 
company he had always so greatly preferred 
to that of the two-legged unfeathered animal, 
called man. Things grew worse and worse ; 
and at length poor Robin appeared in the 
Gazette — ruined, as his wife and his customers 
said, by birds : or, as he himself said, by his 
customers and his wife. Perhaps there was 
some truth on either side; at least, a thousand 
pounds of bad debts on his books, and a whole 
pile of milliners and mantuamakers' bills, went 
nigh to prove the correctness of his assertion. 
Ruined, however, he was; and a happy day 
it was for him, since, his stock being sold, his 
customers gone, and his prospects in trade 
fairly at an end, his wife (they had no family) 
deserted him also, and Robin, thus left a free 
man, determined to follow the bent of his ge- 
nius, and devote the remainder of his life to 
the breeding, catching, and selling of birds. 

For this purpose he hired an apartment in 
the ruinous quarter of B. called the Soak, a 
high, spacious attic, not unlike a barn, which 
came recommended to him by its cheapness, 
its airiness, and its extensive cage-room ; and 
his creditors having liberally presented him 
with all the inhabitants of his aviary, some of 
which were very rare and curious, as well as 
a large assortment of cages, nets, traps, and 
seeds, he began his new business with great 
spirit, and has continued it ever since with 
various success, but with unabaling perseve- 
rance, zeal, and good-humour — a very poor 
and a very happy man. His garret in the 
Soak is one of the boasts of B.; all strangers 
go to see the birds and the bird-catcher, and 
most of his visiters are induced to become 
purchasers, for there is no talking with Robin 



on his favourite subject without catching a 
little of his contagious enthusiasm. His room 
is quite a menagerie, something like what the 
feathered department of the ark must have 
been — as crowded, as numerous, and as noisy. 
The din is really astounding. To say no- 
thing of the twitter of whole legions of linnets, 
goldfinches, and canaries, the latter of all 
ages; the clattering and piping of magpies, 
parrots, jackdaws, and bullfinches, in every 
stage of their education ; the deeper tones of 
blackbirds, thrushes, larks, and nightinoales, 
never fail to swell the chorus, aided hy the 
cooing of doves, the screeching of owls, the 
squeakings of guinea-pigs, and the eternal 
^rinding of a barrel-organ, which a little dam- 
sel of eight years old, who officiates under 
Robin as feeder and cleaner, turns round, with 
melancholy monotony, to the loyal and patri- 
otic tunes of Rule Britannia and God save the 
Kinn:, the only airs, as her master observes, 
which are sure not to go out of fashion. 

Except this young damsel and her music, 
the apartment exhibits but few signs of human 
habitation. A macaw is perched on the little 
table, and a cockatoo chained to the only chair; 
the roof is tenanted by a choice breed of tum- 
bler pigeons, and the floor cumbered by a brood 
of curious bantams, unrivalled for ugliness. 

Here Robin dwells, in the midst of the fea- 
thered population, except when he sallies forth 
at morning or evening to spread his nets for 
goldfinches or bullllnches on the neighbouring 
commons, or to place his trap-cages for tlie 
larger birds. Once or twice a year, indeed, , 
he wanders into Oxfordshire, to meiH the (jreat 
flocks of linnets, six or seven hundred together, | 
which congregate on those hills, and may be 
taken by dozens; and he has had ambitious 
thoughts of trying the great market of Covent- 
garden for the sale of his live slock. But in 
general he remains quietly at home. That 
nest in the Soak is too precious a deposit to 
leave long; and he is seldom without some 
especial favourite to tend and fondle. At pre- 
sent, the hen-nightingale seems his pet; the 
last was a white blackbird ; and once he had 
a whole brood of gorgeous kingfishers, seven 
glorious creatures, for whose behoof he took 
up a new trade and turned fisherman, dabbling 
all day with a hand-net in the waters of the 
Soak. It was the prettiest sight in the world 
to see them snatch the minnows from his hand, 
with a shy mistrustful tameness, glancing their 
bright heads from side to side, and then dart- 
ing off" like bits of the rainbow. I had an 
entire sympathy with Robin's delight in his 
kingfisliers. He sold them to his chief pa- 
tron, Mr. Jay, a little fidcjety old bachelor, 
with a sharp face, a hooked nose, a brown 
complexion, and a full suit of snufl-colour, 
not much unlike a bird himself; and that 
worthy gentleman's mismanaopnient and a 
frosty winter killed the kingfishers every one. 
It was quite affecting to hear poor Robin talk 



MY GODMOTHERS. 



215 



of their death. But Robin has store of tender 
anecdotes; and any one who has a mind to 
cry over the sorrows of a widowed turtle-dove, 
and to hear described to the life her vermilion- 
eye, black gorget, soft plumage, and plaintive 
note, cannot do better than pay a visit to the 
garret in the Soak, and listen for half an hour 
to my friend the bird-catcher. 



MY GODMOTHERS. 

Of one of my godmothers I recollect but 
little. She lived at a distance, and seldom 
came in my way. The little, however, that I 
do remember of her, is very pleasing. She 
was the wife of a dignified clergyman, and 
resided chiefly in a great cathedral town, to 
which I once or twice accompanied my father, 
whose near relation she had married. She 
was a middle-aged woman, v^'ith sons and 
daughters already settled in life, and must in 
her youth have been exceedingly lovely ; in- 
deed, in spite of an increase of size which 
had greatly injured her figure, she might still 
be deemed a model of matronly beauty. Her 
face was in the highest degree soft, feminine, 
and delicate, with an extreme purity and fair- 
ness of complexion ; dove-like eyes, a gentle 
smile, and a general complacency and benevo- 
lence of aspect, such as I have rarely seen 
equalled. That sweet face was all sunshine. 
There was something in her look which real- 
ized the fine expression of the poet, when he 
speaks of — 

-" those eyes affectionate and glad. 



That seem'd to love whate'er they looked upon." 

Her voice and manner were equally delight- 
ful, equally captivating, although quite re- 
moved from any of the usual arts of captiva- 
tion. Their great charm was their perfect art- 
lessness and graciousness, the natural result 
of a most artless and gracious nature. She 
kept little company, being so deaf as almost 
to unfit her for society. But this infirmity, 
which to most people is so great a disadvan- 
tage, seemed in her case only an added charm. 
She sat on her sofa in sober cheerfulness, 
placid and smiling, as if removed from the 
cares and the din of the work-a-day world ; 
or, if any thing particularly interesting was 
going forward in the apartment, she would 
look up with such a pretty air of appeal, such 
silent questioning, as made every body eager 
to translate for her, — some by loud distinct 
speech, some by writing, and some by that 
delicate and mysterious sign-manual, that un- 
written shorthand, called talking on the fingers, 
whatever happened to be passing ; and she 
was so attentive and so quick, that one sen- 
tence, half a sentence, a word, half a word, 
would often be enough. She could catch even 



the zest of a repartee, that most evanescent 
and least transfusible of all things ; and when 
she uttered her pretty petition, " Mirth, admit 
me of thy crew !" brought as ready a com- 
prehension, as true a spirit of gaiety, and as 
much innocent enjoyment into a young and 
laughing circle, as she found there. Her re- 
liance on the kindness and aflfection of all 
around her was unbounded ; she judged of 
others by herself, and was quite free from 
mistrust and jealousy, the commonest and 
least endurable infirmity of the deaf. She 
went out little, but at home her hospitality 
and benevolence won all hearts. She was a 
most sweet person. I saw too little of her, 
and lost her too soon ; but I loved her dearly, 
and still cherish her memory. 

Her husband was a very kind and genial 
person also, although in a different way. The 
Dean, for such was his professional rank, was 
a great scholar, an eminent Grecian, a laborious 
editor, a profound and judicious critic, an acute 
and sagacious commentator — who passed days 
and nights in his library, covered with learned 
dust, and deep in the metres. Out of his 
study he was, as your celebrated scholar is 
apt to be, exceedingly like a boy just let li^ose 
from school, wild with animal spirits, and 
ripe for a frolic. He was also (another not 
uncommon characteristic of an eminent Gre- 
cian) the most simple-hearted and easy-tem- 
pered creature that lived, and a most capital 
playfellow. I thought no more of stealing 
the wig from his head than a sparrow does of 
robbing a cherry-tree ; and he, merriest and 
most undignified of dignitaries, enjoyed the 
fun as much as I did, would toss the magnifi- 
cent caxon (a full-bottomed periwig of most 
capacious dimensions,) as high in the air as 
its own gravity would permit it to ascend, to 
the unspeakable waste of powder, and then 
would snatch me up in his arms, (a puny cliild 
of eight years old, who was as a doll in his 
sinewy hands.) and threaten to fling me after 
his flying peruke. He would have done just 
the same if he had been Archbishop of Can- 
terbury — and so should I — the arch-episcopal 
wig would have shared the same fate ; so 
completely did the joyous temperament of the 
man break down the artificial restraints of his 
situation. He was a most loveable person 
was Mr. Dean ; but the charm and glory of 
the Deanery, was iny dear godmamma. 

My other godmother was a very different 
sort of person, and will take many more words 
to describe. 

Mrs. Patience Wither (for so was she called) 
was the survivor of three maiden sisters, who, 
on the death of their father, a rich and well- 
descended country gentleman, had agreed to 
live together, and their united portions having 
centred in her, she was in possession of a 
handsome fortune. In point of fact, she was 
not my godmother, having only stood as proxy 
for her younger sister, Mrs. Mary, my mother's 



216 



OUR VILLAGE, 



intimate friend, then falling into the lingering 
decline, of which she afterwards died. Mrs. 
Mary must have been, to judge of her from 
universal report, and from a portrait which 
still remains, a most interesting woman, droop- 
ing, pale, and mild ; and beautiful also, very 
beautiful, from elegance and expression. She 
was undoubtedly my real godmanima; but on 
her death, Mrs. Patience, partly from regard 
for her sister, partly out of compliment to my 
family, and partly, perhaps, to solace herself 
by the exercise of an office of some slight 
importance and authority, was pleased to lay 
claim to me in right of inheritance, and suc- 
ceeded to the title of my godmother pretty 
much in the same way that she succeeded to 
the possession of Flora, her poor sister's fa- 
vourite spaniel. I am afraid that Flora proved 
the more grateful subject of the two. 

Mrs. Patience was of the sort of women 
that young people particularly dislike, and 
characterize by the ominous epithet, cross. She 
was worse than cross ; stern, stiff, domineer- 
ing, and authoritative, her person was very 
masculine, tall, square, and large-boned, and 
remarkably upright. Her features were suf- 
ficiently regular, and would not have been un- 
pleasing, but for the keen angry look of her 
light-blue eye, (your blue eye, which has such 
a name for softness amongst those great mis- 
takers, lovers and poets, is often wild, and al- 
most fierce in its expression) and her fiery 
wiry red hair, to which age did no good, — it 
would not turn grey. In short she was, being 
always expensively drest, and a good deal in 
the rear of fashion, not unlike my childish 
notion of that famous but disagreeable person- 
age. Queen Elizabeth ; which comparison 
being repeated to Mrs. Patience, who luckily 
took it for a compliment, added considerably 
to the interest she was so good as to take in 
my health, welfare, and improvement. 

I never saw her but she took possession of 
me for the purpose of lecturing and document- 
ing on some subject or other, — holding up my 
head, shutting the door, working a sampler, 
making a shirt, learning the pence-table, or 
taking physic. She used to hear me read 
French out of a well-thumbed copy of Tele- 
maque, and to puzzle me with questions from 
the English chronology — which may perhaps 
be the reason, that I, at this day, to my great 
shame be it spoken, dislike that famous prose 
epic, and do not know in what century Queen 
Anne came to the throne. 

In addition to liiese iniquities, she was as- 
siduous in presents to me at home and at 
school ; sent me cakes with cautions against 
over-eating, and needle-cases with admonitions 
to use them ; she made over to me her own 
juvenile library, consisting of a large collec- 
tion of unreadable books, which I, in my turn, 
have given away ; nay, she even rummaged 
out for me a pair of old battledores, curiously 
constructed of netted pack-thread — the toys 



of her youth ! But bribery is generally thrown 
away upon children, esj)ecially on spoilt ones; 
the godmother whom I loved never gave me 
any thing; and every fresh })resent from Mrs. 
Patience seemed to me a fresh grievance. I 
was obliged to make a call and a curtsy, and 
to stammer out something which passed for a 
speech ; or, which was still worse, to write a 
letter of thanks — a stiff, fonrial, precise letter! 
I would rather have gone without cakes or 
needle-cases, books or battledores, to my dying 
day. Such was my ingratitude from five to 
fifteen. 

As time wore on, however, I amended. I 
began to see the value of constant interest and 
attention — even although the forms they as- 
sumed might not be the most pleasant — to be 
thankful for her kindness and attentive to her 
advice; and by the time I arrived at years of 
discretion, had got to like her very much, es- 
pecially in her absence, and to endure her pre- 
sence (when it was quite impossible to run 
away) with sufficient fortitude. It is only 
since she has been fairly dead and i)uried, that 
I have learnt to estimate her properly. Now, 
I recollect how very worthy of esteem and 
respect she really was, how pious, how hos- 
pitable, how charitable, how generous ! No- 
thing but the comfort of knowing that she 
never found it out, could lull my remorse for 
having disliked her so much in her life-time ; 
the more especially, as upon recollection, I 
don't think she was so absolutely unbearable. 
She was only a little prejudiced, as one who 
had lived constantly in one limited sphere; 
rather ignorant and narrow-minded, a full cen- 
tury behind the sfiirit of the age. as one who 
had read dull books and kept dull company; 
fearfully irritable, fretful, and cross, as one 
who has had all her life the great misfortune 
(seldom enough pitied or considered) of having 
her own way; and superlatively stiff, and 
starched, and prim, in her quality of old maid. 
There is a great improvement now-a-days in 
the matter of single ladies; they may be, and 
many of them actually are, pleasant with im- 
punity to man or woman, and are so like the 
rest of the world in way and word, that a 
stranger is forced to examine the third finger 
of the left hand, to ascertain whether or no 
they be married ; but Mrs. Patience was an 
old maid of the old school — there was no mis- 
taking her condition — you might as well ques- 
ti(jn that of the frost-bitten gentlewoman pac- 
ing to church tlirough the snow in Hogarth's 
inimitable and unforgetable " Morning." With 
these drawbacks she was, as 1 have said be- 
fore, an estimable person; stanch in her friend- 
ships, liberal in her house-keeping, much ad- 
dicted to all sorts of subscriptions, and a most 
active lecturer and benefactress of the poor, 
whom she scolded and relieved with iudefati- 
gal)le good-will. 

She lived in a large, tall, upright, stately 
house, in the largest street of a large town. 



MY GODMOTHERS. 



217 



It was a grave-looking mansion, defended 
from the pavement by iron palisades, a flight 
of steps before the sober brown door, and 
every window cnrtained and blinded by chintz 
and silk and muslin, crossing and jostling each 
other; none of the rooms could be seen from 
the street, nor the street from any of the 
rooms — so complete was the obscuritj'. She 
seemed to consider this window-veiling as a 
point of propriety ; notwithstanding which, 
she contrived to know so well all the goings- 
on of all her neighbours, and who went up or 
who went down Chapel Street, that I could 
not help suspecting she had in some one of her 
many muffling draperies a sort of peep-hole, 
such as you sometimes see a face staring 
through in the green curtain at the play-house. 
I am sure she must have had a contrivance of 
the kind, though I cannot absolutely say that 
I ever made out the actual slit ; but then I was 
cautious in my pryings, and afraid of being 
caught. I am sure that a peep-hole there was. 
She lived in a good position for an observa- 
tory too, her house being situate in a great 
thoroughfare, one end abutting on a popular 
chapel, the other on a celebrated dancing- 
academy, so that every day in the week 
brought afliuence of carriages to the one side 
or to the other ; — an influx of amusement of 
which she did not fail to make the most, en- 
joying it first, and complaining of it after- 
wards, after the fashion of those unfortunate 
persons who have a love of grumbling, and 
very little to grumble at. I don't know what 
she would have done without the resource 
aflTorded by her noisy neiohbours, especially 
those on the saltatory side, whose- fiddles, 
door-knockings, and floor-shakings, were the 
subject of perpetual objurgation ; for the usual 
complaining ground of the prosperous, health 
and nerves, was completely shut against her. 
She never was ill in her life, and was too 
much in the habit of abusing nerves in other 
people, to venture to make use of them on her 
own account. It was a most comfortable 
grievance, and completed the many conveni- 
ences of her commodious mansion. 

Her establishment was handsome and regu- 
lar, and would have gone on like clock-work, 
if she had not thought a due portion of man- 
aging, that is to say, of vituperation, abso- 
lutely necessary for the well-being of herself 
and servants. It did go on like clock-work, 
I for the well-seasoned domestics no more 
minded those diurnal scolding fits, than they 
did the great .Japan time-piece in the hall 
when it struck the hour ; a ring of the bell, 
or a knock at the door, were events much 
more startling to this staid and sober house- 
hold, who, chosen, the men for their age, and 
the women for their ugliness, always seemed 
to have a peculiar hatred to quick motion. 
They would not even run to get out of the 
way of their mistress, although pretty sure 
of a lecture, right or wrong, whenever she 



encountered them. But then, as the fish- 
monger said of the eels that he was skinning, 
— " They were used to it." 

The only things in the house which sbe 
did not scold were two favourite dogs — Flora, 
a fat, lazy, old spaniel, soft and round as a 
cushion, and almost as inert ; and Da])hne, a 
particularly ugly, noisy pug, that barked at 
every body that came into tlie house, and bit 
at most. Daphne was the pet par excellence. 
She overcrowed even her mistress, as old 
Spenser hath it, and Mrs. Patience respected 
her accordingly. Really, comparing the size 
of the animal with the astonishing loudness 
and continuance of her din, she performed 
prodigies of barking. Her society was a 
great resource to me, when I was taken to 
pay my respects to my god mamma. She (I 
mean Daphne) had, after her surly and snip- 
snap manner, a kindness for me ; condescend- 
ed to let me pat her head without much 
growling, and would even take a piece of cake 
out of my hand without biting my fingers. 
We were great friends. Daphne's comt)any 
and conversation lightened the time amazingly. 
She was certainly the most entertaining per- 
son, the most alive of any one 1 met there. 

Mrs. Patience's coterie was, to say the 
truth, rather select than numerous, rather re- 
spectable than amusing. It consisted of about 
half a dozen elderly ladies of unexception- 
able quality, and one unfortunate gentleman, 
who met to play a rubber at each other's 
houses, about six evenings in the week, all 
the year round, and called on one another 
nearly every morning. The chief member of 
this chosen society was, next to INIrs. Patience, 
who would everywhere be first. Lady .Tane, 
a widow, and Miss Pym, her maiden sister, 
who resided with her. Lady Jane was a 
round, quiet, sleepy woman, not unlike — 
with reverence be it spoken — to the fat spaniel 
Flora; you never knew when she was present 
or when she was not ; Miss Pym, sharper 
and brisker, thinner and shorter, bore more 
resemblance to my friend Daphne, the vixen- 
ish pug — you were pretty sure to hear her. — 
There was also a grave and sedate Mrs. Long, 
a slow, safe, circumspect person, who talked 
of the weather; a Mrs. Harden, speechifying 
and civil, and a Miss Harden, her daughter, 
civiller still. These were the ladies. The 
beau of the party, Mr. Knight, had been 
originally admitted in right of a deceased 
wife, and was retained on his own merits. 
In my life I never beheld a man so hideously 
ugly, tall, shambling, and disjointed, with 
features rough, huge, and wooden, grey hair, 
stiff and bristly, long shaggy eyebrows, a 
skin like a hide, and a voice and address quite 
in keeping with this amiable exterior, as un- 
couth as Caliban. 

For these gifts and accomplishments he was 
undoubtedly preferred to the honour of being 
the only gentleman tolerated in this worship- 



19 



2C 



218 



OUR VILLAGE. 



ful society, from which Dr. Black, the smart 
young physician, and Mr. White, the keen, 
sharp, clever lawyer, and Mr. Brown, the 
spruce curate of the parish, and even Mr. 
Green, the portly vicar, were excluded. I 
did not so much wonder at their admiring Mr. 
Knight for his ugliness, which was so gro- 
tesque and remarkahle, as to he really prepos- 
sessing — it was worth one's while to see any 
thing so complete in its way ; hut I did a 
little marvel at his constancy to this bevy of 
belles, for, strange and uncouth as the man 
was, there was an occasional touch of slyness 
and humour about him, and a perpetual flow 
of rough kindness, which, joined with his 
large property, would easily have gained him 
the entre into more amusing circles. Perhaps 
he liked to be the sole object of attention to 
six ladies, albeit somewhat past their prime ; 
perhaps he found amusement in quizzing them 
— he was wicked enough sometimes to war- 
rant the supposition ; perhaps — for mixed mo- 
tives are commonly the truest in that strangely 
compounded biped man — a little of both might 
influence him ; or perhaps a third, and still 
more powerful inducement, miglit lurk behind 
as yet unsuspected. — Certain it is, that every 
evening he was found in that fair circle, cor- 
dially welcomed by all its members except 
my godmamma. She, to be sure, minced and 
primmed, and tossed her head, and thought 
they should have been better without him ; 
and although she admitted him to the privi- 
lege of visiting at her house, to the coffee, 
the green tea, the chit-chat, the rubber, the 
cake and the liqueur, she carefully refrained 
from honouring with her j)resence, the annual 
party at his country farm, where all the other 
ladies resorted to drink syllabub, and eat 
strawberries and cream ; pertinaciously re- 
fused to let him drive her out airing in his 
handsome open carriage, and even went so 
far as to order her footman not to let him in 
when she was alone. 

Besides her aversion to mankind in general, 
an aversion as fierce and active as it was 
groundless, she had unluckil}', from having 
been assailed by two or three oti'ers, obviously 
mercenary, imbibed a most unfounded suspi- 
cion of the whole sex ; and now seldom looked 
at a man without fancying that she detected 
in him an incipient lover; sharing, in this re- 
spect, though from a reverse motive, the com- 
mon delusion of the pretty and the young. 
She certainly suspected Mr. Knight of matri- 
monial intentions towards her fair self, and as 
certainly suspected him wrongfully. Mr. 
Knight had no such design; and contrived 
most eiTeclually to prove his innocence, one 
fair morning, by espousing Miss Harden, on 
whom, as she sat dutifully netting by the side 
of h(;r mamma, at one corner of the card- 
table, I had myself observed him to cast very 
freipient and significant glances. Miss Har- 
den was a genteel woman of six-and-thirty, 



rather faded, but still pleasing, and sufficiently 
dependent on her mother's life-income, to find 
in Mr. Knight's large fortune, to say nothing 
of his excellent qualities, an adequate com- 
pensation for his want of beauty. It was al- 
together a most suitable match, and so pro- 
nounced by the world at large, with the soli- 
tary exception of Mrs. Patience, who, though 
thus effectually secured from the attentions of 
her imputed admirer, by no means relished the 
means by which this desirable end had been 
accomplished. She sneered at the bride, 
abused the bridegroom, found fault with the 
bride-cake, and finally withdrew herself en- 
tirely from her former associates, a secession 
by which, it may be presumed, her own com- 
fort was more affected than theirs. 

She now began to complain of solitude, and 
to talk of taking a niece to reside with her, a 
commodity of which there was no lack in the 
family. Her elder brother had several daugh- 
ters, and desired nothing better than to see one 
of them adopted by Mrs. Patience. Three of 
these young ladies came successively on trial 
— pretty lively girls, so alike, that I scarcely 
remember them apart, can hardly assign to 
them a separate individuality, except that, 
perhaps. Miss Jane might be the tallest, and 
Miss Gertrude might sing the best. In one 
particular, the resemblance was most striking, 
their sincere wish to get turned out of favour 
and sent home again. No wonder! A dismal 
life it must have seemed to them, used to the 
liberty and gaiety of a large country house, 
full of brothers, and sisters, and friends, a 
quiet indulgent mother, a hearty hospitable 
father, riding, and singing, and parties and 
balls ; a doleful contrast it must have seemed 
to them, poor things, to sit all day in that 
nicely furnished parlour, where the very chairs 
seemed to know their places, reading aloud 
some grave, dull book, or working their fingers 
to the bone, (Mrs. Patience could not bear to 
see young people idle,) walking just one mile 
out and one mile in, on the London road ; din- 
ing tete-a-tete in all the state of two courses 
and removes; playing all the evening at back- 
gammon, most unlucky if they won, and going 
to bed just as the clock struck ten ! No won- 
der that they exerted all their ingenuity to 
make themselves disagreeable; and as that is 
an attempt in which people who set about it 
with a thorough good-will, are pretty certain 
to succeed, they were discarded, according to 
their wishes, with all convenient dispatch. 

Miss Jemima was cashiered for reading 
novels, contrary to the statutes made and pro- 
vided — Belinda, the delightful Belinda, scaled 
her fate. INIiss Gertrude was dismissed for 
catching cold, and flirting with the apothecary, 
a young and handsome son of Galen, who 
was also turned off for the same offence. INIiss 
Jane's particular act of delict has slipt my 
memory, — but she went too. Tliere was some 
talk of sending little Miss Augusta, the young- 



MY GODMOTHERS. 



219 



est of the family, but she, poor child ! never 
made her appearance. She was her father's 
favourite, and probably begg^ed off; and they 
had by this time discovered at the Hall, that 
their youno" lasses had been used to too much 
freedom to find the air of Chapel Street agree 
with them. The only one we ever saw again 
was Miss Jemima, who, having refused a rich 
baronet, a good deal older than herself, for no 
better reason than not liking him, was sent to 
her aunt's on a visit of penitence; a sort of 
house of correction — an honourable banish- 
ment. I believe in my heart that the fair cul- 
prit would have preferred the Tread-Mill or 
Botany Bay, had she her choice; but there 
was no appeal from the lettre de cachet which 
bad consigrned her to Mrs. Patience's care and 
admonitions, so she took refuge in a dumb re- 
sentment. I never saw any one so inveterately 
sullen in my life. One whole week she re- 
uiained in this condition, abiding, as best she 
might, her aunt's never-ending lectures, and 
the intolerable ennui of the house, during a 
foggy November. The next, the rejected lover 
arrived at the door, and was admitted ; and 
before she had been three weeks in Chapel 
Street, Sir Thomas escorted her home as his 
intended bride. They were right in their cal- 
culations; rather than have passed the winter 
with Mrs. Patience, the fair Jemima would 
have married her grandfather. 

Another niece now made her appearance, 
wlio. from circumstances and situation, seemed 
peculiarly fitted for the permanent companion 
and heiress — the orphan daughter of a younger 
brother, lately deceased, who had left this only 
child but slenderly provided for. Miss Pa- 
tience (for she was her aunt's namesake) was 
a young woman of two-and-twenty, brought 
up in a remote parsonage, without the advan- 
tage of any female to direct her education, 
and considerably more unformed and unpol- 
ished than one is accustomed to see a young 
lady in this accomplished age. She was a 
good deal like her aunt in person — far more 
tiian comported with beauty — large-boned and 
red-haired, and looking at least ten years older 
than she really was. Ten years older, too, 
she was in disposition ; staid, sober, thought- 
ful, discreet ; would no more have read a novel 
or flirted with an apothecary, than Mrs. Pa- 
tience herself. 

Aunt and niece seemed made for each other. 
But somehow they did not do together. One 
does not quite know why — perhaps because 
they were too much alike. They were both 
great managers ; but Miss Patience had been 
used to a lower range of household cares, and 
tormented mistress and servants by unneces- 
sary savings and superfluous honesty. Then 
she was too useful ; would make the tea, 
would snuff the candles, would keep the keys; 
affronted the housekeeper by offering to make 
the pastry, and the butler by taking under her 
care the argand lamp ; which last exploit was 



unsuccessful enough — a lamp being a sort of 
machine that never will submit to female di- 
rection ; a woman might as well attempt to 
manage a steam entrine. The luminary in 
question was particularly refractory. It had 
four burners, which never, for the three nights 
which she continued in office, were all in ac- 
tion together. vSome sent forth long tongues 
of flame, like those which issue from the cra- 
ter of a volcano, giving token of the crash 
that was to follow ; some popped outright, 
without warning; and some again languished, 
and died away, leaving behind them a most 
unsavoury odour. At last the restive lamp 
was abandoned to the butler, and light restored 
to the drawing-room ; and had Miss Patience 
taken a lesson from this misadventure, all 
might have gone well. 

But Miss Patience was not of a temperament 
to profit by her own errors. She went on from 
bad to worse; disobliged Flora by plunging 
her in the wash-tub, to the great improvement 
of her complexion ; made an eternal enemy 
of Daphne, by a fruitless attempt to silence 
her most noisy tongue; and, finally, lectured 
Mrs. Patience herself for scolding about no- 
thing. In short, she was a reformer, honest, 
zealous, uncompromising, and indiscreet, as 
ever wore petticoats. She had in her head 
the heau ideal of a perfect domestic govern- 
ment, and would be satisfied with nothing 
less. She could not let well alone. So that 
she had not been a month in that well-ordered 
and orderly house, before her exertions had 
thrown every thing into complete disorder; 
the servants were in rebellion, the furniture 
topsy-turvy; and the lady, who found herself 
likely to be in a situation of that dynasty of 
French kings who reigned under a maire du 
palais, in a very justifiable passion. This 
rightful anger, was, however, more moderately 
expressed than had usually happened with 
Mrs. Patience's causeless indignation. The 
aunt remonstrated, indeed, and threatened; 
but the niece would not stay. She was as 
unbending as an oak-tree; rejected all com- 
promise; spurned at all concession; abjured 
all rich relations; and returned to board at a 
farm-house in her old neighbourhood. After 
this contumacy, her name was never heard in 
Chapel Street; and for some time the post of 
companion remained vacant. 

At length Mrs. Patience began to break, 
visibly and rapidly, as the very healthy often 
do, affording^ so affecting a contrast with their 
former strength. In her the decline was 
merely bodily ; neither the mind nor the 
temper bad undergone any change; but her 
increasing feebleness induced her medical at- 
tendants to recommend that some one should 
be provided to sit with her constantly ; and 
as she protested vehemently against any far- 
ther trial of nieces, the object was sought 
through the medium of an advertisement, and 
appeared to be completely attained when it 



220 



OUR VILLAGE. 



produced INliss Steele. How Miss Steele 
should have failed to please, still astonishes 
me. Pliant, soothing, cheerful, mild, with a 
wonderful conmiand of countenance and of 
temper, a smiling^ aspect, a soft voice, a per- 
petual habit of assentation, and such a power 
over the very brute beasts, that Flora would 
get up to meet her, and Daphne would waij 
her tail at her approach — a cfimpliment which 
that illustrious pug never paid before to wo- 
man. Every heart in Chapel Street did Miss 
Steele win, except the invulnerable heart of 
Mrs. Patience. She felt the falseness. The 
honey cloyed ; and before two months were 
over, Miss Steele had followed the nieces. 

After this her decline was rapid, and her 
latter days much tormented by legacy-hunters. 
A spendthrift ne])hew besieged her in a morn- 
ing — a miserly cousin came to lose his six- 
pences to her at backgammon of an afternoon 
— a subtle attorney and an oily physician had 
each an eye to her hoards, if only in the form 
of an executorship ; and her old butler, and 
still older housekeeper, already rich by their 
savings in her service, married, that they 
might share together the expected spoil. She 
died, and disappointed them all. Three wills 
were found. In the first, she divided her 
whole fortune between Flora and Daphne, 
and their offspring, under the direction of six 
trustees. In the second, she made the Coun- 
ty-hospital her heir. In the third, the legal 
and effectual will, after formally disinheriting 
the rest of her relations, slie bequeathed her 
whole estate, real and personal, to her honest 
niece Patience Wither, as a reward for her 
independence. And never was property bet- 
ter bestowed ; for Patience the Second added 
all that was wanting to the will of Patience 
the First; supplied every legacy of charity 
and of kindness; provided for the old servants 
and the old pets, and had sufficient left to 
secure her own comfort with a man as upright 
and as downright as herself. They are the 
most English couple of my acquaintance, and 
the happiest. Long may they continue so I 
And all this happiness is owing to the natural 
right-mindedness and sturdy perception of cha- 
racter of my cross godmamraa. 



THE MOLE-C ATCIIER. 

There are no more delightful or unfailing 
associations than those afforded by the various 
operations of the husbandman, and the changes 
on the fair face of nature. We all know that 
busy troops of reaprs come with the yellow 
corn ; whilst the yellow leaf brings a no less 
busy train of ploughmen and seedsmen pre- 
parino- the ground for fri^sh harvests; that 
woodbines and wild roses, flaunting in the 
blossomy hedge-rows, give token of the gay 



bands of haymakers which enliven the mea- 
dows; and that the primroses, which begin to 
unfold their pale stars by the side of the green 
lanes, bear marks of the slow and weary 
female processions, the gangs of tired yet 
talkative bean-setters, who defile twice a day 
through the intricate mazes of our cross-coun- 
try roads. These are general associations, as 
well known and as universally recognized as 
the union of mince-pies and Christmas. I 
have one, more private and peculiar, one, per- 
haps, the more strongly impressed on my mind, 
because the impression may be almost con- 
fined to myself. The full flush of violets 
which, about the middle of March, seldom 
fails to perfume the whole earth, always 
brings to my recollection one solitary and 
silent coadjutor of the husbandman's labours, 
as unlike a violet as possible — Isaac Bint, the 
mole-catcher. 

I used to meet him every spring, when we 
lived at our old house, whose park -like pad- 
dock, with its finely-clumped oaks and elms, 
and its richly-timbered hedge-rows, edging 
into wild, rude, and solemn fir-plantations, 
dark, and rough, and hoary, formed for so 
many years my constant and favourite walk. 
Here, especially under the great horse-chest- 
nut, and where the bank rose high and naked 
above the lane, crowned only with a tuft of 
golden broom ; here the sweetest and prettiest 
of wild flowers, whose very name hath a 
charm, grew like a carpet under one's feet, 
enamelling the young green grass with their 
white and purple blossoms, and loading the 
air with their delicious fragrance; here I used 
to come almost every morning, during the vio- 
let-tide: and here almost every morning I was 
sure to meet Isaac Bint. 

I think that he fixed himself the more firm- 
ly in my memory by his singular discrepancy 
with the beauty and cheerfulness of the 
scenery and the season. Isaac is a tall, lean, 
gloomy personage, with whom the clock of 
life seems to stand still. He has looked sixty- 
five for these last twenty years, althougrh his 
dark hair and beard, and firm manly stride, 
almost contradict the evidence of his sunken 
cheeks and deeply-lined forehead. The stride 
is awful: he hath the stalk of a ghost. His 
whole air and demeanour savour of one that 
conies from under-ground. His appearance is 
"of the earth, earthy." His clothes, hands, 
and face, are of the colour of the mould in 
which he delves. The little round traps 
which hang behind him over one shoulder, as 
well as the strings of dead moles which em- 
bellish the other, are encrusted with dirt like 
a tomb-stone ; and the staff" which he plunges 
into the little hillocks, by which he traces the 
course of his small quarry, returns a hollow 
sound, as if tapping on the lid of a coffin. 
Images of the church-yard come, one does 
not know how, with his presence. Indeed he 
does officiate as assistant to the seocton in his 



THE MOLE-CATCHER. 



221 



capacity of grave-dicrger, chosen, as it should 
seem, from a natural fitness ; a fine sense of 
congruity in good Joseph Reed, the function- 
ary in question, who felt, without knowing 
why, that, of all men in the parish, Isaac 
Bint was best fitted to that solemn office. 

His remarkable gift of silence adds much 
to the impression produced by his remarkable 
figure. I don't think that I ever heard him 
speak three words in my life. An approach 
of that bony hand to that earthy leather cap 
was the greatest effort of courtesy that my 
daily salutations could extort from him. For 
this silence, Isaac has reasons good. He 
hath a reputation to support. His words are 
too precious to be wasted. Our mole-catcher, 
ragrged as he looks, is the wise man of the 
village, the oracle of the village-inn, foresees 
the weather, charms away agues, tells for- 
tunes by the stars, and writes notes upon the 
almanac — turning and twisting about the pre- 
dictions after a fashion so ingenious, that it is 
a moot point which is oftenest wrong — Isaac 
Bint, or Francis Moore. In one eminent in- 
stance, our friend was, however, eminently 
right. He had the good luck to prophesy, 
before sundry witnesses — some of them sober 
— in the tap-room of the Bell — he then sitting, 
pipe in mouth, on the settle at the right-hand 
side of the fire, whilst Jacob Frost occupied 
the left; — he had the good fortune to foretell, 
on New Year's Day 1812, the downfall of 
Napoleon Bonaparte — a piece of soothsayer- 
ship which has established his reputation, 
and dumfounded all doubters and cavillers ever 
since; but which would certainly have been 
more striking if he had not annually uttered 
the same prediction, from the same place, from 
the tirtie the aforesaid Napoleon became first 
consul. But the small circumstance is en- 
tirely overlooked by Isaac and his admirers, 
and they believe in him, and he believes in 
the stars, more firmly than ever. 

Our mole-catcher is, as might be conjec- 
tured, an old bachelor. Your married man 
hath more of this world about him — is less, 
so to say, planet-struck. A thorough old 
bachelor is Isaac, a contemner and maligner 
of the sex, a complete and decided woman- 
hater. Female frailty is the only subject on 
which he hath ever been known to dilate; he 
will not even charm away their agues, or tell 
their fortunes, and, indeed, holds them to be 
unworthy the notice of the stars. 

No woman contaminates his household. 
He lives on the edge of a pretty bit of wood- 
land scenery, called the Penge, in a snug cot- 
tage of two rooms, of his own building, sur- 
rounded by a garden cribbed from the waste, 
well fenced with quickset, and well stocked 
with fruit trees, herbs, and flowers. One 
large apple-tree extends over the roof — a pretty 
bit of colour when in blossom, contrasted 
with the thatch of the little dwelling, and re- 
lieved by the dark wood behind. Although 

19* 



the owner be solitary, his demesne is suffi- 
ciently populous. A long row of bee-hives 
extends along the warmest side of the garden 
— for Isaac's honey is celebrated far and near ; 
a pig occupies a commodious sty, at one cor- 
ner ; and large flocks of ducks and geese (for 
which the Penge, whose glades are intersected 
by water, is famous) are generally waiting 
round a back gate leading to a spacious shed, 
far larger than Isaac's own cottage, which 
serves for their feeding and roosting-place. 
The great tameness of all these creatures — 
for the ducks and geese flutter round him the 
moment he approaches, and the very pig fol- 
lows him like a dog — gives no equivocal tes- 
timony of the kindness of our mole-catcher's 
nature. A circumstance of recent occurrence 
puts his humanity beyond doubt. 

Amongst the probable causes of Isaac's 
dislike to women, may be reckoned the fact 
of his living in a female neighbourhood (for 
the Penge is almost peopled with duck-rear- 
ers and goose-crammers of the duck and 
goose gender) and being himself exceedingly 
unpopular amongst the fair poultry-feeders of 
that watery vicinity. He beat them at their 
own weapons ; produced at Midsummer geese 
fit for Michaelmas; and raised ducks so pre- 
cocious, that the gardeners complained of 
them as forerunning their vegetable accom- 
paniments ; and " panting peas toiled after 
them in vain." In short the Naiads of the 
Penge had the mortification to find them- 
selves driven out of B market by an in- 
terloper, and that interloper a man, who had 
no right to possess any skill in an accomplish- 
ment so exclusively feminine as duck-rearing ; 
and being no ways inferior in another female 
accomplishment, called scolding, to their sis- 
ter-nymphs of Billingsgate, they set up a 
clamour and a cackle which might rival the 
din of their own gooseries at feeding-time, 
and would inevitably have frightened from the 
field any competitor less impenetrable than, 
our hero. But Isaac is not a man to shrink 
from so small an evil as female objurgation. 
He stalked through it all in mute disdain — 
looking now at his mole-traps, and now at 
the stars — pretending not to hear, and very 
probably not hearing. At first this scorn, 
more provoking than any retort, only excited 
his enemies to fresh attacks ; but one cannot 
be always answering another person's silence. 
The flame which had blazed so fiercely, at 
last burnt itself out, and peace reigned once 
more in the green alleys of Penge-wood. 

One, however, of his adversaries — his near- 
est neighbour — still remained unsilenced. 

Margery Grover was a very old and poor 
woman, whom age and disease had bent al- 
most to the earth ; shaken by palsy, pinched 
by penury, and soured by misfortune — a mov- 
ing bundle of misery and rags. Two centu- 
ries ago she would have been burnt for a 
witch ; now she starved and grumbled on the 



222 



OUR VILLAGE. 



parish allowance ; tryinir to eke out a scanty 
subsistence on the dubious profits o-ained by 
the produce of two greese and a lame gander, 
once the unmolested tenants of a greenish 
pool, situate right between her dwelling and 
Isaac's, but whose watery dominion had been 
invaded by his flourishing colony. 

This was the cause of feud ; and although 
Isaac would willingly, from a mingled sense 
of justice and of pity, have yielded the point 
to the poor old creature, especially as ponds 
are there almost as plentiful as blackberries, 
yet it was not so easy to control the habits and 
inclinations of their feathered subjects, who 
all perversely fancied that particular pool ; and 
various accidents and skirmishes occurred, in 
wliich the ill-fed and weak birds of Margery 
had generally the worst of the fray. One of 
her early goslings was drowned — an accident 
which may happen even to water-fowl ; and 
her lame gander, a sort of pet with the poor 
old woman, injured in his well leg; and Mar- 
gery vented curses as bitter as those of Sycorax: 
and Isaac, certainly the most superstitious 
personage in the parish — the most thorough 
believer in his own gifts and predictions — 
was fain to nail a horse-shoe on his door for 
the defence of his property, and to wear one 
of his own ague charms about his neck for his 
personal protection. 

Poor old Margery ! A hard winter came ; 
and the feeble, tottering creature shook in the 
frosty air like an aspen-leaf; and the hovel in 
which she dwelt — for nothing could prevail 
on her to try the shelter of the work-house — 
shook like herself at every blast. She was 
not quite alone either in the world or in her 
poor hut : husband, children, and grandchildren 
had passed away; but one young and innocent 
being, a great-grandson, the last of her de- 
scendants, remaining a helpless dependant on 
one almost as helpless as himself. 

Little Harry Grover was a shrunken, stunted 
boy, of five years old ; tattered and squalid, 
like his grandame, and, at first sight, presented 
almost as miserable a specimen of childhood, 
as Margery herself did of age. There was 
even a likeness between them ; although the 
fierce blue eye of Margery had in the boy a 
mild appealing look, which entirely changed 
the whole expression of the countenance. A 
gentle and peaceful boy was Harry, and, above 
all, a useful. It was wonderful how many 
ears of corn in the autumn, and sticks in the 
winter, his little hands could pick up ! how 
well he could make a fire, and boil the kettle, 
and sweep the hearth, and cram the goslings ! 
Never was a handier boy or a trustier; and 
when the united effects of cold, and age and 
rheumatism confined poor Margery to her poor 
bed, the child continued to perform his accus- 
tomed ofiices ; fetching the money from the 
vestry, buying the loaf at the baker's, keep- 
ing house, and nursing the sick woman, with 
a kindness and thoughtfulness, which none 



but those who know the careful ways to which 
necessity trains cottage children, would deem 
credible; and Margery, a woman of strong 
passions, strong prejudices, and strong affec- 
tions, who had lived in and for the desolate 
boy, felt the approach of death embittered by 
the certainty that the work-house, aiways the 
scene of her dread and loathing, would be the 
only refuge for the poor orphan. 

Death, however, came on visibly and rapid- 
ly ; and she sent for the overseer to beseech 
him to put Harry to board in some decent cot- 
tage ; she could not die in peace until he had 
promised ; the fear of the innocent child's 
being contaminated by wicked boys and god- 
less women preyed upon her soul ; she im- 
plored, she conjured. The overseer, a kind 
but timid man, hesitated, and was beginning 
a puzzled speech about the bench and the 
vestry, when another voice was heard from the 
door of the cottage. 

" Margery," said our friend Isaac, " will 
you trust Harry to me 1 I am a poor man, to 
be sure ; but between earning and saving, 
there'll be enough for me and little Harry. 
'T is as good a boy as ever lived, and I '11 try 
to keep him so. Trust him to me, and I '11 be 
a father to him. I can't say more." 

"God bless thee, Isaac Bint! God bless 
thee !" was all poor Margery could reply. 

They were the last words she ever spoke. 
And little Harry is living with our good mole- 
catcher, and is growing plump and rosy ; and 
Margery's other pet, the lame gander, lives 
and thrives with them too. 



MADEMOISELLE THERESE. 

One of the prettiest dwellings in our neigh- 
bourhood, is the Lime Cottage at Burley- 
Hatch. It consists of a small low-browcd 
habitation, so entirely covered with jessamine, 
honeysuckle, passion-flowers, and china-roses, 
as to resemble a bower, and is placed in the 
centre of a large garden, — turf and flowers 
before, vegetables and fruit trees behind, 
backed by a superb orchard, and surrounded 
by a quickset hedge, so thick, and close, and 
regular, as to form an impregnable defence to 
the territory which it encloses — a thorny ram- 
part, a living and growing chevnux-de-fnse. 
On either side of the next gravel-walk, which 
leads from the outer gate to the door of the 
cottage, stand the large and beautiful trees to 
which it owes its name ; spreading their strong, 
broad shadow over the turf beneath, and send- 
ing, on a summer afternoon, their rich, spicy 
fragrance half across the irregular village 
green, dappled with wood and water, and gay 
with sheep, cattle, and children, which divides 
them, at the distance of a quarter of* a mile, 
from the little hamlet of Burley, its venerable 



MADEMOISELLE THERESE, 



223 



church and handsome rectory, and its short 
stragoling street of cottages, and country 
shops. 

Such is the habitation ofTherese de G., an 
emigree of distinction, whose aunt having 
married an English officer, was luckily able 
to afford her niece an asylum during the hor- 
rors of the Revolution, and to secure to her a 
small annuity, and the Lime Cottage after her 
death. There she has lived for these five-and- 
thirty years, gradually losing sight of her few 
and distant foreign connexions, and finding all 
her happiness in her pleasant home and her 
kind neighbours — a standing lesson of cheer- 
fulness and contentment. 

A very popular person is Mademoiselle 
Therese — po[)ular both with high and low; 
for the prejudice which the country people 
almost universally entertain against foreign- 
ers, vanished directly before the charm of her 
manners, the gaiety of her heart, and the sun- 
shine of a temper that never knows a cloud. 
She is so kind to them too, so liberal of the 
produce of her orchard and garden, so full of 
resource in their difficulties, and so sure to 
afford sympathy if she have nothing else to 
give, that the poor all idolize Mademoiselle. 
Among the rich, she is equally beloved. No 
party is com])lete without the pleasant French- 
woman, whose amenity and cheerfulness, her 
perfect, general politeness, her attention to 
the old, the poor, the stupid and the neglected, 
are felt to be invaluable in society. Her con- 
versation is not very powerful either, nor very 
brilliant; she never says anything remark- 
able — but then it is so good-natured, so gen- 
uine, so unpretending, so constantly up and 
alive, that one would feel its absence more 
than that of a more showy and ambitious 
talker; to say nothing of the charm which it 
derives from her language, which is alter- 
nately the most graceful and purest French, 
and the most diverting and absurd broken 
English ; — a dialect in which, whilst contriv- 
ing to make herself perfectly understood both 
by gentle and simple, she does also contrive, 
in the course of an hour, to commit more 
blunders, than al' the other foreigners in 
England make in a month. 

Her appearance betrays her country almost 
as much as her speech. She is a French- 
looking little personage, with a slight, active 
figure, exceedingly nimble and alert in every 
movement; a round and darkly-complexioned 
face, somewhat faded and passee, but still 
striking from the laughing eyes, the bland 
and brilliant smile, and the great mobility of 
expression. Her features, preLty as they are, 
want the repose of an English countenance ; 
and her air, gesture, and dress, are decidedly 
foreign, all alike deficient in the English 
charm of quietness. Nevertheless, in her 
youth, she must have been pretty ; so pretty 
that some of our young ladies scandalized at 
the idea of finding their favourite an old maid, 



have invented sundry legends to excuse the 
solecism, and talk of duels hvgbtpour rumour 
de scs beaux yeitx, and of a betrothed lover 
guillotined in the Revolution. And the thing 
may have been so ; although one meets every- 
where with old maids who have been ])retty, 
and whose lovers have not been guillotined ; 
and although Mademoiselle Therese has not, 
to do her justice, the least in the world the air 
of a heroine crossed in love. The thing may 
be so; but I doubt it much. I rather suspect 
our fair Demoiselle of having been in her 
youth a little of a flirt. Even during her 
residence at Burley-Hatch, hath not she in- 
dulged in divers very distant, very discreet, 
very decorous, but still very evident flirtations 1 
Did not Doctor Abdy, the portly, ruddy school- 
master of B., dangle after her for three mortal 
years, holidays excepted 1 And did she not 
refuse him at last"? And Mr. Foreclose, the 
thin, withered, wrinkled city solicitor, a man, 
so to say, smoke-dried, who comes down every 
year to Burley for the air, did not he do suit 
and service to her during four long vacations, 
with the same ill success ] Was not Sir 
Thomas himself a little smitten"? Na}% even 
now, does not the good Major, a halting vete- 
ran of seventy — but really it is too bad to tell 
tales out of the parish — all that is certain is, 
that Mademoiselle Therese might have changed 
her name long before now, had she so chosen ; 
and that it is most probable that she will never 
change it at all. 

Her household consists of her little maid 
Betsy, a cherry-cheeked, blue-eyed country 
lass, brought up by herself, who, with a full 
clumsy figure, and a fair, innocent, unmean- 
ing countenance, copies, as close as these ob- 
stacles will permit, the looks and gestures of 
her alert and vivacious mistress, and has even 
caught her broken English ; — of a fat lap- 
dog, called Fido, silky, sleepy, and sedate; 
and of a beautiful white Spanish ass, called 
Donnabella, an anirnal docile and spirited, far 
beyond the generality of that despised race, 
who draws her little donkey-chaise half the 
country over, runs to her the moment she sees 
her, and eats roses, bread and apples from her 
hand ; but who, accustomed to be fed and 
groomed, harnessed and driven only by fe- 
males, resists and rebels the moment she is 
approached by the rougher sex; has over- 
turned more boys, and kicked more men, than 
any donkey in the kingdom ; and has acquired 
such a character for restiveness among the 
grooms in the neighbourhood, that when 
Mademoiselle Therese goes out to dinner, 
Betsy is fain to go with her to drive Donna- 
bella home again, and to return to fetch her 
mistress in the evening. 

If every body is delighted to receive this 
most welcome visiter, so is every body de- 
lighted to accept her graceful invitations, and 
meet to eat strawberries at Burley-Hatch. 
Oh, how pleasant are those summer after- 



224 



OUR VILLAGE, 



noons, sitting under the blossomed limes, 
with the sun shedding- a golden light through 
the broad branches, the bees murmuring over- 
head, roses and lilies all about us, and the 
choicest fruit served up in wicker baskets of 
her own making — itself a picture I the guests 
looking so pleased and happy, and the kind 
hostess the gayest and happiest of all. Those 
are pleasant meetings ; nor are her little win- 
ter parties less agreeable, when two or three 
female friends assembled round their coffee, 
she will tell thrilling stories of that terrible 
Revolution, so fertile in great crimes and great 
virtues; or gayer anecdotes of the brilliant 
days preceding that convulsion, the days which 
Madame de Genlis has described so well, 
when Paris v^'as the capital of pleasure, and 
amusement the business of life ; illustrating 
her descriptions by a series of spirited draw- 
ings of costumes and characters done by her- 
self, and always finishing by producing a 
group of Louis Seize, Marie Antoinette, the 
Dauphin, and Madame Elizabeth, as she had 
last seen them at Versailles — the only recol- 
lection that ever brings tears into her smiling 
eyes. 

Mademoiselle Therese's loyalty to the 
Bourbons, was in truth a very real feeling. 
Her family had been about the court, and she 
had imbibed an enthusiasm for the royal suf- 
ferers natural to a young and a warm heart — 
she loved the Bourbons, and hated Napoleon 
with like ardour. All her other French feel- 
ings had for some time been a little modified. 
She was not quite so sure as she had been, 
that France was the only -country, and Paris 
the only city of the world ; that Shaksjieare 
was a barbarian, and Milton no poet ; that the 
perfume of English limes was nothing com- 
pared to French orange trees ; that the sun 
never shone in England; and that sea-coal 
fires were bad things. She still, indeed, 
would occasionally make these assertions, es- 
pecially if dared to make them ; but her faith 
in them was shaken. Her loyalty to her le- 
gitimate king, was, however, as strong as 
ever, and that loyalty had nearly cost us our 
dear Mademoiselle. After the Restoration, 
she hastened as fast as a steam-boat and dili- 
gence could carry her, to enjoy the delight of 
seeing once more the Bourbons at the Thuil- 
leries ; took leave, between smiles and tears, 
of lier friends, and of Burley-Hatch, carrying 
with her a branch of the lime-tree, then in 
blossom, and commissioning her old lover, 
Mr. Foreclose, to dispose of the cottage : but 
in less than three months, luckily before Mr. 
Foreclose had found a purchaser, Mademoi- 
selle Therese came home again. She com- 
plained of nobody ; but times were altered. 
The house in which she was born was pulled 
down ; her friends were scattered ; her kin- 
dred dead ; Madame did not remember her 
(she had probably never heard of her in her 
life;) the king did not know her again (poor 



I man ! he had not seen her for these thirty 
years ;) Paris was a new city ; the French 
were a new people ; she missed the sea-coal 
[ fires ; and for the stunted orange-trees at the 
j Thuilleries, what were they compared with 
the blossomed limes of Burley-Hatch ! 



LOST AND FOUND. 

Any body may be lost in a wood. It is 
well for me to have so good an excuse for my 
wanderings ; for I am rather famous for such 
misadventures, and have sometimes been ac- 
cused by my kindest friends of committing 
intentional blunders, and going astray out of 
malice prepense. To be sure, when in two 
successive rambles, I contrived to get mazed 
on Burghfield Common, and bewildered in 
Kibe's Lane, those exploits did seem to over- 
pass the common limits of stupidity. But in 
a wood, and a strange wood, a new place, a 
fresh country, untrodden ground beneath the 
feet, unknown landmarks before the eyes, 
wiser folks than I might require the silken 
clue of Rosamond, or the hag of ashes given 
to Finette Cendron (Anglice, Cinderella) by 
the good fairy her godmother, to help them 
home again. Now my luck exceeded even 
hers of the Glass Slipper, for I found some- 
thing not unlike the good faiiy herself, in the 
pleasant earthly guise of an old friend. But 
I may as well begin my story. 

About two years ago we had the misfortune 
to lose one of the most useful and popular in- 
bitants of our village, Mrs. Bond, the butter- 
woman. She — for although there was a very 
honest and hard-working Farmer Bond, who 
had the honour to be Mrs. Bond's husband, 
she was so completely the personage of the 
family, that nobody ever thought of him — 
she lived on a small dairy-farm, at the other 
side of the parish, where she had reared ten 
children in comfort and respectability, con- 
triving, in all years, and in all seasons, to 
be flourishing, happy, and contented, and to 
drive her tilted cart tvvi'e a week into B., 
laden with the richest butter, the freshest 
eggs, and the finest poultry of the county. 
Never was a market-woman so reliable as 
Mrs. Bond, so safe to deal with, or so pleasant 
to look at. She was a neat comely woman 
of five-and-forty, or thereabout, with dark 
hair, laughing eyes, a bright smile, and a 
brighter complexion — red and white like a 
daisy. People used to say how pretty she 
must have been ; but I think she was then in 
the prime of her good looks; just as a full- 
blown damask rose is more beautiful than the 
same flower in the bud. 

Very pleasant she was to look at, and still 
pleasanter to talk to ; she was so gentle, so 
cheerful, so respectful, and so kind. p]very 
body in the village loved Mrs. Bond. Even 



LOST AND FOUND. 



225 



Lizzy and May, the two most aristocratical 
of its inhabitants, and the most tenacious of 
the distinctions of rank, would run to meet 
the butter-cart, as if it were a carriage and 
four. A mark of preference which the good- 
humoured dairywoman did not fail to ac- 
knowledge and confirm by gifts suited to their 
respective tastes, an occasional pitcher of butr 
termilk to May, and a stick with cherries tied 
around it to poor Lizzy. 

Nor was Mrs. Bond's bounty confined to 
largesses of so suspicious a nature, as pre- 
sents to the pets of a good customer. I have 
never known any human being more thorough- 
ly and universally generous, more delicate in 
her little gifts, or with so entire an absence 
of design or artifice in her attentions. It was 
a prodigality of kindness that seemed never 
weary of well-doing. What posies of pinks 
and sweetwilliams, backed by marjoram and 
rosemary, she used to carry to the two poor 
old ladies who lodged at the pastry-cook's at 
B. ! What fagots of lilac and laburnum she 
would bring to deck the poor widow Hay's 
open hearth ! What baskets of water-cresses, 
the brownest, the bitterest, and the crispest of 
the year, for our fair neighbour, the nymph of 
the shoe-shop, a delicate girl, who could only 
be tempted into her breakfast by that pleasant 
herb ! What pots of honey for John Brown's 
cough ! What gooseberries and currants for 
the baker's little children ! And as soon as 
her great vine ripened, what grapes for every 
body ! No wonder that when Mrs. Bond left 
the parish, to occupy a larger farm in a distant 
county, her absence was felt as a misfortune 
by the whole village ; that poor Lizzyiiquired 
after her every day for a week, and tnat May 
watched for the tilted cart every Wednesday 
and Friday for a month or more. 

I myself joined very heartily in the general 
lamentation. But time and habit reconcile us 
to most privations, and I must confess, that 
much as I liked her, I had nearly forgotten 
our good butter-woman, until an adventure 
which befell me last week, placed me once 
more in the way of her ready kindness. 

I was on a visit at a considerable distance 
from home, in one of the most retired parts 
of Oxfordshire. Nothing could be more beau- 
tiful than the situation, or less accessible; 
shut in amongst woody hills, remote from 
great towns, with deep chalky roads, almost 
impassable, and a broad bridgeless river, com- 
ing, as if to intercept your steps, whenever 
you did seem to have fallen into a beaten 
track. It was exactly the country and the 
season in which to wander about all day long. 

One fair morning I set out on my accus- 
tomed ramble. The sun was intensely hot ; 
the sky almost cloudless; I had climbed a 
long abrupt ascent, to enjoy the sight of the 
magnificent river, winding like a snake amidst 
the richly-clothed hills; the pretty village, 
with its tapering spire, and the universal 

2D 



freshness and brilliancy of the gay and smil- 
ing prospect — too gay perhaps ! I gazed till 
I became dazzled with the glare of the sun- 
shine, oppressed by the very brightness, and 
turned into a beech-wood by the side of the 
road, to seek relief from the overpowering 
radiance. These beech-woods should rather 
be called coppices. They are cut down occa- 
sionally, and consist of long flexible stems, 
growing out of the old roots. But they are 
like no other coppices, or rather none that can 
be compared with them. The young beechen 
stems, perfectly free from underwood, go 
arching and intertwining over-head, forming 
a thousand mazy paths, covered by a natural 
trellis; the shining green leaves, just bursting 
from their golden sheaths, contrasting with 
the smooth silvery bark, shedding a cool 
green light around, and casting a thousand 
dancing shadows on the mossy flowery path, 
pleasant to the eye and to the tread, a fit haunt 
for wood-nymph or fairy. There is always 
much of interest in the mystery of a wood ; 
the uncertainty produced by the confined 
boundary ; tlie objects which crowd together, 
and prevent the eye from penetrating to dis- 
tance ; the strange flickering mixture of sha- 
dow and sunshine, the sudden flight of birds 
— oh, it was enchanting! I wandered on, 
quite regardless of time or distance, now ad- 
miring the beautiful wood-sorrel which sprang 
up amongst the old roots — now plucking the 
fragrant wood-roof — now trying to count the 
countless varieties of woodland-moss, till, at 
length, roused by my foot's catching in a rich 
trail of the white-veined ivy, which crept, 
wreathing and interlaced, over the ground, I 
became aware that I was completely lost, had 
entirely forsaken all track, and out-travelled 
all land-marks. The wood was, I knew, ex- 
tensive, and the ground so tumbled about, 
that every hundred yards presented some 
flowery slope or broken dell, which added 
greatly to the picturesqueness of the scenery, 
but very much diminished my chance of dis- 
covery or extrication. 

In this emergency, I determined to proceed 
straight onward, trusting in this way to reach 
at last one side of the wood, although I could 
not at all guess which ; and I was greatly 
solaced, after having walked about a quarter 
of a mile, to find myself crossed by a rude 
cart-track ; and still more delighted, on pro- 
ceeding a short distance farther, to hear sounds 
of merriment and business; none of the soft- 
est, certainly, but which gave tokens of rustic 
habitation ; and to emerge suddenly from the 
close wood, amongst an open grove of huge 
old trees, oaks, with their brown })laited 
leaves, cherries, covered with snowy gar- 
lands, and beeches, almost as gigantic as 
those of Windsor Park, contrasting, with 
their enormous trunks and majestic spread of 
bough, the light and flexible stems of the cop- 
pice I had left. 



226 



OUR VILLAGE 



I had come out at one of the highest points 
of the wood, and now stood on a platform 
overlooking a scene of extraordinary beauty. 
A little to the right, in a very narrow valley, 
stood an old farm-house, with pointed roofs 
and porch and pinnacles, backed by a splen- 
did orchard, which lay bathed in the sunshine, 
exhaling its fresh aromatic fragrance, all one 
flower; just under me was a strip of rich 
meadow land, through which a stream ran 
sparkling, and directly opposite a ridge of 
hanging coppices, surrounding and crowning, 
as it were, an immense old chalk-pit, which, 
overhung by bramble, ivy, and a hundred pen- 
dent weeds, irregular and weather-stained, 
had an air as venerable and romantic as some 
grey ruin. Seen in the gloom and stillness 
of evening, or by the pale glimpses of the 
moon, it would have required but little aid 
from the fancy to picture out the broken shafts 
and mouldering arches of some antique ab- 
bey. But, besides that daylight is the sworn 
enemy of such illusions, my attention was 
imperiously claimed by a reality of a very 
different kind. One of the gayest and noisiest 
operations of rural life — sheep-washing — was 
going on in the valley below — 

"the turmoil that unites 
Clamour of boj's with innocent despites 
Of barl^ing dogs, and bleatings from strange fear." 
Wordsworth. 

All the inhabitants of the farm seemed as- 
sembled in the meadow. I counted a dozen 
at least of men and boys of all ages, from the 
stout, sun-burnt, vigorous farmer of fifty, who 
presided over the operation, down to the eight- 
year-old urchin, who, screaming, running, and 
shaking his ineffectual stick after an eloped 
sheep, served as a sort of aide-de-camp to the 
sheep-dog. What a glorious scene of confu- 
sion it was! what shouting! what scuffling ! 
what glee ! Four or five young men, and one 
amazon of a barefooted girl, with her petti- 
coats tucked up to her knees, stood in the 
water where it was pent between two hur- 
dles, ducking, sousing, and holding down by 
main force, the poor, frightened, struggling 
sheep, who kicked, and plunged, and bleated, 
and butted, and in spite of their imputed inno- 
cence, would certainly, in the ardour of self- 
defence, have committed half-a-dozen homi- 
cides, if their power had equalled their incli- 
nation. The rest of the party were fully oc- 
cupied ; some in conducting the purified sheep, 
who showed a strong dis])osition to go the 
wrong way back to their quarters ; others in 
leading the uncleansed part of the flock to 
their destined ablution, from which they also 
testified a very ardent and active desire to 
escape. Dogs, men, boys, and girls were en- 
gaged in marshalling these double processions, 
the order of which was constantly interrupted 
by the outbreaking of some runaway sheep, 
who turned the march into a pursuit, to the 
momentary increase of the din, which seemed 



already to have reached the highest possible 
pitch. 

The only quiet persons in the field were a 
delicate child of nine years old, and a bloom 
ing woman of forty.-five — a comely blooming 
woman, with dark hair, bright eyes, and a 
complexion like a daisy, who stood watching 
the sheep-washers with the happiest siniles, 
and was evidently the mother of half the lads 
and lasses in the melee. It could be, and it 
was no other than my friend Mrs. Bond, and 
resolving to make myself and my difficulties 
known to her, I scrambled down no very 
smooth or convenient path, and keeping a gate 
between me and the scene of action, contrived, 
after sundry efforts, to attract her attention. 

Here of course my difficulties ceased. But 
if I were to tell how glad she was to see her 
old neighbour, how full of kind questions and 
of hospitable cares, — how she would cut the 
great cake intended for the next day's sheep- 
shearing, would tap her two-year-old currant 
wine, would gather a whole bush of early 
honeysuckles, and, finally, would see me home 
herself, I being, as she observed, rather given 
to losing my way ; — if I were to tell all these 
things, when should I have done 1 I will rather 
conclude in the words of an old French Fairy 
tale — Je crains deja d'avoir abuse de la pa- 
tience du lecteur. Je finis avant qu'il me dise 
de finir. 



PREFACE.* 

The continued encouragement afforded by 
the Public to her successive series of Village 
Sketches, has induced the Writer to bring for- 
ward a Fourth Volume, on nearly the same 
plan, which she earnestly hopes may prove as 
fortunate as its predecessors. 

A few of the stories were composed pur- 
posely for children ; but as people do not, 
now-a-days, write down to those little folks, 
and as the Authoress has herself, in common 
with her wisers and betters, a strong propen- 
sity to dip into children's books when they 
happen to fall in her way, she by no means 
thought it necessary to omit them. 

Three Mile Cross, April 23, 1830. 



INTRODUCTORY LETTER. 

TO MISS W. 

Feb. 20, 1830. 
No, my dearest Mary, the severe domestic 
calamity which we have experienced will not, 
as you expect, and as many of our other 

*To the fourth volume, as originally published. 



INTRODUCTORY LETTER. 



227 



friends seem to anticipate, drive us from our 
favourite village. On the contrary, the cot- 
ta<je home, in which she, used to such very 
different accommodation, closed her peaceful 
and blameless life, the country church in 
which her remains lie buried, and the kind 
neighbours by whom she was so universally 
respected and beloved, are now doubly en- 
deared to us by their connexion with her 
whom we have lost. There is no running 
away from a great grief. Happy are they to 
whom, as in our case, it comes softened and 
sanctified by the recollection of the highest 
and most amiable virtues clothed in manners 
the most feminine and the most ladylike. To 
them memory will be the best comforter, for 
such memories are rare. No, dearest Mary, 
we certainly shall not think of removing on 
this account. 

But, besides that our affliction is too real 
and too recent* to dwell upon, I have no right 
to sadden you with my sadness. I will ra- 
ther try to escape from it myself and to an- 
swer, as best I may, your kind questions on 
other subjects, particularly those respecting 
the place in which you take so kind a con- 
cern, and such of its inhabitants as have had 
the good fortune to interest you. 

Our Village, (many thanks for your polite 
inquiry) continues to stand pretty much where 
it did, and has undergone as little change in 
the last two j^ears as any hamlet of its inches 
in the county. Just now it is in an awful 
state of dirt and dinginess, the white nuisance 
of snow having subsided into the brown nui- 
sance of mud in the roads, whilst the slippery 
treachery of ice is converted into the less dan- 
gerous but more deplorable misery of sloppi- 
ness on the footway. They talk of the snow 
as having been so many feet deep. I wonder 
if any one has undertaken to sound the depth 
of the dirt. Over-pattens and over-boots give 
but a faint and modified notion of the discom- 
forts of a country-walk during the present fine 
thaw, to say nothing of the heavy clinging 
dripping annoyance, called draggled-tails. 

We feel these evils the more since they are 
of a kind from which our light dry gravelly 
soil generally protects us. And even now we 
have the comfort of knowing, not so much that 
we are better off than our neighbours, but that 
they are worse off than ourselves — a comfort, 
the value of which nobody who has not had 
cause to feel it can duly appreciate. Their 
superior calamity, arises not merely from the 
snow and the thaw, grievances which we en- 
dured in common, but from the Loddon on 
one side of us, and the Kennet and Thames 
on the other, having embraced so fair an op- 
portunity of playing their usual pranks and 
overflowed the country round, as if governed 
by the malicious water sprite, (I forget the 



* My beloved and excellent mother died on the 
morning of New Year's day. 



gentleman's name) who popped his head out 
of a well and flooded the heroine's castle and 
territory in Undine. So far as all the mea- 
dows and half the cellars North, South, East, 
and West, of our village being under water 
may afford us comfort, we possess it in per- 
fection. Another consolation, although rather 
prospective than present, may be found in the 
fact, that to judge from certain islands of gra- 
vel rising at intervals through the mud, our 
road is about to undergo the operation of 
mending — that excruciating operation which 
horses, drivers, and passengers hate so tlio- 
roughly in its progress, and like so well in 
its consequences. In our village proper, other 
changes have we none. 

On the outskirts of the parish, indeed, im- 
provement hath not been idle. The fine ]ilace 
on the top of the hill, the Park as it is called, 
hath undergone no less a transmogrification 
than that of Grecian to Gothic, one of those 
chanfjes which people hold themselves privi- 
leged to criticise; and they are seldom slack 
to exercise that privilege, because to discover 
faults looks wise, but which in richness and 
variety generally contrives to please the eye, 
and to be quite as pretty as if all the world 
were agreed to call it so. I have no doubt, 
judcring from the praise and the blame, but I 
shall like the building. By the way, the Park, 
our only point of change, hath undergone in 
its own person alteration enough to serve the 
whole parish. Besides the Gothic casing of 
the mansion, the grounds have been improved ; 
plantations of twenty years' growth trans- 
planted ; trees double that age made to chang-e 
sides, according to the bold practice of now- 
a-days; and the hill on which the house 
stands pared off to let in the water, by a body 
of excavators (navigators our villagers by an 
ingenious slip-slopism were pleased to call 
them) imported from afar. Altogether the 
Park is a new place. 

Amongst our inhabitants we have the usual 
portion of mutability. Besides those graver 
changes of which the Parish Register keeps 
account, there has been considerable move- 
ment and fluctuation in our little colony. 
Many of the old settlers have migrated and 
some new ones have arrived. The most nota- 
ble of these changes is the departure of the 
female blacksmith and her noisy progeny, 
who are now dispersed over half the forges 
in the county, to the probable improvement of 
their din and the certain abatement of ours. 
Not that we are particularly quiet now — that 
would be too much to say, but the village 
clamour has changed its character. Before 
there was a sort of contest in loudness be- 
tween the geese and the boys ; now, the geese 
have it hollow. Nobody thinks of complain- 
ing of the children, or even of hearing them, 
whilst their rivals are railed at from morning 
to night, and have even become of note enough 
to be threatened with an indictment. 



228 



OUR VILLAGE. 



The present occupier of the forge is John 
Ford, the civil intellitrent husband of our 
pretty neighbour, the lass of the shoe-shop. 
They are fairly settled in the blacksmith's 
territories with their little sjirl, who, being the 
only child of an only child, and having two 
grandfathers, two grandmothers, and one great- 
grandfather, is of course cried up for the most 
wonderful wonder of wonders that ever trod 
the earth ; and really without being her grand- 
mother or her great-grandmother, 1 cannot help 
admiring the little damsel myself, it's such a 
delicate fairy, so merry and so full of glee. 

In addition to our new blacksmith, we have 
a new shoemaker, a new collar-maker, a new 
carpenter, and a new baker, although the last 
mentioned personage is non-resident, and only 
perambulates the village in his cart, to say no- 
thing of the newest of all our novelties, a new 
schoolmaster, elected yesterday. Each of 
these functionaries is of some note in his par- 
ticular calling, especially the baker, who is 
eminent for his loaves which are crusty, and his 
temper which is not ; but the acquisition which 
interests me most, is the new occupant of the 
wheelwright's pretty apartments, a lady whom 
you must know some day or other, and who 
is to me a delightful companion and a most 
valuable friend. She must never go away, 
for what would our village do without her ! 

Now to the rustic lovers after whom you 
inquired with so kind an interest : Jem and 
Mabel are married ; Joel and Harriet are not ; 
their aifair stands much as it did, a regular 
engagement with intermitting fits of flirtation 
on the lady's side and of jealousy on the part 
of the gentleman. Some day or other I sup- 
pose they will marry; but really they are such 
a handsome couple and their little quarrels are 
so amusing, that it will be quite a pity to put 
an end to the courtshi|). The third and last 
pair of turtle-doves, Daniel Tubb and Sally 
North, remain also unwedded in spite of the 
indications on Valentine's day, which even 
the experience of the lame clerk deemed in- 
fallible. Somehow or other the affair went off. 
Poor Stephen Long the other hero of that ad- 
venture — How like you it is to take pity on 
one whom nobody else thinks worth caring 
for ! — Poor Master Stephen, our small London 
apprentice met during that very visit with 
another misfortune in the same line, and as 
the poor little person seems rather to have 
taken yoilfr fancy, I may as well tell you the 
story now. 

Before his adventure with Miss Sally North 
was fairly over, that is to say before that re- 
lentless damsel had set him free from her bas- 
ket,* Master Stephen Long began to discover, 
as rejected lovers sometimes do, that he would 
not have been accepted for the world ; not that 
he bore any ill will to the young person, but 
that he had no taste for giantesses, and a par- 

1 *See page 170. 



ticular aversion for hoydens and tomboys and 
women who trespassed against the delicacy 
of their sex ; and no sooner was he safely dis- 
mounted from the fair head on which he had 
remained perched in most ludicrous wrath, 
restrained from jumping down by a mingled 
fear of hurting Sally and hurting himself, and 
looking much like one of those non-descript 
animals rampant which so often serve as a 
crest in heraldry ; — no sooner was he fairly 
on the ground than he communicated in very 
chosen terms to his obdurate mistress, his 
opinion of the escape which he had had in not 
marrying her, and bowed himself off. It is 
said that our rural coquet, for as little as she 
cared for her cockney lover, was somewhat 
piqued at this cool resignation ; and that his 
portly and good-humoured rival, her chosen 
Valentine, had a good deal of huffing and 
brusquerie to endure on the occasion, Sally 
having followed the example of her betters, 
by revenging on the innocent object in her 
power the affronts offered her by the culprit 
who was not; — nay, so much did she take his 
defection to heart, that it was even whispered 
in the village, that a tender speech, or a copy 
of verses, or a new ribbon from Stephen, 
might have replaced their love affair in statu 
quo. 

None such arrived. Stephen had done with 
her. "It had been a boyish choice," as he 
said to himself, with all the importance of a 
young gentleman, who has just entered his 
nineteenth year, "a boyish mistake; his next 
choice should be wiser, wise and deliberate; 
he had plenty of time before him." Accord- 
ingly he walked round the parish, and fell in 
love again, or thought he fell in love, before 
noon on the same day. Nothing so easy as 
catching a heart on the rebound ; especially 
such a heart as Master Stephen's, who, in 
spite of his being the very cleverest boy in 
Aberleigh School, and one of the cleverest 
'prentices in Cheapside, a proser, a poet, an 
orator, and a critic, was between conceit and 
kind-heartedness and a spice of romance, one 
of the simplest persons that ever existed. It 
was a good-natured mannikin too, and a gen- 
erous ; and would not have seemed so very 
ugly or so very small, or so ridiculously like 
the picture of the monkey that has seen the 
world in the older editions of Gay's Fables, 
but for the caricature of fashion exhibited in 
its dress, and the perking strutting air, the 
elevated chin, the tiptoe walk, and the vain 
endeavour to pass for tall, which pervaded the 
whole little person, producing exactly such a 
copy of the gait and mien of a full-grown 
man, as that ambitious bird a he bantam ex- 
hibits of the size and actions of the great cock 
of tlie farm-yard. A kind youth nevertheless 
was Stephen Long, a kind and well-disposed 
youth ; dutiful to his grandmother who was 
very fond of him, and being nearly blind, ap- 
proached nearer his own estimate of his per- 



INTRODUCTORY LETTER. 



229 



sonal o^rafees than anybody else; respectful to 
his father; aftertionate to his brothers and 
sisters ; and civil to the whole world. He 
made the tour of the villasje that very morning, 
and it was on a visit to his old acquaintance 
the mistress of the shop, that he had the g[ood 
luck to lose over again the heart which would 
otherwise have hung so heavily on his hands. 

Peotry Norman, his new lady-love, was a 
little serving^ maiden, livinn-at Captain Selby's, 
a family of some g-entility in Aberleigh, and 
had the neatness of dress, and the gjencral 
trentillesse of appearance belonging almost 
exclusively to the class of soubrettes. Pretty 
she could hardly be called ; and yet there was 
much attraction in her trim girlish figure, so 
liglit and round and youthful, her thick curling 
brown hair, the dazzling red and white of her 
brilliant complexion, as brightly contrasted as 
the colours in an apple-blossom, the broad 
smile disclosing a set of white even teeth, to 
say nothing of a very pretty dimple, and the 
wliole expression of her bright blue eyes, 
whose arch glance when suddenly thrown up, 
formed an excellent accompaniment to the 
broad dimpled smile, and harmonized well 
with the naivete and espieglerie of her voice 
and manner. It was the most agreeable man- 
ner that could be conceived, very gentle, very 
respectful, and very gay. Mrs. Selby, pleased 
with her young liquid voice, her pretty ac- 
cent, her constant simplicity and occasional 
acuteiiess, and exceedingly amused by the 
new form in which her own opinions and re- 
inarks were sometimes returned to her by her 
docile attendant, had encouraged her light- 
hearted prattle, so that without any touch of 
presumption or pertness, Peggy felt the secu- 
rity of pleasing, proper to a spoilt child, joined 
to a constitutional desire to please which spoilt 
children are seldom lucky enough to possess. 
She was a perfect little rosebud of fifteen, and 
all the more dangerous to Stephen Long be- 
cause she was little, he having contracted a 
remarkable aversion to the entire race of gi- 
antesses. 

The errand on which Peggfy had been sent 
to the territories of Mrs. White, being of a 
nature to detain her a considerable time, she 
having been ordered to match unmatchable 
silk with unprocurable cotton, Stephen had 
amjile opy)ortHnity for falling in love, and even 
for making love ; and before the grand ques- 
tion was decided whether the yellow, the blue, 
or the brown balls, of which Mrs. White's 
stock was composed, made the nearest ap- 
proach to her green pattern, a very promising 
flirtation had commenced, greatly promoted 
by the complaisant mistress of the shop, who 
invited both parties to drink tea with her on 
the succeeding evening. 

They met accordingly, and the love-affair 
])rocceded most prosperously. Stejthen had 
the happiness to find in this nev/ flame a de- 
gree of literary acquirement which stood in 

20 



the most advantageous contrast to the positive 
duncicality of Sally North. Mrs. Selby being 
a literary lady, Peggy had heard the names 
of authors and the titles of books; she had 
even a personal acquaintance with the outside 
of periodical literature, knew the colours of 
magazines, the backs of reviews, and the 
shapes of newspapers ; could tell at a glance 
the Edinburgh from the Quarterly, and the 
John Bull from the Literary Gazette; was fa- 
miliar with the grim face on Blackwood, and 
knew at a touch the Old Monthly from the 
New. Stephen was in raptures. In another 
respect too, they met on even terms. Peggy 
had recently accompanied her mistress to Lon- 
don, had spent a whole fortnight there, and 
was so charmed with the gaiety and hurly- 
burly of that gr-eat noisy good-for-nothing 
pleasant place, always delightful to healthy 
and lively youth, that she could talk of no- 
thing else, and had certainly brought back 
with her a slight feeling of contempt (pity 
she was pleased to call it) for the less fortu- 
nate bum})kins who had never heard the sound 
of Bow Bell. True it is that in talking of 
London, Peggy and Stephen meant very dif- 
ferent places, — Stephen spoke of his home, 
the city ; Peggy of hers, the west end ; — and 
a few mistakes and cross-readings ensued, es- 
pecially on Peggy's part, who took Oxford- 
street for Cheapside, and Westminster Abbey 
for St. Paul's. But all passed under the 
general denomination of Town. — "There is 1 
a river in London, and also, moreover, ther*^ | 
is a river in IVesfminsier, and there is salmons 
in both." And Peggy talked and listened and 
smiled ; and Stephen went home and wrote a 
sonnet to " his mistress's eye-brow." 

The next day (Sunday,) they met again 
after church, and took a walk together in the 
evening, in the course of which they disco- 
vered another subject common to both, that 
subject which those who like it at all find so 
delightful — the Theatre. Stephen, certainly 
the most literary of hosiers' apprentices, was 
especially enthusiastic on the drama, had twice 
appeared at a private theatre, and entertained 
a strong desire to embrace the stage as a pro- 
fession as soon as he was out of his time. 
Now Peggy had herself been at three plays, 
and talked of them with some discretion; 
knew Comedy from Opera, and Tragedy from 
Farce. But it was not a talker that Stephen 
required on this theme; a listener was what 
he wanted ; and no one ever acted audience 
whilst he rehearsed the story of his two ap- 
pearances in Romeo and Richard the Third, 
better than the little blue-eyed girl who hung 
on his arm so admiringly as they walked 
round Aberleigh Green. Nothing, he said, 
could exceed the applause with which his 
debut in Romeo had been greeted by a Urge 
audience of city 'prentices, and shopwomen, 
troubled only by the astounding height of a 
bouncing Juliet, half as tall again as himself, 



230 



OUR VILLAGE. 



who quite spoilt, as he observed, the propor- 
tions of the play. Again they made the tour 
of the Green, and Peggy had half promised 
to study the part of Juliet, when a (lifference 
arose out of this very subject which put an 
abrupt end to their courtship. 

From his personal adventures Stephen wan- 
dered to a general critique on plays and ac- 
tors, especially to a warm encomium on one 
great actor, who was as he said his model. 
Peggy (who had seen the tragedian in ques- 
tion in Othello) assented heartily to the pane- 
gyric, adding, "that it was a great pity so 
clever a man should be black."* 

" Black !" ejaculated the astonished Ste- 
phen ; " Black"! !" 

" Yes," answered Peggy, " black ; a black- 
amoor, a negro." 

" Blackamoor I ! Negro ! ! !" re-echoed Ste- 
phen, more and more astounded. " Mr. 

black ! Are yon dreaming? He's as fair as 
you are. What do you mean 1 What can you 
mean ?" 

" What I say," returned Peggy. " Did not 
I see him with my own eyes, and was not he 
as black as a chimney-sweeper? and did not 
his wife and every body talk of his com- 
plexion all throtigh the play 1 You need not 
stand there, Mr. Stephen, holding up your 
hands and eyes, and looking as if you thought 
me a fool. I am not such a dunce as Sally 
North. I have been to London, and been to 
the play, and what 1 have seen I believe for 
all your strange looks. He 's as black as my 
master's great greyhound," — continued Peg- 
gy, who had gradually talked herself into 
such a passion, that her cheeks generally like 
a cabbage-rose were of the colour of a red 
cabbage — "as black as your hat." 

Stephen on his part was for the first time 
in his life dumfounded ; first at the singular 
mixture of ignorance and simplicity implied 
in the assertion and the reasons brought to 
support it; secondly at the impudence of the 
little country damsel who did not know West- 
minster Abbey from St. Paul's, and yet ven- 
tured to impugn his authority on such a point. 
" Let me tell you — " he began, when a little 
recovered from his consternation, " Let me 
tell you, child — " 

"Child I" interrupted Peggy, touched on 
the very point of dignity; "child yourself! 
It is well known that I am sixteen all but 
eight months, and as for you, you'll look like 
a boy all the days of your life. You play 
Tragedy! Why you're hardly tall enough 
for Punch. Child indeed ! And I almost 
sixteen ! Never come near me again, Mr. 
Long, I have nothing to say to you — " and 
off marched Peggy ; and poor Stephen twice 



rejected in three days, would certainly have 
hanged himself in Sally North's scarlet gar- 
ters, had he not had the lucky resource of 
tender poesy, that admirable vent-peg of dis- 
appointed love. He went back to Town, and 
wrote an elegy, and we have heard no more 
of him since. 

So much for our villagers. With regard to 
my own small territory, it has lost one of its 
prime ornaments ; my beautiful greyhound 
Mayflower is dead. Old age and the cold 
weather were too much for her. Poor pretty 
May ! She lies under a rose-tree in a place 
she liked well. And my garden, " that bright 
bit of colour," as you call it, and which in the 
summer so well deserves the name ; my gar- 
den is much like a small field newly har- 
rowed, except that a grove of sticks seems to 
indicate the site of bulbs and perennials and 
other underground treasures. Matters are 
mending though. Two mild days have brought 
up a few green buds just peeping above the 
earth, and the borders begin to show symp- 
toms of flovveriness. The snowdrop, the cro- 
cus, the hepatica, and the aconite are already 
in blossom (to think of being able to count 
the flowers in my garden !) and the Mezereon, 
and the Pyrus Japonica will be out to-mor- 
row. Things are certainly mending. My 
green-house looks really spring-like, and the 
robin which has inhabited that warm shelter 
during the whole winter, making no further 
excursion than to the honeysuckle ojjposite 
and back again, has ventured to the great j 
pear-tree, and has got a companion, the rogue! 
I should not wonder if he built him a nest, j 
and only visited us when he wanted bread i 
crums. j 

The green-house does really give token of 
spring. You do not know my green-house, 
dear Mary, but you must come and see it. | 
You have promised; have you not? At all 1 
events you must come. It is the simplest 
thing that ever was, and the prettiest — an ex- i 
cavation in a barn with glass in front looking i 
on my nosegay of a garden, and serving, like 
Cowper's, the double purpose of a shelter for 
the geraniums in winter, and a summer par- 
lour for ourselves. When they go out, we 
go in. Last year which was generally so 
mild, a short sharp frost took us by surprise, 
and killed all my plants; but this severe win- 
ter we were prepared, and have saved them — 
and you must come to see them — and to see 
us — and then we shall like the green-house 
better still. Ever yours, &c. Ice. 



* This sinK'ilrir mistake did actually happen to a 
country girl of my acqnairitanfe. I do not venture to 
put the actor's name, — nhiinnch fureiy it was a com- 
pliment in its way, not unlike that which Partridge 
paid to Garrick. 



LOST AND WON. 

" Nay, hut my dear Letty — " 

" Don't dear Letty me, Mr. Paul Holton ! 
Have not tiie East-Woodhay Eleven beaten 
the Hazelby Eleven for the first time in the 



LOST AND WON. 



231 



memory of man 1 and is it not entirely your 
fault 1 Answer me that, sir! Did not you 
insist on taking James White's place, when 
he got that little knock on the leg with the 
ball last night, though James, poor fellow, 
maintained to the last that he could play bet- 
ter with one leg than you with two? Did not 
you insist on taking poor James's place? and 
did you get a single notch in either innings'! 
And did not you miss three catches — three 
fair catches — Mr. Paul Holton! Might not 
you twice have caught out John Brown, who, 
as all the world knows, hits up 1 And did 
not a ball from the edge of Tom Taylor's bat 
come into your hands, absolutely into your 
hands, and did not you let her go? And did 
not Tom Taylor after that get forty-five runs 
in that same innings, and thereby win the 
game? That a man should pretend to play 
at cricket, and not be able to hold the bail 
when he has her in his hands ! Oh, if I had 
been there !" 

" You ! —Why Letty" — 

"Don't Letty me, sir ! — Don't talk to me ! 
— I am going home !" 

" With all my heart. Miss Letitia Dale ! — 
I have the honour, madam, to wish you a good 
evening." And each turned away at a smart 
pace, and the one went westward and the other 
eastward-ho. 

This unlover-like parting occurred on Ha- 
zelby Down one fine afternoon in the Whit- 
sun-week, between a couple whom all Hazel- 
by and Aberleigh to boot, had, for at least a 
month before, set down as lovers — Letty Dale, 
the pretty daughter of the jolly old tanner, and 
Paul Holton, a rich young yeoman,- on a visit 
in the place. Letty's angry speech will suf- 
ficiently explain their mutual provocation, al- 
though, to enter fully into her feelings, one 
must be born in a cricketing parish, and 
sprung of a cricketing family, and be accus- 
tomed to rest that very uncertain and arbitrary 
standard, the point of honour, on beating our 
rivals and next neighbours in the annual match 
— for juxtaposition is a great sharpener of ri- 
valry, as Dr. Johnson knew, when, to please 
the inhaliitants of Plymouth, he abused the 
good folks who lived at Dock ; moreover, one 
must be also a quick, zealous, ardent, hot- 
headed, warm-hearted girl, like Letty, a beau- 
ty and an heiress, quite unused to disappoint- 
ment, and not a little in love; and then we 
shall not wonder, in the first place, that she 
should be unreasonably angry, or, in the next, 
that before she had walked half a mile her 
anger vanished, and was succeeded by tender 
relentings and earnest wishes for a full and 
perfect reconciliation. " He'll be sure to call 
to-morrow morning," thouoht Letty to her- 
self: " He said he would, before this un- 
lucky cricket-playing. He told me that he 
had something to say, something ])articular. 
I wonder what it can be !" thought poor Let- 
ty. " To be sure, he never has said any thing 



about liking me — but still — and then aunt Ju- 
dith, and Fanny Wright, and all the neigh- 
bours say However, I shall know to-mor- 
row." And home she tripped to the pleasant 
house by the tan-yard, as happy as if the East- 
Woodhay men had not beaten the men of Ha- 
zelb)'. "I shall not see him before to-mor- 
row, though," repeated Letty to herself, and 
immediately repaired to her pretty flower-gar- 
den, the little gate of which opened on a path 
leading from the Down to the street — a path 
that, for obvious reasons, Paul was wont to 
prefer — and began tying up her carnations in 
the dusk of the eveningr, and watering her ge- 
raniums by the light of the moon, until it was 
so late that she was fain to return, disap- 
pointed, to the house, repeating to herself, " I 
shall certainly see him to-morrow." 

Far different were the feelings of the chid- 
den swain. Wel!-a-day for the age of chiv- 
alry ! the happy times of knights and pala- 
dins, when a lecture from a lady's rosy lip, or 
a buffet from her lily hand, would have been 
received as humbly and as thankfully as the 
Benedicite from a mitred abbot, or the acco- 
lade from a king's sword ! Alas for the days 
of chivalry ! They are gone, and I fear me 
for ever. For certain our present hero was 
not born to revive them. 

Paul Holton was a well-looking and well- 
educated young farmer, just returned from the 
north, whither he had been sent for agricul- 
tural improvement, and now on the look-out 
for a farm and a wife, both of which he 
thought he had found at Hazel by, where he 
had come on the double errand of visiting 
some distant relations, and letting two or three 
small houses recently fallen into his posses- 
sion. As owner of these houses, all situate 
in the town, he had claimed a right to join the 
Hazelby Eleven, mainly induced to avail him- 
self of the privilege by the hope of winning 
favour in the eyes of the ungrateful fair one, 
whose animated character, as well as her 
sparkling beauty, had delighted his fancy, and 
apparently won his heart, until her rude attack 
on his play armed all the vanity of man 
against her attractions. Love is more inti- 
mately connected with self-love than ppople 
are willing to imagine; and Paul Helton's 
had been thoroughly mortified. Besides, if 
his fair mistress's character were somewhat 
too impetuous, his was greatly over-firm. So 
he said to himself—" The girl is a pretty girl, 
but far too much of a shrew for my taminw. 
I am no Petruchio to master this Catharine. 
' I come to wive it happily in Padua :' and let 
her father be as rich as he may, I '11 none of 
her." And, mistaking anger for indifference 
— no uncommon delusion in a love-quarrel — 
off he set within the hour, thinking so very 
much of punishing the saucy beauty, that he 
entirely forgot the possibility of some of the 
pain falling to his own share. 

The first tidings that. Letty heard the next 



232 



OUR VILLAGE. 



mornincr were, that Mr. Paul Holton had de- 
parted over-night, having authorised his cousin 
to let his houses, and to decline the large farm, 
for which he was in treaty; the next intelli- 
gence informed her that he was settled in 
Sussex ; and then his relation left Hazelby — 
and poor Letty heard no more. Poor Letty ! 
Even in a common parting for a common jour- 
ney, she who stays behind is the object of 
pity: how much more so when he who goes 
— goes never to return, and carries with him 
the fond affection, the treasured hopes, ol a 
young unpractised heart, 

" And gentle wishes long subdued — 
Subdued and cherish'd long!" 

Poor, poor Letty ! 

Three years passed away, and brought 
much of change to our country-maiden and to 
her fortunes. Her father, the jolly old tanner, 
a kind, frank, thoughtless man, as the cogno- 
men would almost imply, one who did not 
think that there were such things as wicked- 
ness and ingratitude under the sun, became 
bound for a friend to a large amount; the 
friend proved a villain, and the jolly tanner 
was ruined. He and his daughter now lived 
in a small cottage near their former house; 
and at the point of time at which I have 
chosen to resume my story, the old man was 
endeavouring to persuade Letty, who had 
never attended a cricket-match since the one 
which she had so much cause to remember, to 
accompany him the next day (Whit-Tuesday) 
to see the Hazelby Eleven again encounter 
their ancient antagonists, the men of East- 
Woodhay. 

" Pray come, Letty," said the fond father ; 
" I can't go without you ; I have no pleasure 
anywhere without my Letty; and I want to 
see this match, for Isaac Hunt can't play on 
account of the death of his mother, and they 
tell me that the East-Woodhay men have con- 
sented to our taking in another mate who 
practises the new Sussex bowling — I want to 
see that new-fangled mode. Do come, Letty!" 
And, with a smothered sigh at the mention of 
Sussex, Letty consented. 

Now old John Dale was not quite ingenuous 
with his pretty daughter. He did not tell her 
what he very well knew himself, that the 
bowler in question was no other than tiieir 
soraeiime friend, Paul Holton, whom the 
business of letting his houses, or some other 
cause, not, perhaps, .clearly defined even to 
himself, had brought to Hazelby on the eve of 
the match, and wliose new method of bowling 
(in spite of his former mischances) the Ha- 
zelby Eleven were willing to try; the more 
so as they suspected, what, indeed, actually 
occurred, that the Pvdst-Woodhayites, who 
would have resisted the innovation of the Sus- 
sex system of delivering the ball in the hands 
of any one (dse, would have no objection to 
let Paul Holton, whose bad playing was a 



standing joke amongst them, do his best or 
his worst in any way. 

Not a word of this did John Dale say to 
Letty ; so that she was quite taken by surprise, 
when, having placed her father, now very m- 
firm, in a comfortable chair, sne sate down by 
his side on a little hillock of turf, and saw 
her recreant lover standing amongst a group 
of cricketers very near, and evidently gazing 
on her — ^just as he used to gaze three years 
before. 

Perhaps Letty had never looked so pretty 
in her life as at that moment. She was simply 
drest, as became her fallen fortunes. Her 
complexion was still coloured, like the apple- 
blossom, with vivid red and white, but there 
was more of sensibility, more of the heart in 
its quivering mutability, its alternation of 
paleness and blushes ; the blue eyes were still 
as bright, but they were oftener cast down ; 
the smile was still as splendid, but far more 
rare; the girlish gaiety was gone, but it was 
re|)laced by womanly sweetness ; — sweetness 
and modesty formed now the chief expression 
of that lovely face, lovelier, far lovelier, than 
ever. So apparently thought Paul Holton, for 
he gazed and gazed with his whole soul in his 
eyes, in complete oblivion of cricket and crick- 
eter, and the whole world. At last he recol- 
lected himself, blushed and bowed, and ad- 
vanced a few steps, as if to address her; but 
timid and irresolute, he turned away without 
speaking, joined the party who had now as- 
sembled round the wickets, the umpires called 
" Play !" and the game began. 

East-Woodhay gained the toss and went in, 
and all eyes were fixed on the Sussex bowler. 
The ball was placed in his hands ; and in- 
stantly the wicket was down, and the striker 
out — no other than Tom Taylor, the boast of 
his parish, and the best batsman in the county. 
" Accident ! mere accident I" of course, cried 
East-Woodhay; but another, and another fol- 
lowed : few could stand against the fatal bowl- 
ing, and none could get notches. — A panic 
seized the whole side. And then, as losers 
will, they began to exclaim against the system, 
called it a toss, a throw, a trick ; any thing 
but bowling, any thing but cricket; railed at 
it as destroying the grace of the attitude, and 
the balance of the game; protested against 
being considered as beaten by such jugglery, 
and finally, appealed to the umpires as to the 
fairness of the play. The umpires, men of 
conscience, and old cricketers, hummed and 
hawed, and see-sawed ; quoted contending 
precedents and jostling authorities ; looked 
grave and wise, whilst even their little sticks 
of office seemed vibrating in puzzled import- 
ance. Never were judges more sorely per- 
plexed. At last they did as the sages of the 
bench often do in such cases — reserved the 
point of law, and desired them to " play out 
the play." Accordingly the match was re- 
sumed ; only twenty-seven notches being 



LOST AND WON. 



233 



trained by the East-Woodhayians in their first 
innings, and they entirely from the balls of 
the old Hazelby bowler, James White. 

DurincT the quarter of an hour's pause which 
the laws allow, the victorious man of (Sussex 
went up to John Dale, who had watched him 
with a strange mixture of feeling, delighted 
to hear the stumps rattle, and to see opponent 
after opponent throw^ down his bat and walk 
ofl', and yet much annoyed at the new method 
by which the object was achieved. " We 
should not have called this cricket in my 
day," said he, "and yet it knocks down the 
wickets gloriously, too." Letty. on her part, 
had watched the game with unmingled inte- 
rest and admiration: "He knew how much 
I liked to see a good cricketer," thought she; 
yet still, Avhen that identical good cricketer 
approached, she was seized with such a fit of 
shyness — call it modesty — that she left her 
seat and joined a group of young women at 
some distance. 

Paul looked earnestly after her, but re- 
mained standing by her father, inquiring with 
affectionate interest after his health, and talk- 
ing over the game and the bowlinof. At length 
he said, " I hope that I have not driven away 
Miss Letitia." 

"Call her Letty, Mr. Holton," interrupted 
the old man ; " plain Letty. We are poor 
folks now, and have no right to any other title 
than our own proper names, old John Dale 
and his daughter Letty. A good daughter 
she has been to me," continued the fond fa- 
ther; " for when debts and losses took all that 
we had — for we paid to the uttertTiost farthing, 
Mr. Paul Holton, we owe no man a. shilling! 
— when all my earnings and savings were 
gone, and the house over our head — the house 
I was born in, the house she w-as born in — I 
loved it the better for that ! — taken away from 
us, then she gave up the few hundreds she 
was entitled to in right of her blessed mother 
to purchase an annuity for the old man, whose 
trust in a villain had brought her to want." 

" God bless her!" interrupted Paul Holton. 

" Ay, and God will bless her," returned the 
old man solemnly — " God will bless the duti- 
ful child, who despoiled herself of all to sup- 
port her old father !" 

"Blessings on her dear generous heart!" 
again ejaculated Paul ; " and I was away and 
knew nothing of this !" 

" I knew nothing of it myself until the deed 
was completed," rejoined John Dale. " She 
was just of age, and the annuity was pur- 
chased and the money paid before she told 
me; and a cruel kindness it \vas to strip her- 
self for my sake ; it almost broke my heart 
when I heard the story. But even that was 
nothing," continued the good tanner, warming 
with his subject, " compared with her conduct 
since. If you could but see how she keeps 
the house, and how she waits upon me ; her 



handiness, her cheerfulness, and all her pretty 
ways and contrivances to make me forget old 
times and old places. Poor thing! she must 
miss her neat parlour and the flower-garden 
she was so fond of, as much as I do my tan- 
yard and the great hall ; but she never seems 
to think of them, and never has spoken a 
hasty word since our misfortunes, for all you 
know, poor thing! she used to be a little 
quick-tempered !" i 

" And 1 knew nothing of this !" repeated 
Paul Holton, as, two or three of their best 
wickets being down, the Hazelby players 
summoned him logo in. "I knew nothing 
of all this!" 

Again all eyes were fixed on the Sussex 
cricketer, and at first he seemed likely to 
verify the predictions and confirm the hopes 
of the most malicious of his adversaries, by 
batting as badly as he had bowled well. He 
had not caught sight of the ball ; his hits were 
weak, his defence insecure, and his mates 
began to tremble and his opponents to crow. 
Every hit seemed likely to be the last; he 
missed a leg ball of Ned Smith's ; was all 
but caught out by Sam Newton ; and East- 
Woodhay triumphed, and Hazelby sat quak- 
ing; when a sudden glimpse of Letty, watch- 
ing him with manifest anxiety, recalled her 
champion's wandering thoughts. Gathering 
himself up he stood before the wicket another 
man ; knocked the ball hither and thither, to 
the turnpike, the coppice, the pond ; got three, 
four, five at a hit; bafiled the slow bowler 
James Smith, and the fast bowler Tom Tay- 
lor; got fifty-five notches off" his own bat; 
stood out all the rest of his side ; and so han- 
dled the adverse party when they went in, 
that the match was won at a single innings, 
with six-and-thirty runs to spare. 

Whilst his mates were discussing their vic- 
tory, Paul Holton again approached the father 
and daughter, and this time she did not run 
away : " Letty, dear Letty," said he ; " three 
years ago I lost the cricket-match, and you 
were angry, and I was a fool. But Letty, 
dear Letty, this match is won ; and if you 
could but know how deeply I have repented, 
how earnestly I have longed for this day ! 
The world has gone well with me, Letty, for 
these three long years. I have wanted no- 
thing but the treasure which I myself threw 
away; and now, if you would but let your 
father be my father, and my home your home ! 
— if you would but forgive me, Letty !" 

Letty's answer is not upon record : but it is 
certain that Paul Holton walked home from 
the cricket-ground that evening with old John 
Dale hanging on one arm, and John Dale's 
pretty daughter on the other ; and that a month 
after the bells of Hazelby church were ring- 
ing merrily in honour of one of the fairest and 
luckiest matches that ever cricketer lost and 
won. 



20* 



2E 



234 



OUR VILLAGE 



CHILDREN OF THE VILLAGE. 

AMY LLOYD. 

One fine sunshiny March morning, a lady, 
drivinfr herself in a pony-carriage through 
Aherh;igh lane, stopped heside a steep bank 
to look at a little girl and her dog in the ad- 
joining field. The hedge had been closely 
cut, except where a tuft of hazel with its long 
tassels hung over some broom in full flower, 
and a straggling bush of the white-blossomed 
sloe was mixed with some branches of palms, 
from which the bees were already gathering 
honey. The little girl was almost as busy as 
the bees : she was gathering violets, white 
violets and blue, with which the sunny bank 
was covered ; and her little dog was barking 
at a flock of sheep feeding in that part of the 
field, for it was a turnip field that was hurdled 
off for their use. The dog was a small French 
spaniel, one of the prettiest ever seen, with 
long curly hair, snow white, except that the 
ears and three or four spots on the body were 
yellow; large feathered feet, and bright black 
eyes : just the sort of dog of which fine ladies 
love to make pets. 

It was curious to see this beautiful little 
creature, driving before it a great flock of 
sheep, ewes, lambs, and all — for sheep are 
sad cowards! And then, when driven to the 
hurdles, the sheep, cowards though they were, 
were forced to turn about; how they would 
take courage at sight of their enemy, advanc- 
ing a step or two and pretending to look 
brave; then it was diverting to see how the 
little spaniel, frightened itself, would draw 
back barking towards its mistress, almost as 
sad a coward as the sheep. The lady sat 
watching their proceedings with great amuse- 
ment, and at last addressed the little girl, a 
nice lass of ten years old in deep mourning. 

" Whose pretty little dog is that, my dear]" 
asked the lady. 

" Mine, madam," was the answer. 

"And where did you get it] The breed is 
not common." 

" It belonged to poor mamma. Poor papa 
brought it from France." And the look and 
the tone told at once that poor Amy was an 
orphan. 

"And you and the pretty dog — what's its 
namel" said the lady, interrupting herself. 

" Floss)', ma'am — dear Flossy!" And 
Amy stooped to stroke the curly, silky, glossy 
coat which had probably gained Flossy his 
appellation; and Flossy in return jumped on 
his young mistress, and danced about her with 
tenfold glee. 

"You and Flossy live hereabout?" inquired 
the lady. 

"Close by, ma'am; at Court farm, with 
my uncle and aunt Lloyd." 

"And yon love Flossy ?" resumed the lady; 
" You would not like to part with him ]" 



"Part with Floss!" cried Amy. "Part 
with my own Flossy !" — and she flung down 
her violets, and caucrht her faithful pet in her 
arms, as if fearful of its being snatched away ; 
and Floss, as if partaking of the fear, nestled 
up to his young mistress, and pressed his head 
against her cheek. 

" Do not be alarmed, my dear," replied the 
lady, preparing to drive on ; "I am not going 
to steal your favourite, but I would give five 
guineas for a dog like him ; and if ever you 
meet with such a one, you have only to send 
it to Lumley castle. I am Lady Lumley," 
added she. " Good morning, love ! Fare- 
well, Flossy!" And, with a kind nod, the 
lady and the pony-chaise passed rapidly by; 
and Amy and Flossy returned to Court farm. 

Amy was an orphan, and had only lately 
come to live with her good uncle and aunt 
Lloyd, rough honest country people; and 
being a shy meek-spirited child, who had just 
lost her most afl^ectionate parents, and had 
been used to soft voices and gentle manners, 
was so frightened at the loud speech of the 
farmer and the blunt ways of his wife, that 
she ran away from them as often as she could, 
and felt as forlorn and desolate as any little 
girl can do who has early learnt the blessed 
lesson of reliance on the Father of all. Her 
chief comfort at Court farm was to pet Flossy 
and to talk to old Dame Clewer, the charwo- 
man, who had been her own mother's nurse. 

Dame Clewer had known better days; but 
having married late in life, and been soon left 
a widow, she had toiled early and late to bring 
up an only son ; and all her little earnings had 
gone to apprentice him to a carpenter and keep 
him decently clothed ; and he, althouoh rather 
lively and thoughtless, was a dutiful and 
grateful son, and being now just out of his 
time, had gone to the next town to try to get 
work, and hoped to repay his good mother all 
her care and kindness by supporting her out 
of his earnings. He had told his mother so 
when setting off the week before, and she had 
repeated it with tears in her eyes to Amy — 
tears of joy; and Amy on her return to the 
house, went immediately in search of her old 
friend, whom she knew to be washing there, 
partly to hear over again the story of Thomas 
Clewer's goodness, partly to tell her own ad- 
venture with Lady Lumley. 

In the drying yard, as she expected, Amy 
found Dame Clewer; not however, as she ex- 
pected, smiling and busy, and deiijihied to 
see Miss Amy, but sitting on the ground by 
the side of the clothes-basket, her head buried 
in her hands, and sobbing as if her heart would 
break. "What could be the matter] Why 
did she cry so]" asked Amy. And Dame 
Clewer, unable to resist the kind interest 
evinced by the afiectionate child, told her 
briefly the cause of her distress — "Thomas 
had enlisted !" How few words may convey 
a great sorrow! — "Thomas was gone for a 



EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. 



235 



soldier !" — And the [)oor mother flung herself 
at her length on the ground, and gasped and 
sohbed as though she would never speak 
again. 

"Gone for a soldier!" exclaimed Amy — 
" Left you ! Oh, he never can be so cruel, so 
wicked ! He'll come back, dear nurse !" (for 
Amy always called Dame Clewer nurse, as 
her mother had been used to do.) " He'll be 
sure to come back ! Thomas is such a good 
son, with all his wildness. He '11 come back 
— I know he will." 

" He can't !" replied poor nurse, trying to 
rouse herself from her misery. " He can't 
come, how much so ever he may wish it; 
they'll not let him. Nothing can get him off 
but money, and I have none to give." And 
again the mother's tears choked her words. 
" My poor boy must go !" 

" iMoney ! " said Amy, " I have half a 
crown, that godmamma gave me, and two 
shillings and three sixpences; I'll go and 
fetch them in a moment." 

"Blessings on your dear heart!" sobbed 
Dame Clewer; " your little money would be 
of no use. The soldier who came to tell me, 
offered to get him off for five pounds : but 
where am I to get five pounds 1 All my goods 
and all my clothes would not raise near such 
a sum : and even if any body was willing to 
lend money to a poor old creature like me, 
how should I ever be able to pay it? No! 
Thomas must go — go to the East Indies, as 
tiie soldier said, to be killed by the sword or 
to die of the fever ! — I shall never see his dear 
face again ! Never!" And turning resolutely 
from the pitying child, she bent over the 
clothes m the basket, trying to unfold them 
with her trembling hands and to hang them 
out to dry ; but, unable in her agony to sepa- 
rate the wet lineu, she burst into a passion of 
tears, and stood leaning against the clothes'- 
line, which quivered and vibrated at every sob, 
as if sensible of the poor mother's misery. 

Amy on her part, sat on the steps leading to 
the house, watching her in silent pity. " Oh, 
if mamma were alive !" thought the little girl 
— " or papa ! or if I dared ask aunt Jjloyd ! or 
if I had the money of my own ; or any thing 
that would fetch the money !" And just as 
she was thinking this very thought. Floss, 
wondering to see his little mistress so still 
and sad, crept up to her, and put his paw in 
her lap and whined. "Dear Floss!" said 
Amy unconsciously, and then suddenly re- 
membering what Lady Lumley had said to her, 
she took the dog up in her arms, and coloured 
like scarlet, from a mingled emotion of plea- 
sure and pain ; for Flossy had been her own 
mamma's dog, and Amy loved him dearly. 
For full five minutes she sat hugging Flossy 
and kissing his sleek shining head, whilst the 
faithful creature licked her cheeks and her 
hands, and nestled up to her bosom, and strove 
all he could to prove his gratitude, and return 



her caresses. For full five minutes she sat 
without speaking; at last she went to Dame 
Clewer, and gave the dog into her arms. 

" Lady Lumley offered me five guineas for 
Flossy this morning," said she ; " take him, 
dear nurse, and take the money ; but beg her 
to be kind to him," continued poor Amy, no 
longer able to restrain her tears — " beg her to 
be very kind to my Floss !" And, with a 
heart too full even to listen to the thanks and 
blessings which the happy mother w'as show- 
ering upon her head, the little girl turned away. 

But did Lady Lumley buy Flossy] And 
was Thomas Clewer discharged ] Yes, Tho- 
mas was discharged, for Sir John Lumley 
spoke to his colonel ; and he returned to his 
home and his fond mother, quite cured of his 
wildness and his fancy for being a soldier. 
But Lady Lumley did not buy Floss, because, 
as she said, however she might like him, she 
never could bear to deprive so good a girl as 
Amy of any thing that gave her j>leasure. She 
would not buy Floss, but she continued to 
take great notice both of him and his little 
mistress, had them often at the castle, always 
made Amy a Christmas present, and talks 
of taking her for her own maid when she 
grows up. 



EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. 

THE COBBLER OVER THE WAY. 

One of the noisiest inhabitants of the small 
irregular town* of Cranley, in which I had 
the honour to be born, was a certain cobbler, 
by name Jacob Giles. He lived exactly over- 
right our house, in a little appendage to the 
baker's shop, — an excrescence from that good- 
ly tenement, which, when the door was closed 
(for the tiny square window at its side was all 
but invisible), might, from its shape and its 
dimensions, be mistaken for an oven or a pig- 
sty, ad libitum. By day, when the half-hatch 
was open, and the cobbler discovered at work 
within, his dwelling seemed constructed pur- 
posely to hold his figure ; as nicely adapted 
to its size and motions, as the little toy called 
a weather-house is to the height and functions 
of the puppets who inhabit it; — only that Ja- 
cob Giles's stall was less accommodating than 
the weather-house, inasmuch as by no ciiance 
could his apartment have been made to contain 
two inmates in any position whatsoever. 

At that half-hatch might Jacob Giles he 
seen stitching and stitching, with the peculiar 
regular two-handed jerk proper to the art of 
cobbling, from six in the morning to six at 
night. — deducting always certain mornings 
and afternoons and whole days given, when- 



*Tovvnlet old Leland would have called it, and 
truly the word is worth borrowing. 



236 



OUR VILLAGE, 



ever his purse or his credit would permit, to 
the ensnaring seductions of the tap-room at 
the Kincr's Head. At all other seasons at the 
half-hatch he mi^ht he seen, lookincf so exactly 
like a Dutch picture, that L simple child that 
I was, took a fine Teniers in my father's pos- 
session for a likeness of him. There he sat — 
with a dirty red night-cap over his grizzled 
hair, a dingy waistcoat, an old blue coat, 
darned, patciied, and ragged, a sjreasy leather 
apron, a pair of crimson plush inexpressibles, 
worsted stockings of all the colours known in 
hosiery, and shoes that illustrated the old say- 
ing of the shoemaker's wife, hy wanting mend- 
ing more than any shoes in the parish. 

The face belonging to this costume was 
rough and weather-beaten, deeply lined and 
deeply tinted, of a right copper-colour, with 
a nose that would have done honour to Bar- 
dolph, and a certain indescribable half-tipsy 
look, even when sober. Nevertheless, the 
face, ugly and tipsy as it was, had its merits. 
There was humour in the wink and in the 
nod, and in the knowing roll with which he 
transferred the quid of tobacco, his constant 
recreation and solace, from one cheek to the 
other; there was good-humour in the half- 
shut eye, the pursed-up mouth, and the whole 
jolly visage; and in the countless variety of 
strange songs and ballads which from morn- 
ing to night he poured forth from that half- 
hatch, there was a happy mixture of both. 
There he sat, in that small den, looking some- 
thing like a thrush in a goldfinch's cage, and 
singing with as much power, and far wider 
range, — albeit his notes were hardly so melo- 
dious : — Jobsoa's songs in the "Devil to 
Pay," and 

" A cobbler there was, and he lived in a stall, 
Which served him for parlour, lor kitchen, and hall," 

being his favourites. 

The half-hatch was, however, incomparably 
the best place in which to see him, for his 
face, with all its grotesqueness, was infinitely 
pleasanter to look at than his figure, one of 
his legs being shorter than the other, which 
obliged him to use a crutch, and the use of 
the crutch having occasioned a protuberance 
of the shoulder, which very nearly invested 
him with the dignity of a hump. Little cared 
he for his lameness! He swung along mer- 
rily and rapidly, especially when his steps 
tended to the alehouse, where he was a man 
of prime importance, not merely in risht of 
his good songs and his good-fellowship, but 
in graver moments, as a scholar, and a politi- 
cian, being the best reader of a newspaper, 
and the most sagacious commentator on a de- 
bate, of any man who frequented the tap, the 
parish clerk himself not excepted. 

Jacob Giles had, as he said, some right to 
talk about the welfare of old England, hav- 
ing, at one time of his life, been a household- 
er, shopkeeper, and elector (N. B. his visits 



to the alehouse may account for his descent 
from the shop to the stall) in the neighbour- 
ing borough of D., a place noted for the fre- 
quency and virulence of its contested elec- 
tions. There was no event of his life on 
which our cobbler piqued himself so much as 
on having, as he affirmed, assisted in " saving 
his country," by forming one of the glorious 
majority of seven, by which a Mr. Brown, of 
those days, a silent, stupid, respectable coun- 
try gentleman, a dead vote on one side of the 
house, ousted a certain Mr. Smith, also a 
country gentleman, equally silent, stupid, and 
respectable, and a dead vote on the other side. 
Which parties in the state these two worthy 
senators espoused, it was somewhat difficult 
to gather from the zealous champion of the 
victorious hero. Local politics have com- 
monly very little to do with any general ques- 
tion : the blues or the yellows, the greens or 
the reds — colours, not principles, predominate 
at an election, — which, in this respect, as well 
as in the ardour of the contest, and the quan- 
tity of money risked on the event, bears no 
small resemblance to a horse-race. 

Whatever might have been the party of his 
favourite candidate, Jacob himself was a Tory 
of the very first water. His residence at 
Craniey was during the later days of the 
French revolution, when Loyalty and Repub- 
licanism, Pittite and Foxite divided the land. 
Jacob Giles was a Tory, a Pittite, a Church- 
and-King, and Life-and-Fortune man — the 
loudest of the loyal ; held Buonaparte for an 
incarnation of the evil spirit, and established 
an Anti-Gallican club at the King's Head, 
where he got tipsy every Saturday night for 
the good of the nation. Nothing could ex- 
ceed the warmth of Jacob's loyalty. He even 
wanted to join the Craniey volunteers, quot- 
ing to the drill-serjeant, who quietly pointed 
to the crutch and the shoulder, the notable 
examples of Captain Green who halted, and 
Lieutenant Jones who was awry, as prece- 
dents for his own eligibility. The hump and 
the limp united were, however, too much to 
be endured. The man of scarlet declared that 
there was no such piece of deformity in the 
whole awkward s(]uad, and Jacob was de- 
clared inadmissible; — a personal slight (to 
say nothing of his being debarred the privi- 
lege of shedding liis blood in defence of the 
king and constitution) which our cobbler found 
so hard to bear, that with the least encourage- 
ment in the world from the Opposition of 
Craniey, he would have ratted. One word 
of sympathy would have carried Mr. Giles, 
and his songs and his tipsiness to the " Rus- 
sel-aud-Sidney Club" (Jacobins Jacob used 
to call them), at the Greyhound ; but the 
Jacobins lauu^hed, and lost their proselyte; 
the Anti-Gall icans retained Jacob, — and Jacob 
retained his consistency. 

How my friend the cobbler came to be the- 
oretically so violent an Anti-jacobin, is best 



EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. 



237 



known to himself. For certain he was in 
practice far more of what would in these days 
be called a radical ; was constantly infringing 
the laws which he esteemed so perfect, and 
bringincr into contempt the authorities for 
which he professed such enthusiastic venera- 
tion. Drunk or sober, in his own quarrels, 
or in the quarrels of others, he waged a per- 
petual war with justice; hath been seen to 
snap his finger at an order of sessions, the 
said order having for object the removal of a 
certain barrel-organ man, "his ancient, trusty, 
drouthy crony ;" and got into a demele with 
the church in the person of the old sexton, 
whom he nearly knocked down with the wind 
of his crutch (N. B. Jacob took care not to 
touch the old man) for driving away his cli- 
ents, the boys who were playing at marbles 
on the tomb-stones. Besides these skirmishes, 
he was in a state of constant hostility with 
the officials called constables ; and had not 
his reputation, good or bad, stood him in 
stead, his Saturday-night's exploits would 
have brought him acquainted with half the 
roundhouses, bridewells, stocks, and whip- 
ping-posts in the county. His demerits 
brought him off. "It's only that merry 
rogue, Jacob!" said the lenient: "only that 
sad dog, the cobbler !" cried the severe : and 
between these contrary epithets, which in 
Master Giles's case bore so exactly the same 
meaning, the poor cobbler escaped. 

In good truth it would have been a pity 
if Jacob's hebdomadal deviations from the 
straight path had brought him into any seri- 
ous scrape, for, tipsy or sober, a better-natured 
creature never lived. Poor as he was, he had 
always something for those poorer than him- 
self; would share his scanty dinner with a 
starving beggar, and his last quid of tobacco 
with a crippled sailor. The children came to 
him for nuts and apples, for comical stories 
and droll songs; the very curs of the street 
knew that they had a friend in the poor cob- 
bler. He even gave away his labour and his 
time. Many a shoe hath he heeled with a 
certainty that the wretched pauper could not 
pay him ; and many a job, extra-official, hath 
he turned his hand to, with no expectation of 
fee or reward. The " Cobbler over the way" 
was the constant resource of every body in 
want of a help, and whatever the station or 
circumstances of the person needing him, his 
services might be depended on to the best of 
his power. 

For my own part, I can recollect Jacob 
Giles as long as I can recollect any thing. 
He made the shoes for my first doll — (pink I 
remember they were) — a doll called Sophy, 
who had the misfortune to- break her neck by 
a fall from the nursery window ; Jacob Giles 
made her pink slippers, and mended all the 
shoes of the family, with whom he was a uni- 
versal favourite. My father delighted in his 
statesmanship, which must have been very 



entertaining; my mother in his benevolence; 
and I in his fun. He used to mimic Punch 
for my amusement; and I once greatly afTront- 
ed the real Punch, by preferring the cobbler's 
performance of the closing scenes. Jacob was 
a general favourite in our family; and one 
member of it was no small favourite of Ja- 
cob's : that person was neither more nor less 
than my nursery-maid, Nancy Dawson. 

Nancy Dawson was the daughter of a 
farmer in the neighbourhood, a lively, clever 
girl, more like a French snuhreile tlian an 
English maid-servant, ge7itille and espiegle; 
not a regular beauty, — hardly perhaps pretty; 
but with bright laugliing eyes, a ready smile, 
a pleasant speech, and altogether as dangerous 
a person for an opposite neighbour as an old 
bachelor could desire. Jacob became seri- 
ously enamoured ; wasted half his mornings 
in watching our windows, for my nursery 
looked out upon the street; and limped after 
us every afternoon when she took me (a small 
damsel of three years old, or thereabout) out 
walking. He even left off his tobacco, his 
worsted night-cap, his tipsiness, and his Sat- 
urday-night's club; got a whole coat to his 
back, set a patch on his shoe, and talked of 
taking a shop and settling in life. This, how- 
ever, was nothing w^onderful. Nancy's charms 
might have fired a colder heart than beat in 
the bosom of Jacob Giles. But that Nancy 
should " abase her eyes" on him : there was 
the marvel. Nancy ! w'ho had refused Peter 
Green the grocer, and John Keep the butch- 
er, and Sir Henry's smart gamekeeper, and 
our own tall footman ! Nancy to think of 
a tippling cripple like the cobbler over 
the way, — that was something to wonder 
at! 

Nancy, when challenged on the subject, 
neither denied nor assented to the accusation. 
She answered very demurely that her young 
lady liked Mr. Giles, that he made the child 
laugh, and was handy with her, and was a 
careful person to leave her with if she had to 
go on an errand for her mistress or the house- 
keeper. So Jacob continued our walking foot- 
man. 

Our walks were all in one direction. About 
a mile south of Cranley was a large and beau- 
tiful coppice, at one corner of which stood the 
cottage of the woodman, a fine young man, 
William Cotton by name, whose sister Mary 
was employed by my mother as a sempstress. 
The wood, the cottage, and the cottage gar- 
den, were separated by a thick hedge and 
wide ditch from a wild broken common co- 
vered with sheep — a cominon full of turfy 
knolls and thymy banks, where the heath- 
flower and the harebell blew profusely, and 
where the sun poured forth a flood of glory on 
the golden-blossomed broom. To one corner 
of this common, — a sunny nook covered with 
little turfy hillocks, originally, I suppose, 
formed by the moles, but which I used to call 



238 



OUR VILLAGE, 



Cock-Robins' ajraves, — Nancy generally led ; 
and there she would frequently, almost con- 
stantly, leave me under Jacob's protection 
whilst she jumped over a stile inaccessible to 
my little feet, sometimes to take a messacre to 
Mary Cotton, sometimes to get me flowers 
from the wood, sometimes for blackberries, 
sometimes for nuts, — but always on some os- 
tensible and well-sounding errand. 

Nancy's absences, however,, became longer 
and longer ; and one evening Jacob and I grew 
mutually fidgety. He had told his drollest 
stories, made his most comical faces, and 
played Punch twice over to divert me ; but I 
was tired and cross ; it was getting late in the 
autumn ; the weather was cold ; the sun had 
gone down ; and I began to cry amain for 
home and for papa. Jacob, much distressed 
by my plight, partly to satisfy me, and partly 
to allay his own irritability, deposited me in 
the warmest nook he could find, and scrambled 
over the stile in search of Nancy, Voices in 
the wood — her voice and William's guided 
him to the spot where she and the young for- 
ester sate side by side at the foot of an oak 
tree; and, unseen by the happy couple, the 
poor cobbler overheard the following dialogue. 

" On Saturday then, Nancy, I may give in 
the banns. You are sure that your mistress 
will let your sister take your place till she is 
suited ]" 

" Quite sure," rejoined Nancy ; " she is so 
kind." 

"And on Monday fortnight the wedding is 
to be. Remember, not an hour later than 
eight o'clock on Monday fortnight. Consider 
how long I have waited — almost half a year." 

" Well !" said Nancy, " at eight o'clock on 
Monday fortnight." 

"And the cobbler!" cried William; "that 
excellent under-nurse, who is waiting so con- 
tentedly on our little lady at the other side of 
the hedge" — 

" Ah, the poor cobbler !" interrupted Nancy. 

"We'll ask him to the wedding-dinner," 
added William. 

"Yes; the poor cobbler!" continued the 
saucy maiden ; " my old lover, the ' Cobbler 
over the way,' we '11 certainly ask him to the 
wedding-dinner. It will comfort him." 

And to the wedding-dinner the cobbler 
went ; and he was comforted : — he kissed the 
pretty bride ; he shook hands with the hand- 
some bridegroom, resumed his red cap and his 
tobacco, got tipsy to his heart's content, and 
reeled home singing 'God save the king,' right 
happy to find himself still a bachelor. 



PATTY'S NEW HAT. 

Wandering about the meadows one morning 
last May, absorbed in the pastoral beauty of 
the season and the scenery, I was overtaken 



by a heavy shower just as I passed old Mrs. 
Matthews's great farm-house, and forced to 
run for shelter to her hospitable porch. A 
pleasant shelter in good truth I found there. 
The green pastures dotted with fine old trees 
stretching all around ; the clear brook winding 
about them turning and returning on its course, 
as if loath to depart; the rude cart-track lead- 
ing through the ford ; the neater pathway with 
its foot-bridge ; the village spire rising amongst 
a cluster of cottages, all but the roofs and 
chimneys concealed by a grove of oaks ; the 
woody back-ground, and the blue hills in the 
distance, all so flowery and bowery in the 
pleasant month of May; the nightingales sink- 
ing; the bells ringing; and the porch itself, 
around which a honeysuckle in full bloom was 
wreathing its sweet flowers, giving out such 
an odour in the rain, as in dry weather nothing 
but the twilight will bring forth — an atmo- 
sphere of fragrance. The whole porch was 
alive and musical with bees, who, happy 
rogues, instead of being routed by the wet, 
only folded their wings the closer, and dived 
the deeper into the honey-tubes, enjoying, as 
it seemed, so good an excuse for creeping still 
farther within their flowery lodgment. It is 
hard to say which enjoyed the sweet breath 
of the shower and the honeysuckle most, the 
bees or I ; but the rain began to drive so fast, 
that at the end of five minutes I was not sorry 
to be discovered by a little girl belonging to 
the faniily ; and, first, ushered into the spa- 
cious kitchen, with its heavy oak table, its cur- 
tained chimney-corner, its bacon-rack loaded 
with enormous flitches, and its ample dresser, 
glittering with crockery-ware ; and, finally, 
conducted by Mrs. Matthews herself into her 
own comfortable parlour, and snugly settled 
therewith herself and her eldest grand-daugh- 
ter, a woman grown ; whilst the younger sis- 
ter, a siniling light-footed lass of eleven or 
thereabouts, tripped oflT to find a boy to convey 
a message to my family, requesting them to 
send for me, the rain being now too decided to 
admit of any prospect of my walking home. 

The sort of bustle which my reception had 
caused having subsided, I found great amuse- 
ment in watching my hospitable hostess, and 
listening to a dialogue, if so it may be called, 
between her pretty grand-daughter and herself, 
which at once let me into a little love-secret, 
and gave me an opportunity of observing one, 
of whose occasional oddities I had all my life 
heard a great deal. 

Mrs. Matthews was one of the most remark- 
able persons in these parts ; a capital fiirmer, 
a most intelligent parish officer, and in her 
domestic government, not a little resembling 
one of the finest sketches which Mr. Crabbe's 
graphical pen ever produced. 

" Next died the widow Goe, an active dame 
Famed ten miles round and worthy all her fame ; 
She lost her husband when their loves were young, 
But kept her farm, her credit, and her tongue : 



PATTY'S NEW HAT. 



239 



Full thirty years she ruled with matchless skill, 
With guiding judgment and resistless will ; 
Advifie she scorned, rebellions she suppressed, 
And sons and servants bowed at her behest 
No parish business in the place could stir 
Without direction or assent Irom her; 
In turn she took each office as it fell, 
Knew all their duties and discharged them well. 
She matched both sons and daughters to her mind, 
And lent them eyes, for love she heard was blind." 
Paris?i Register. 

Great power of body and mind was visible 
in her robust person and massive countenance ; 
and there was both humour and intelligence 
in her acute smile, and in the keen grey eye 
that glanced from under her spectacles. All 
that she said bore the stamp of sense; but at 
this time she was in no talking mood, and on 
my begging that I might cause no interruption, 
resumed her seat and her labours in silent 
composure. She sat at a little table mending 
a fustian jacket belonging to one of her sons 
— a sort of masculine job which suited her 
much better than a more delicate piece of 
sempstress-ship would probably have done ; 
indeed the tailors' needle, which she brand- 
ished with great skill, the whity-brown thread 
tied round her neck, and the huge dull-looking 
shears (one can't make up one's mind to call 
such a machine scissors), which in company 
with an enormous pincushion dangled froiTi 
her apron-string, figuring as the pendant to a 
most foriTiidable bunch of keys, formed alto- 
gether such a working apparatus as shall 
hardly be matched in these days of polished 
cutlery and cobwebby cotton-thread. 

On the other side of the little table sat her 
pretty grand-daughter Patty, a black-eyed 
young woman, with a bright complexion, a 
neat trim figure, and a general air of gentility 
considerably above her station. She was 
trimming a very smart straw hat with pink 
ribbons; trimming and untrimming, for the 
bows were tied and untied, taken off and put 
on, and taken off again, with a look of impa- 
tience and discontent, not common to a dam- 
sel of seventeen when contemplating a new 
piece of finery. The poor little lass was evi- 
dently out of sorts. She sighed, and quirked, 
and fidgeted, and seemed ready to cry; whilst 
her grandmother just glanced at her from un- 
der her spectacles, pursed up her mouth, and 
contrived with some diflRculty not to laugh. 
At last Patty spoke. 

" Now, grandmother, you will let me go 
to Chapel-Row revel this afternoon, won't 
youl" 

" Humph !" said Mrs. Matthews. 

"It hardly rains at all, grandmother!" 

" Humph !" again said Mrs. Matthews, 
opening the prodigious scissors with which 
she was amputating, so to say, a button, and 
directing the rounded end significantly to my 
wet shawl, whilst the sharp point was re- 
verted towards the dripping honeysuckle. 
" Humph !" 



" There's no dirt to signify !" 

Another " Humph !" and another point to 
the draggled tail of my white gown. 

"At all events, it's going to clear." 

Two "Humphs!" and two points, one to 
the clouds, and one to the barometer. 

"It's only seven miles," said Patty; "and 
if the horses are wanted, I can walk." 

" HunTif)1i !" quoth Mrs. Matthews. 

" My aunt Ellis will be there, and my cou- 
sin Mary." 

" Humph !" again said Mrs. Matthews. 

" And if a person is coming here on busi- 
ness, what can I be wanted for when you are^ 
at home, grandmother ■?" 

" Humph !" once again was the answer. 

" What business can any one have with 
mer 

Another " Humph !' 

" My cousin Mary will be so disappoint- 
ed !" 

"Humph!" 

" And I half promised my cousin William 

— poor William !" 

" Humph !" again. 

" Poor William ! Oh, grandmother, do let 
me go! And I've got my new hat and all — 
just such a hat as William likes ! Poor Wil- 
liam ! You will let me go, grandmother'?" 

And receiving no answer but a very une- 
quivocal " Humph !" poor Patty threw down 
her straw hat, fetched a deep sigh, and sate 
in a most disconsolate attitude, snipping her 
pink ribbon to pieces ; Mrs. Matthews went 
on manfully with her " stitchery ;" and for 
ten minutes there was a dead pause. It was 
at Length broken by my little friend and intro- 
ducer, Susan, who was standing at the win- 
dow, and exclaimed. — " Who is this riding up 
the meadow all through the rain ? Look! — 
see ! — I do think — no, it can't be — yes, it is 

— it is certainly my cousin William Ellis! 
Look, grandmother!" 

" Humph !" said Mrs. Matthews. 

" What can cousin William be coming 
for]" continued Susan. 

" Humph !" quoth Mrs. Matthews. 

" Oh, I know! — I know!" screamed Su- 
san, clapping her hands and jumping for joy 
as she saw the changed expression of Patty's 
countenance, — the beaming delight, succeeded 
by a pretty downcast shamefacedness, as she 
turned away from her grandmother's arch 
smile and archer nod. " I know ! — I know !" 
shouted Susan. ^ 

" Humph ■?" said Mrs. Matthews. 

" For shame, Susan ! Pray don't, grand- 
mother !" said Patty, imploringly. 

" For shame ! Why I did not say he was 
coming to court Patty ! Did I, grandmother'?" 
returned Susan. 

" And I take this good lady to witness," 
replied Mrs. Matthews, as Patty, gathering 
up her hat and her scraps of ribbon, prepared 
to make her escape — " I take you all to wit- 



240 



OUR VILLAGE. 



ness that I have said nothing of any sort. 
Get alongr with you, Patty !" added she, "you 
have spoiled your pink trimming; hut I think 
you are likely to want white ribbons next, 
and, if you put me in mind, I'll buy them for 
you!" And, smiling in spite of herself, the 
happy girl ran out of the room. 



CHILDREN OF THE VILLAGE. 

THE MAGPIES. 

" Come along, girls! Helen! Caroline! I 
say don't stand jabbering there upon the stairs, 
but come down this instant, or Dash and I 
will be off without you." 

This elegant speech was shouted from the 
bottom of the great staircase at Dinely- 
Hall, by young George Dinely, an Etonian 
of eleven years old, just come home for the 
holidays, to his two younger sisters who stood 
disputing very ardently in French at the top. 
The cause of contention was, to say the truth, 
no greater an object than the colour of a work- 
bag, which they were about to make for their 
mamma : slate lined with pink being the choice 
of Miss Caroline, whilst Miss Helen preferred 
drab with a blue lining. 

" Don't stand quarrelling there about the 
colour of your trumpery," added George, 
" but come along !" 

Now George would have scorned to know 
a syllable of any language except Latin and 
Greek, but neither of the young ladies being 
Frenchwoman enough to construe the appel- 
lation of the leading article, the words " drab" 
and " slate," which came forth in native Eng- 
lish pretty frequently, as well as the silk dang- 
ling in their hands, had enlightened him as to 
the matter in dispute. 

George was a true schoolboy, rough and 
kind ; atfecting perhaps more roughness than 
naturally belonged to him, from a mistaken 
notion that it made him look bold, and Eng- 
lish, and manly. There cannot be a greater 
mistake, since the boldest man is commonly 
the mildest, thus realizing in every way the 
expression of Shakspeare, which has been the 
subject of a somewhat unnecessary commen- 
tary, " He 's gentle and not fearful." For the 
rest our hero loved his sisters, which was very 
right ; and loved to teaze them, which was 
very wrong; and now he and his dog Dash, 
both wild with spirits and with happiness, 
were waiting most impatiently to go down to 
the village on a visit to old Nurse Simmons 
and her magpie. 

Nurse Simmons was a very good and very 
cross old woman, who after ruling in the nur- 
sery of Dinely-Hall for two generations, scold- 
ing and spoiling Sir Edward and his brothers, 
and performing thirty years afterwards the 
same good office for Master George and his 



sisters, had lately abdicated her throne on the 
arrival of a French governess, and was now 
comfortably settled at a cottage of her own in 
the village street. 

George Dinely and Dash had already that 
morning visited George's own pony, and his 
father's brood mares, the garden, the stables, 
the pheasantry, the green-house and the farm- 
yard ; had seen a brood of curious bantams, 
two litters of pigs, and a family of greyhound 
pup])ies, and had few friends, old or new, left 
to visit except Nurse Simmons, her cottage 
and her magpie, a bird of such accomplish- 
ments, that his sisters had even made it the 
subject of a letter to Eton. The magpie 
might perhaps claim an equal share with his 
mistress in George's impatience ; and Dash, 
always eager to get out of doors, seemed 
nearly as fidgety as his young master. 

Dash was as beautiful a dog as one should 
see in a summer's day ; one of the large old 
English spaniels, which are now so rare, with 
a superb head like those that you see in Span- 
ish pictures, and such ears ! they more than 
met over his pretty spotted nose, and when he 
lapped his milk dipped into the pan at least 
two inches. His hair was long and shiny 
alid wavy, not curly, partly of a rich dark 
liver colour, partly of a silvery white, and 
beautifully feathered about the legs and thighs. 
Every body used to wonder that Dash, who 
apparently ate so little, should be in such 
good case; but the marvel was by no means 
so great as it seemed, for his being George's 
peculiar pet and property did not hinder his 
being the universal favourite of the whole, 
house, from the drawing-room to the kitchen. 
Not a creature could resist Dash's silent sup- 
plications at meal-times, when he sat upon his 
haunches looking amiable, with his large ears 
brought into their most becoming position, his 
head a little on one side, and his beautiful 
eyes fixed on your face, with as near an ap- 
proach to speech as ever eyes made in the 
world. From Sir Edward and her Ladyship 
down to the stable-boy and the kitchen-maid, 
no inhabitant of Dinely-Hall could resist 
Dash ! So that being a dog of most appre- 
hensive sagacity with regard to the hours ap- 
propriated to the several refections of the 
family, he usually contrived, between the din- 
ing parlour, the school-room, and the servants' 
hall, to partake of three breakfasts and as many 
dinners every day, to say nothing of an occa- 
sional snap at luncheon or supper-time. No 
wonder that Dash was in high condition. His 
good plight, however, had by no means im- 
paired his activity. On the contrary, he was 
extremely lively as well as intelligent, and 
had a sort of circular motion, a way of fling- 
ing himself quite round on his hind feet, 
something after the fashion in which the 
French dancers twirl themselves round on one 
leg, which not only showed unusual agility in 
a dog of his size, but gave token of the same 



COTTAGE NAMES, 



241 



spirit and animation which sparkled in his 
brioht hazel eye. Any thing of eagerness or 
impatience was sure to excite this motion, and 
George Dinely gravely assured his sisters, 
when they at length joined him in the hall, 
that Dash had flung himself round six-and- 
twenty times whilst waiting the conclusion 
of their quarrel. 

Getting out into the lawn and the open air, 
did not tend to diminish Dash's glee or his 
capers, and the young jiarty walked merrily 
on ; George telling of school pranks and school 
misfortunes — the having lost or spoilt /our 
hats since Easter seemed rather to belong to 
the first class of adventures than the second, 

— his sisters listening dutifully and wonder- 
ingly ; and Dash following his own devices, 
now turning up a mouse's nest from a water 
furrow in the park, — now springing a covey 
of young partridges in a corn-field, — now 
plunging his whole hairy person in the brook, 

— and now splashing Miss Helen from head 
to foot by ungallantly jumping over her whilst 
crossing a stile, being thereunto prompted by 
a whistle from his young master, who had 
with equal want of gallantry, leapt the stile 
first himself, and left his sisters to get over 
as they could ; until at last the whole party, 
having passed the stile^ and crossed the bridge, 
and turned the Church-yard corner, found 
themselves in the shady recesses of the Vi- 
carage-lane, and in full view of the vine-co- 
vered cottage of Nurse Simmons. 

As 'they advanced they heard a prodigious 
chattering and jabbering, and soon got near 
enough to ascertain that the sound proceeded 
mainly from one of the parties they were 
come to visit — Nurse Simmons's magpie. He 
was perched in the middle of the road, defend- 
ing a long dirty bare bone of mutton, doubtless 
his property, on one end of which he stood, 
whilst the other extremity was occupied by a 
wild bird of the same species, who, between 
pecking at the bone, and fighting, and scold- 
ing, found full employment. The wild mag- 
pie was a beautiful creature, as wild magpies 
are, of a snowy white and a fine blue black, 
perfect in shape and plumage, and so superior 
in appearance to the tame bird, ragged, drag- 
gled and dirty, that they hardly seemed of the 
same kind. Both were chattering away most 
furiously; the one in his natural and unintel- 
ligible gibberish, the other partly in his native 
tongue, and partly in that, for his skill in 
which he was so eminent, — thus turning his 
accomplishments to an unexpected account, 
and larding his own lean speech with divers 
foreign garnishes, such as " What's o'clock ]" 
and "How do you do!" and " Very well I 
thank you," and "Poor pretty Mag!" and 
"Mag's a good bird," — all delivered in the 
most vehement accent, and alU doubtless un- 
derstood by the unlearned adversary as terms 
of reproach. 

" What can th ise two magpies be quarreling 



about?" said Caroline, as soon as she could 
speak for laughing; for on the children's ap- 
proach the birds had abandoned the mutton 
bone, which had been quietly borne away by 
Dash, who in spite of his usual sumptuous 
fare had no objection to such a windfall, and 
was lying in great state on a mossy bank, dis- 
cussing and enjoying the stolen morsel. 

" What a fury they are in ! I wish I knew 
what they were saying," pursued Caroline, as 
the squabble grew every moment more angry 
and less intelligible. 

"They are talking nonsense, doubtless, as 
people commonly do when they quarrel," 
quoth George, "and act wisely to clothe it in 
a foreign tongue ; perhaps they may be dis- 
puting about colours." 

" What an odd noise it is !" continued 
Caroline, by no means disposed to acknow- 
ledge her brother's compliment; "I never 
heard any thing like it." 

" I have," said George, drily. 

" I wonder whether they comprehend each 
other !" ejaculated Miss Helen, following her 
sister's example, and taking no notice of the 
provoking George ; " they really do seem to 
understand." 

" As well as other magpies," observed the 
young gentleman, "why should they not?" 

" But what strange gibberish !" added poor 
Helen. 

" Gibberish, Miss Helen ! Don't you hear 
that the birds are sputtering magpie French, 
sprinkled with a little magpie English 1 I was 
just going to ask you to explain it to me," re- 
plied the unmerciful George. "It is quite a 
parody upon your work-bag squabble," pur- 
sued their tormentor; "only that the birds are 
the wiser, for I see they are parting, — the wild 
one flying away, the tame gentleman hopping 
towards us. Quite the scene of the work-bag 
over again," continued George, " only with 
less noise, and much shortened — an abridged 
and corrected edition ! Really, young ladies, 
the magpies have the best of it," said the 
Etonian, and off he stalked into Nurse Sim- 
mons's Cottaae. 



• COTTAGE NAMES. 

•Why Lonicera wih thou name thy child V 
I ask'd the gard'ner's w ife in accenis mild. 
' We have a right,' replied the sturdy dame. 
And Lonicera was the infant's name. Crabbe. 

' A commodity of good names." Sh.^kspeare. 

From the time of Goldsmith down to the 
present day, fine names have been the ridicule 
of comic authors and the aversion of sensible 
people, notwithstanding which the evil has 
increased almost in proportion to its reproba- 
tion. Miss Clementina Wilhelmina Stubbs 
was but a type of the Julias, the Isabels, and 



21 



2F 



242 



OUR VILLAGE. 



the Helens of this accomplished age. I 
should not, however, so much mind if this 
folly were comprised 'in that domain of cold 
gentility, to which affectation usually confines 
itself. One does not regard seeing Miss Ara- 
bella seated at the piano, or her little sister 
Leonora tottling across the carpet to show her 
new pink shoes. That is in the usual course 
of events. But the fashion spreads deeper 
and wider; the village is infected and the vil- 
lage green ; Amelias and Claras sweep your 
rooms and cook your dinners, gentle Sophias 
milk your cows, and if you ask a pretty smil- 
ing girl at a cottage door to tell you her name, 
the rosy lips lisp out Caroline.* It was but 
the other day that I went into a neighbour's to 
procure a messenger, and found the errand 
disputed by a gentle Georgina without a shoe, 
and a fair Augusta with half a frock. Now 
this is a sad thing. One looks upon cottage 
names as a part of cottage furniture, of the 
costume, and is as much discomposed by the 
change as a painter of interiors would be who 
should find a Grecian couch instead of an 
oaken settle by the wide open hearth. In fine 
houses fine names do not signify ; though I 
would humbly suggest to godfathers and god- 
mothers, papas, mammas, maiden aunts, 
nurses, and gossips in general, the uncon- 
scious injury that they are doing to novelists, 
poets, dramatic writers, and the whole frater- 
nity of authors, by trespassing on their (nomi- 
nal) property, infringing their patent, encroach- 
ing on their privilege, underselling their stock 
in trade, depreciating their currency, and final- 
ly robbing poor heroes ai.d heroines of their 
solitary possession, the only thing they can 
call their own. Shaks])eare has an admonition 
much to the purpose, 'he who filches from me 
my good name,'' and so forth. Did they never 
hear that ? never see Othello 1 never read 
Elegant Extracts'? never learn the speech by 
rote out of Enfield's Speaker] If they did, 
I must say the lesson has been as completely 
thrown away as lessons of morality commonly 
are. Sponsors in these days think no more 
harm of ' filching a name' than a sparrow does 
of robbing a cherry-tree. 

This, however, is an affair of conscience or 
of taste, and conscience and taste are delicate 
points to meddle with, especially the latter. 
People will please their fancies, and every 
lady has her favourite names. I myself have 
several, and they are mostly short and simple. 
Jane, that queenly name !. Jane Seymour, Jane 
Grey, ' the noble Jane de Montford ;' — Anne, 
to which lady seems to belong as of right, — 



* A great number of children, amongst the lower 
orders, are Carolines. That does not, however, 
whoUy proceed from a love of the appellation ; though 
I believe that a queen Margery or a queen Sarah 
would have had fewer namesakes. A clergyman in 
my neighbourhood used to mistake the sound, and 
vhristen the babies Cathanne; — a wise error, for Kate 
i» a noble abbreviation. 
U, 



a late celebrated Scottish duke is said to have 
caused an illegitimate daughter to be so bap- 
tized, Lady-Anne, and my friend Allan Cun- 
ningham's beautiful ballad has joined the name 
and the title still more inseparably ; — Mary, 
which is as common as a white violet, and like 
that has something indestructibly sweet and 
simple, and fit for all wear, high or low, suits 
the cottage or the palace, the garden or the 
field, the pretty or the ugly, the old or the 
young; — Margaret, Marguerite — the pearl ! the 
daisy ! Oh naime of romance and of minstrelsy, 
which brings the days of chivalry to mind, 
and the worship of flowers and of ladies fair ! 
— Emily, in which all womanly sweetness 
seems bound up — perhaps this is the effect of 
the association of ideas* — I know so many 
charming Emilys ; — and Susan, the sprightly, 
the gentle, the honae-loving, the kind ; — asso- 
ciation again ! But certainly there are some 
names which seem to belong to particular 
classes of character, to form the mini and 
even to influence the destiny : Louisa, now; 
— is not your Louisa necessarily a die-away 
damsel, who reads novels, and holds her head 
on one side, languishing and given to love 1 Is 
not Lucy a pretty soubrette, a wearer of cast 
gowns and cast smiles, smart and coquettish 1 
Must not Emma, as a matter of course, prove 
epistolary, if only for the sake of her signa- 
ture "? And is there not great danger that 
Laura may go a step farther, write poetry and 
publish'? Oh beware, dear godmammas, when 
you call an innocent baby after Petrarch's 
muse ! Think of the peril ! Beware. 

Next to names simple in themselves, those 
which fall easily into diminutives seem to be 
most desirable. All abbreviations are pretty 
— Lizzy, Bessy, Sophy, Fanny — the prettiest 
of all I There is something so familiar, so 
homelike, so affectionate in the sound, — it 
seems to tell in one short word a story of fam- 
ily love, to vouch for the amiableness of both 
parties. I never thought one of the most 
brilliant and elegant women in England quite 
so charming as she really is, till 1 heard her 
call her younger sister ' Annie.' It seemed to 
remove at once the almost repellant quality 
which belongs to extreme polish, — gave a 
genial warmth to her brightness, became her 
like a smile. There was a tenderness in the 
voice too, a delay, a dwelling on the double 
consonant, giving to English soinething of the 
charm of Italian pronunciation, which I have 
noticed only in two persons, who are, I think, 
the most graceful speakers and readers of rny 
acquaintance. 'Annie!' If she had called 
her sister Anna-Maria according to the register, 
I should have admired, and feared, and shun- 
ned her to my dying day. That little word 

♦There is another association which cannot be for- 
gotten in speaking of Emily. It belongs lo Palamon 
and Arcite, that most fortunate of stories, which comes 
to us consecrated by the genius of Chaucer and of 
Dryden, of Fletcher and of Shakspeare. 



COTTAGE NAMES. 



243 



made us friends immediately. I like manly 
abbreviations too, — who does not? — they say 
so much for character. You may know what 
one man thinks of another by his manner of 
callino- him. Thomas and James and Richard 
and William are stupid yonn<T g-entlemen ; 
Tom and Jem and Dick and Will are fine 
spirited fellows. Henry now, what a soft 
swain your Henry is ! the proper theme of 
gentle poesy ; a name to fall in love withal ; 
devoted at the font to song and sonnet, and 
the tender passion ; a baptized inamorato ; a 
christened hero. Call him Harry, and see 
how you ameliorate his condition. The man 
is free again, turned out of song and son- 
net and romance, and young ladies' hearts. 
Shakspeare understood this well, when he 
wrote of prince Hal and Harry Hotspur. To 
have called them Henry would have spoiled 
both characters. George and Charles are un- 
lucky in this respect; they have no diminu- 
tives, and what mouthfuls of monosyllables 
they are ! names royal too, and therefore un- 
shortened. A king must be of a very rare 
class who could afford to be called by short- 
hand ; — very popular to tempt the rogues, 
well-conditioned to endure it, wise and strong 
to afford it. Our Harry the Fifth, the con- 
queror of Azincourt, might and did ; and the 
French Henri Quatre ; and now and then a 
usurper. Niccola Rienzi, Oliver Cromwell, 
and Napoleon, the noblest of names, have all 
undergone such transformation ; and indeed 
the Roman tribune, the least known but not 
perhaps the least remarkable of the three ; he 
who, born of an innkeeper and a washerwo- 
man, restored for a while the free republic of 
Rome; the friend of Petrarch, the arbiter of 
princes, the summoner of emperors, the ar- 
raigner of popes — is scarcely known even in 
the grave page of history by any other appella- 
tion than that of Cola Rienzi — as who should 
say N/'ck. 

I have said that names sometimes form the 
character. Sometimes, on the other hand, 
they are like dreams, and become true by con- 
traries; especially if you christen after the 
virtues. Thus the wildest flirt of my ac- 
quaintance happens to be a Miss Prudentia — 
a second sister, too, whose elder is not likely 
to marry, so that the misnomer is palpable; 
and the greatest scold I ever encountered, the 
errantest virago, was a Mrs. Patience. The 
Graces are usually awkward gawkies, and the 
Belles all through the alphabet, from Anna- 
belle downward, are a generation of frights. 
The Floras are sure to be pale puny girls, and 
the Roses are apt to wither on the virgin 
stalk. Call a boy after some distinguished 
character, and the contradiction grows still 
more glaring. Your Foxes and Hampdens 
and Sidneys range themselves on the minis- 
terial benches, your Pitts and Melvilles turn 
cut rank radicals, your Andrew Marvels take 
bribes, and your Nelsons run away. There 



is a fatality in those christian sirnames, those 
baptized heathens; they are sure never to lit, 
never run well with other names. In the case 
of females especially there is a double dan- 
ger; even if they seem to mark evenly at first, 
see how they end. The most remarkable in- 
stance of this acquired incongruity I ever 
knew befell a fair Highlander, one of my 
schoolfellows. Her mother, claiming to he 
sprung from the Bruce family, would call her 
daughter after the good king Robert, and no- 
thing could be better matched than her two 
noble Scottish names, Bruce Campbell ; they 
suited her like her tartan dress. She was a 
tall, graceful blue-eyed girl, with higli spirits 
and some pride, an air compounded of the pa- 
lace and the mountain, a sort of wild royalt}^ 
and a step that puzzled alike our French 
dancing-master and our Enfflish drill-serjeant, 
-r-ii was so unlike what either of them taught, 
so un-French, so un-English, and yet so 
bounding and free. She left school, and for 
some 3'ears I heard nothinof more of her than 
that she was happily married. Last summer 
I had the pleasure of meeting a cousin of hers 
(as near I should think as within the eighth 
degree), and began immediately to inquire for 
my fair friend. " I understand," said I, " that 
she married early and well 1" — " Yes, very," 
was the reply; "but she had the misfortune 
to lose Mr. Smith in the second year of their 
nuptials. She is now, however, re-married to 
a Mr. Brown." — I heard no more! I was 
petrified. Bruce Smith ! Imagine such a con- 
junction ! And now Bruce Brown ! fancy 
that ! There is an " apt alliteration" for you ! 
And even if she should take refuge in initials, 
think of B. B. ! " P. P., clerk of this parish," 
has the advantage both in look and sound. 
Oh, your proper names are dangerous ! It is 
the practice of the Americans, and with them 
it may perhaps be politic and patriotic to dif- 
fuse and perpetuate the memory of their Wash- 
ingtons and Jeffersons among the descendants 
of the people whom they freed, to give the 
new generation a sort of personal interest in 
their fame. But why should we adopt the 
fashion 1 And why should it spread ? as 
spread it does. Those papas and mammas, 
who labour under the misfortune of a plebeian 
sirname, do the best to lighten the calamity 
to their offspring by an harmonious and dig- 
nified /jra^nowen, sometimes taken from friends 
or acquaintance chosen as sponsors for the 
good gift of a seemly appellation ; sometimes 
culled from history ; sometimes from that 
pseudo-history called a novel ; sometimes from 
the peerage ; sometimes from the racing cal- 
endar, which, by the by, does not fail to return 
the compliment. One ingenious gentleman, 
in a northern county, even christened his eld- 
est hope after the village in which he was 
born, — Allonby of Allonby ! — How well it 
looks ! and what a pity that the wretched lit- 
tle word "Short" should have a right to in- 



244 



OUR VILLAGE, 



trude! Allonby Short; "oh what a fallingr 
off was there!" — If the son should have half 
his father's rrenius, he will get dn act of par- 
liament, and discard it altogether. 

The prefixing of a little miserable name to 
another of the same class is also exceedingly 
fashionable amongst our pnrvcinis. They seem 
to think that in names, as in figures, value in- 
creases tenfold by the addition of a cipher. 
Hence the unnatural and portentous union of 
hideous monosyllables on name-tickets and 
door-plates, where two "low words oft creep 
in one dull line." Hence your White Sharps, 
your Ford Greens, your Hall Gills, and other 
appellations of the same calibre, which stare 
you in the face go where you will, and are 
clung to with a jealous tenacity of which the 
Percies and Howards and Cavendishes (for 
whom one name is enough) never dream. 
Hence all varieties in spelling, devices to turn 
the vulgar to the genteel by the mere change 
of a letter : * hence the De's and the Fitz's, 
by which good common English is transmog- 
rified into bad French, to be mispronounced 
by the ignorant and laughed at by the wise, — 
the deserved and inevitable fate of pretension, 
ridiculous in every thing, and most of all in 
cottage names. 



WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. 

THE SHAW. 

Sept. 9th, — A bright sunshiny afternoon. 
What a comfort it is to get out again — to see 
once more that rarity of rarities, a fine day ! 
We English people are accused of talking 
over-much of the weather; but the weather, 
this summer, has forced people to talk of it. 
Summer! did I sayl Oh! season most un- 
worthy of that sweet, sunny name! Season 
of coldness and cloudiness, of gloom and rain ! 
A worse November! — for in November the 
days are short ; and shut up in a warm room, 
lighted by that household sun, a lamp, one 
feels through the long evenings comfortably 
independent of the out-of-door tempests. But 

* It is a pity that the hero of Mr. Lamb's excellent 
farce, " Mr. 11." did not po.ssess a little of this sort of 
ingenuity. I am convinced that the addition or omis- 
sion of a few letters, or even the transposition, the 
makinsT an anagram of the word, or some snrh quip 
orquidditv, would have converted " II()e;'s-flpHh" into 
a very respectable appellation. .Did not Miss Han- 
nah K. for instance, rriake herself at once penteel and 
happy by merely striking out the fii-st letter and the 
last — \''de useless aspirates? And did not Martha D. 
become a (ashionahle lady at a stroke by one bold 
erroium. " for Martha read Matilda" in the first leaf 
of that domestic register the fimily Bible? There is 
nothing so ingenious under the sun a.s your genuine 
name-coinerl A forper by profession is less dexter- 
ous, a coat-of-arms maker less imaginative. It is the 
very trininph of invention. 



though we may have, and did have, fires all 
through the dog-days, there is no shutting out 
day-light; and sixteen hours of rain, pattering 
against the windows and dripping from the 
eaves — sixteen hours of rain, not merely audi- 
ble but visible, for seven days in the week — 
would be enough to exhaust the patience of 
Job or Grizzel ; especially if Job were a farm- 
er, and Grizzel a country gentlewoman. Never 
was known such a season ! Hay swimming, 
cattle drowning, fruit rotting, corn spoiling! 
and that naughty river the Loddon,who never 
can take Puff's advice, and " keep between 
its banks," running about the country, fields, 
roads, gardens and houses, like mad ! The 
weather would be talked of. Indeed, it was 
not easy to talk of any thing else. A friend 
of mine having occasion to write me a letter, 
thought it worth abusing in rhyme, and be- 
pommelled it through three pages of Eath- 
Guide verse; of which I subjoin a speci- 
men : — 

" .Aquarius surely rW^ns over the world, 

And of late he his v\ater-pot strangely has twirled; 

Or he's taken a cullender up by mistake. 

And unceasingly dips it in some mighty lake; 

Though it is not in Lethe — for who can forget 

The annoyance of getting most thoroughly wet? 

It must be in the river called Styx, I declare. 

For the moment it drizzles it makes the men swear. 

' It did rain to-morrow," is growing good grammar; 

Vauxhall and camp-stools have been brought to the 

hammer; 
A pony-gondola is all I can keep, 
.And I use my umbrella and pattens in sleep: 
Row out of my window, whene'er 'tis my whim 
To visit a friend, and just ask ' Can you swim ?" 

So far my friend. f In short, whether in prose 
or in verse, eyery body railed at the weather. 
But this is over now. The sun has come to 
dry the world ; mud is turned into dust ; rivers 
have retreated to their proper limits ; farmers 
have left off grumbling ; and we are about to 
take a walk, as usual, as far as the Shaw, a 
pretty wood about a mile off. But one of our 
companions being a stranger to the gentle 
reader, we must do him the honour of an in- 
troduction. 

Dogs, when they are sure of having their 
own way, have sometimes ways as odd as 



t This friend of mine is a person of great quickness 
and talent, who, if she were not a beauty and a wo- 
man of fortune — that is to say, if she were prompted 
by either of those tv^o powerful stimuli, want of mo- 
ney or want of admiration, to take due pains, — would 
inevitably l)ef;ome a clever writer. As it is. her notes 
and jeiix d'espril, struck off d trait de plume, have 
great point and neatness. Take the following billet, 
which firmed the label to a closed basket, containing 
the ponderous present alluded to, last JMichaelmas 
Day: — 

" To Miss M. 
'When this you see 
Remember me,' 
Was long a phrase in use; 
And so I send 
To you, dear friend, 
My proxy. ' What ?' A goose !" 



WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. 



245 



those of the unfurred uiifeathered animals, 
who walk on two ]egs, and talk, and are call- 
ed rational. My beautiful white greyhound, 
Mayflower,* for instance, is as whimsical as 
the finest lady in the land. Amonq^st her other 
fancies, she has taken a violent affection for 
a most hideous stray doer, who made his ap- 
pearance here about six months aero, and con- 
trived to pick np a livin;^ in the villatje, one 
can hardly tell how. Now appealin<r to the 
charity of old Rachel Stronsj, the laundress 
— a doo-iover by profession; now winnino; a 
meal from the light-footed and open-hearted 
lasses at the Rose ; now standing on his hind- 
legs, to extort by sheer beggary a scanty mor- 
sel from some pair of " drouthy cronies," or 
solitary drover, discussing his dinner or sup- 
per on the alehouse-bench ; now catching a 
mouthful, flung to him in pure contemyit by 
some scornful gentleman of the shoulder-knot, 
mounted on his throne, the coach-box, whose 
notice he had attracted by dint of ugliness; 
now sharing the commons of Master Keep the 
shoemaker's pigs; now succeeding to the re- 
version of the well-gnawed bone of Master 
Brown the shopkeeper's fierce house-dog; 
now filching the skim-milk of Dame Wheel- 
er's cat: — spit at by the cat; worried by the 
masliflT ; chased by the pigs ; screamed at by 
the dame; stormed at by the shoemaker; 
flogged by the shopkeeper; teazed by all the 
children, and scouted by all the animals of the 
parish ; — but yet living through his griefs, and 
bearing them patiently, "for sufferance is the 
badge of all his tribe;" — and even seeming to 
find, in an occasional full meal, or a gleam of 
sunshine, or a wisp of dry straw on- which to 
repose his sorry carcase, some comfort in his 
disconsolate condition. 

In this plight was he found by May, the 
most high-blooded and aristocratic of grey- 
hounds; and from this plight did May rescue 
him; — invited him into her territory, the sta- 
ble; resisted all attempts to turn hiin out; re- 
instated him there, in spite of maid and boy, 
and mistress, and master; wore out every 
body's opposition, by the activity of her pro- 
tection, and the pertinacity of her self-will ; 
made him sharer of her bed and of her mess ; 
and, finally, established him as one of the 
family as firmly as herself. 

Dash — for he has even won himself a name 
amongst us; before he was anonymous — Dash 
is a sort of a kind of a spaniel ; at least there 
is in his mongrel composition some sign of 
that beautiful race. Besides his ugliness, 
which is of the worst sort — that is to say, the 
shabbiest — he has a limp on one leg that gives 
a peculiarly one-sided awkwardness to his 
gait; but independently of his great merit in 
being May's pet, he has other merits which 
serve to account for that phenomenon — being, 
beyond all comparison, the most faithful, at- 

* Dead, alas, sinc6 this was written! 
21 * 



tached, and aflfectionate animal that I have 
ever known ; and that is saying much. He 
seems to think it necessary to atone for his 
ugliness by extra good conduct, and does so 
dance on his lame leg, and so wag his scrnb- 
by tail, that it does any one who has a taste 
for happiness good to look at him — so that he 
may now be said to stand on his own footing. 
We are all rather ashamed of him when 
strangers come in the way, and think it ne- 
cessary to explain that he is May's pet; but 
amongst ourselves, and those who are used to 
his appearance, he has reached the point of 
favouritism in his own person. I have, in 
common with wiser women, the feminine 
weakness of loving whatever loves me — and 
therefore, I like Dash. His master has found 
out that he is a capital finder, and in spite of 
his lameness will hunt a field or beat a cover 
with any spaniel in England — and, therefore, 
he likes Dash. The boy has fought a battle 
in defence of his beauty, with another boy, 
bigger than himself, and beat his opponent 
most handsomely — and, therefore, he likes 
Dash ; and the maids like him, or pretend to 
like him, because we do — as is the fashion of 
that pliant and imitative class. And now 
Dash and May follow ns everywhere, and 
are going with us to the Shaw, as I said be- 
fore — or rather to the cottage by the Shaw, to 
bespeak milk and butter of our little dairy- 
woman, Hannah Bint — a housewifely occu- 
pation, to which we owe some of our plea- 
santest rambles. 

And now we pass the sunny, dusty village 
street — who would have thouoht, a month 
ago, that we should complain of sun and dust 
again! — and turn tlie corner where the two 
great oaks hang so beautifully over the clear 
deep pond, mixing their cool green shadows 
with the bright blue sky, and the white clouds 
that flit over it; and loiter at the wheeler's 
shop, always picturesque, with its tools, and 
its work, and its materials, all so various in 
form, and so harmonious in colour; and its 
noisy, merry workmen, hammering and sing- 
ing, and making a various harmony also. The 
shop is rather empty to-day, for its usual in- 
mates are busy on the green beyond the pond 
— one set building a cart, another painting a 
wagon. And then we leave the village quite 
behind, and proceed slowly up the cool, quiet 
lane, between tall hedge-rows of the darkest 
verdure, overshadowing banks green and fresh 
as an emerald. 

Not so quick as I expected, though — for 
they are shooting here to-day, as Dash and I 
have both discovered : he with great delight, 
for a gun to him is as a trumpet to a war- 
horse ; I with no less annoyance, for I don't 
think that a partridge itself, barring the acci- 
dent of being killed, can be more startled than 
I at that abominable explosion. Dash has 
certainly better blood in his veins than any 
one would guess to look at him. He even 



246 



OUR VILLAGE 



shows some inclination to elope into the fields, 
in pursuit of those noisy iniquities. But he 
is an orderly person after all, and a word has 
checked him. 

Ah! here is a shriller din mingling with the 
small artillery — a shriller and more continu- 
ous. We are not yet arrived within sight of 
Master Weston's cottage, snugly hidden be- 
hind a clump of elms; but we are in full hear- 
ing of Dame Weston's tongue, raised as usual 
to scolding-pitch. The Westons are new ar- 
rivals in our neighbourhood, and the first thing 
heard of them was a complaint from the wife 
to our magistrate of her husband's beating 
her: it was a regular charge of assault — an 
information in full form. A most piteous case 
did Dame Weston make of it, softening her 
voice for the nonce into a shrill tremulous 
whine, and exciting the pity and anger — pity 
towards herself, anger towards her husband — 
of the whole female world, pitiful and indig- 
nant as the female world is wont to be on 
such occasions. Every woman in the parish 
railed at Master Weston ; and poor Master 
Weston was summoned to attend the bench 
on the ensuing Saturday, and answer the 
charge; and such was the clamour abroad and 
at home, that the unlucky culprit, terrified at 
the sound of a warrant and a constable, ran 
away, and was not heard of for a fortnight. 

At the end of that time he was discovered, 
and brought to the bench ; and Dame Weston 
again told her story, and, as before, on the 
full cry. She had no witnesses, and the 
bruises of which she m.ide complaint had 
disappeared, and there were no women pre- 
sent to make common cause with the sex. 
vStill, however, the general feeling was against 
Master Weston ; and it would have gone hard 
with him when he was called in, if a n.ost 
unexpected witness had not risen up in his 
favour. His wife had brought in her arms a 
little girl about eighteen months old, partly 
perhaps to move compassion in her favour; 
ibr a woman with a child in her arms is al- 
ways an object that excites kind feelings. 
The little girl had looked shy and frightened, 
and had been as quiet as a lamb during her 
mother's examination ; but she no sooner saw 
her father, from whom she had been a fort- 
night separated, than she clapped her hands, 
and laughed, and cried, "Daddy! daddy!" 
and sprang into his arms, and hung round his 
neck, and covered him with kisses — again 
shouting, '' Daddy, come home ! daddy ! dad- 
dy !" — an'd finally nestled her little head in 
his bosom, with a fulness of contentment, an 
assurance of tenderness and protection such as 
no wife-beating tyrant over did inspire, or ever 
could inspire since the days of King Solomon. 
Our magistrates acted in the very spirit of the 
Jewish monarch : they accepted the evidence 
■)f nature, and dismissed the complaint. And 
(jubsequent events have fully justified their 
decision ; Mistress Weston proving not only 



I renowned for the feminine accomplishment of 
scolding (tongue-banging, it is called in our 
parts, a compound word which deserves to bo 
Greek), but actually herself addicted to ad- 
ministering the conjugal discipline, the infiic- 
tion of which she was pleased to impute to 
her luckless husband. 

Now we cross the stile, and walk up the 
fields to the Shaw. How beautifully green 
this pasture looks ! and how finely the evening 
sun glances between the boles of that clump 
of trees, beach, and ash, and aspen ! and how 
sweet the hedge-rows are with woodbine and 
wild scabius, or, as the country people call i 
it, the gipsy-rose ! Here is little Dolly Wes- 
ton, the unconscious witness, with cheeks as 
red as a real rose, tottering up the path to 
meet her father. And here is the carroty- 
polled urchin, George Coper, returning from 
work, and singing "Home! sweet Home!" 
at the top of his voice ; and then, when the 
notes prove too high for him, continuing the 
air in a whistle, until he has turned the im- 
passable corner ; then taking up again the 
song and the words, " Home ! sweet Home !" 
and looking as if he felt their full import, 
ploughboy though he be. And so he does; 
for he is one of a large, an honest, a kind, and 
an industrious family, where all goes well, 
and where the poor ploughboy is sure of find- 
ing cheerful faces and coarse comforts — all 
that he has learned to desire. Oh, to be as 
cheaply and as thoroughly contented as George 
Coper! All his luxuries, a cricket-match ! — 
all his wants satisfied in " home ! sweet 
home I" 

Nothing but noises to-day ! They are clear- 
ing Farmer Brooke's great bean-field, and cry- 
ing the " Harvest Home !" in a chorus, before 
which all other sounds — the song, the scolding, 
the gunnery — fade away, and become faint 
echoes. A pleasant noise is that ! though, 
for one's ears' sake, one makes some haste to 
get away from it. And here, in happy time, 
is that pretty wood, the Shaw, with its broad 
path-way, its tangled dingles, its nuts and its 
honeysuckles; — and, carrying away a fagot 
of those sweetest flowers, we reach Hannah 
Bint's • of whom, and of whose doings we 
shall say more another time. 



Nate. — Poor Dash is also dead.. We did 
not keep him long, indeed I believe that he 
di(>d of the transition from starvation to good 
fiMxl, as dangerous to a dog's stomach and to 
most stomachs, as the less agreeable chance 
from good feed to starvation. He has been 
succeeded in place and favour by another Dash, 
not less amiable in demeanour and far more 
creditable in appearance, bearing no small re- 
semblance to the pet spaniel of my friend 
Master Dinely, he who stole the bone from the 
mairpies, and who figures as the first Dash of 
this volume. Let not the unwary reader opine, 



LITTLE MISS WREN. 



247 



that in assigning the same name to three seve- 
ral individuals, I am acting as an humble imi- 
tator of the inimitable writer who has given 
immortality to the Peppers and the Mustards, 
on the one hand ; or showing a poverty of in- 
vention or a want of acquaintance with the 
bead-roll of canine appellations nn the other. 
I merely with my usual scrupulous fidelity 
take the names as I find them. The fact is, 
that half the handsome spaniels in England are 
called Dash, just as half the tall footmen are 
called Thomas. The name belongs to the 
species. Silting in an open carriage one day 
last summer at the door of a farm-house where 
my father had some business, I saw a noble 
and beautiful animal of this kind lying in 
great state and laziness on the steps, and felt 
an immediate desire to make acquaintance with 
him. My father, who had had the same fancy, 
had patted him and called him " poor fellow" 
in passing, without eliciting the smallest no- 
tice in return. " Dash !" cried I at a venture, 
" good Dash I noble Dash '." and up he started 
in a moment, making but one spring from the 
door into the gig. Of course I was right in 
my guess. The gentleman's name was Dash. 



LITTLE MISS WREN. 

Of all the seasons for marriages that I have 
ever known, this wet, dirty, snowy, frosty 
winter, (of 18'29) with its hot fits and its cold 
fits, and its fogrs that were neither hot nor cold, 
but a happy mixture of all the evils of both — 
chilly as sleet, stifling as steam ; — of all sea- 
sons, this, which having murderously slaugh- 
tered two hundred head of fine geraniums, my 
property, I set down as fatal ! — of all the sea- 
sons that 1 remember, this has been the most 
fertile in marriages. Half the belles in our 
neighbourhood have disappeared, — not whisk- 
ed away by fraud or force, as Lovelace carried 
off Clarissa, but decorously wooed and won, 
as Sir Charles Grandison wedded Miss Byron. 
Still they are gone. On Monday, a rich mem- 
ber of Parliament drives away to Paris with 
one county beauty; on Tuesday a dashing 
Captain of Hussars sets out for Florence with 
another ; on Wednesday a third glides quietly 
away to a country parsonage with her hand- 
some bridegroom, a young clergyman. Balls 
and concerts are spangled with silver favours ; 
white gloves are your only present; the pretty 
nuptial cards knotted together with satin rib- 
bon, fly about like so many doves; and bride- 
cake is in such abundance, that even the little 
boys and girls at home for the holidays, char- 
tered gluttons as they are, cry, " Hold, 
enough 1" 

There is no end to the shapes in which 
matrimony meets you. Miss A.'s servant 
comes to you wanting a place — her mistress 



is going to be married ! Mr. B.'s hunters are 
on sale — their master is going to be married ! 
The dress-maker won't undertake to make a 
new gown under a fortnight — Lady C. is 
going to be married ! The Grove is taken by 
a Mr. D., of whom nobody knows any thing 
— except that he is going to be married ! Nay, 
marriages jostle : my worthy friend the Rec- 
tor of Ashley, a most popular person at all 
times, and certainly the favourite marrier of 
the county, was wanted to tie the hymeneal 
knot the same morning by two couples who 
live forty miles apart; and Sir Edward E.'s 
wedding has been delayed for a fortnight, be- 
cause that grand minister to the " pride, pomp, 
and circumstance of glorious" bridals, the 
coachmaker, was going to be married himself! 
Nothing but wedding parties are heard of 
hereabouts; not to be engaged to two or three 
would be a sad loss of caste and of conse- 
quence. I, for my own part, have been invited 
by half a dozen young ladies to see them ex- 
change their freedom " for a name and for a 
ring," and am just returned from the most 
magnificent espousals that have been cele- 
brated even in this season of wedlock. 

One of the most distinguished and remarka- 
ble persons in these parts, not very fruitful of 
celebrated personages, is undoubtedly my fair 
friend Miss Philippa Wren, of Wrensnest in 
this county, — a lady well known through the 
neighbourhood, not merely because she is an 
heiress of good family, and heiresses of any 
sort are rarities everywhere, nor because she 
is amiable and accomplished, as the newspa- 
pers saj' of heiresses and of young ladies in 
general ; but for a quality proper and peculiar 
to her own individual person, — that quality in 
short, which has procured for her the universal 
cognomen of little Miss Wren. 

Partly, no doubt, this distinguishing charac- 
teristic may have belonged to her by inherit- 
ance. The Wrens have been a tiny race from 
generation to generation, gradually diminish- 
ing in size and stature, tapering away like the 
point of a pyramid, until they reached the very 
climax of smallness in the person of their fair 
descendant, the least woman, not to be quite a 
dwarf, that ever was seen out of Lilliput. 

When born it was such a fairy, that nurses, 
doctors, aunts and grandmammas, almost lost 
the fear of rearing in the perplexity of dress- 
ing it, flung away the superb baby-linen in 
despair, and were fi\in to wrap the young 
stranffer in cotton, until the apparel of a neigh- 
bouring doll could be borrowed for its service. 
All the gossips gazed, marvelled, and admired, 
and as time wore on, and the little lady of the 
manor grew older, without, as it seemed, i 
growing bigger, the admiration increased. 
Every epoch of infancy was a fresh theme of 
village wonder. Walking and talking as- 
sumed, in her case, the form of miracles; and 
that such an atom should cut teeth seemed 
little less incredible than that Richard should 



248 



aUR VILLAGE. 



be born witb them. All through her child- 
hood, the tiny heiress passed, with every 
stranoer that saw her, for a rare specimen of 
precocious talent, was my-deared, petted, fon- 
dled and noticed at eiorhteen, and might now 
at five-and-twenty, sink at least fifteen years 
I of her age with perfect impunity, in any com- 
; pany in Europe. 

I Such a deception, however, is the farthest 
thing possible from her desire. She would 
' rather, if one of the two evils must be endured, 
[ look fifteen years older. Shrewd, quick-wit- 
I ted, keen and capable on all other points, the 
j peculiarity of her person has in this, as in 
many otlier instances, influenced her character 
I and her destiny. The sole object of her am- 
! bition, "vaulting ambition that o'erleaps it- 
self," is to be great (I use the word in the 
j purely primitive sense, large, big, and tall) in 
despite of nature. Even that ambitious fowl, 
a she-bantam, does not imitate more absurdly 
the magnificent demeanour of a Poland hen, 
than]ioor Miss Wren emulates the superb and 
dignified graces of her next neighbour. Miss 
Stork, a grenadier of a woman, who labours 
under the converse misfortune to that which 
has befallen herself, and stands six feet with- 
out her shoes. Never was erectness so ex- 
emplary and unrelaxing. A poker seems to 
poke when compared with her perpendicu- 
larity. Governesses and dancing-masters re- 
versed, in her case, their usual lectures, com- 
plained of her inflexible uprightness, and 
scolded her for holding up her head. She 
<■■. nstantly perches herself on the highest chair 
fin tiie room, and stands, walks, and dances on 
tiptoe, — a process, which, like most attempts 
to seem what we are not, only serves to make 
her calamity the more remarkable. 

In her dress she practises the same manoeu- 
vres with the same ill success ; wears very 
high bonnets with very high plumes; piles as 
many flowers upon her head as niight serve 
to deck a may-pole; has heels to hur boots, 
false bottoms to her slippers; and punctually 
follows, in the rest of her equipment, the 
fashion of her above-mentioned neighbour. 
Miss Stork, the ultimate object of her ambi- 
tion. Frills, collars, flounces, and trinmiings 
of ail sorts are made exactly after her pattern, 
deducting no inch of fulness or atom of widtli ; 
so that, the fair model Miss Stork herself 
being by no means sparing of adornments, her 
poor little imitator looks like a mere bundle 
of finery, an abridgment of the reigning fa- 
shion, and makes pretty much such a figure 
as a well-sized puppet might exhibit, if dressed 
in an extempore suit of woman's clothes cut 
shorter for the occasion. Remonstrance is 
cpiite out of the question. Even the omnipo- 
tent dictum of a French milliner, and the oily 
flattery of a lady's maid have been tried in 
vain on Miss Wren. She turned off her shoe- 
maker for unpalatable praise of her little foot, 
for which, indeed, the famous " glass slipper" 



of the Fairy Tales would hardly have been 
small enough ; and cashiered a conscientious 
mantua-maker for offering to deduct a sove- 
reign in the price of a satin cloak in conside- 
ration of its shortness. What worse could 
she have done had the lady of the needle been 
wholly honest, and deducted two sovereigns, 
as well she might, from the seven-guinea 
cloak ] I do think she would have brought 
an action for libel. 

She inhabits large houses; sits on great 
chairs; rides high horses; has a Newfound- 
land dog for a pet; and drives a huge heavy 
landau, where she is perched between a tall 
footman and a fat coachman, and looks, when 
one catches sight of her, sometliino- like a 
minnow between a salmon and a turbot, or a 
goldfinch between a peacock and a goose. 
The bigger the thing, the more she affects it: 
plays on the organ, although the chords are 
as unreachable to her delicate fingers, as Gul- 
liver found those of his instrument at Brob- 
dignag; paints at an easel so high that she is 
forced to stand on steps ; and professes to read 
comfortably from no book smaller than a folio, 
though it is morally certain that she must 
walk backwards and forwards to compass the 
page. The slender jessamine hand, written 
with a crowquill on pink note paper, which 
some fine ladies cultivate so successfully, is 
her aversion : her letters are substantial speci- 
mens of stationery, written in a huge text 
hand on thick extra-post paper, and sealed 
with a coat of arms as big as a crown piece, 
— which magnificent seal, by the way, de- 
pending by a chain that might lock a wagon- 
wheel, from a watch of her maternal grand- 
father as big as a saucer, she constantly wears 
about her person. 

In flowers her taste is of equal magnitude. 
Dahlias, sunflowers, hollyhocks, and tree- 
roses, together with the whole tribe of majors 
(minors, of course, she avoids and detests,) 
and all those shrubs and creepers whose blos- 
soms are out of reach, are her favourites. She 
will dangle a bush of rhododendron or azalea 
in her hand, and wear a magnolia in her bosom 
for a nosegay. In her love of space, her de- 
sire for " ample room and verge enough," she 
has done her best to convert her pretty place 
of Wrensnest into a second edition of Timon's 
Villa, "i//"?- pond an ocean, //er parterre a 
down," and in her passion for great. eflects 
would think no more of moving an oak of a 
century old from its native forest tiian I should 
of transplanting a daisy. Cloud-capt moun- 
tains, inaccessible rocks, and the immeasura- 
ble ocean, are the only prospects for her; she 
raves of the stupendous scenery of America, 
and will certainly soiue day or other make a 
journey of pleasure to the Andes or the Cor- 
dilleras. 

As in nature, so in art, the grand is her 
standard of excellence. Colossal statues, and 
pictures larger than life she delights in; wor- 



WALKS IN THE COUNTRY 



Ui)\ 



ships Martin, adores Michael Anaelo, prefers 
St. Peter's to the Parthenon, and the Farnese 
Hercules to the Apollo Belvidere. When she 
dies, she will desire a pyramid for her mauso- 
leum. The dome of St. Paul's, which served 
her celehrated namesake, would hardly satisfy 
her amhition. — But why do I talk of tombs 
and of namesakes 1 Am I not just come from 
the weddiniT hreakfastl and is not "Little 
Miss Wren" Miss Wren no long-prl Even 
while I write, hells are ringing, horses pranc- 
ing, bridemaids simpering, and wedding-cake 
travelling nine times through the Baroness 
Blankenhausen's fairy ring. 

The bridegroom is a fiiir well-conditioned 
Saxon, six feet three inches high, and broad 
in pro])orlion, with a superb genealogical tree, 
quarterings innumerable, and an estate by no 
means suitable to his dimensions : for the rest, 
remarkable for nothing except his great turn 
for silence,* the number of segars which he 
puffs away in the course of the day, and two 
little IMarlborough spaniels which he is ac- 
customed to carry about in his coat-pockets. 
I hope he won't put his wife there. Really 
the temptaiinn will be strong; but the Baron 
is a giant of grace, a well-mannered monster; 
and to judge from the carefulness and delicacy 
with which he lifted his fair bride over a jjud- 
dle in the chiirch-yard, to save her white satin 
shoes (she prote^sting all the time against such 
a display of his gallantry, and declaring that 
she could have stept over the ])ool had it been 
twice as wide), — to judge from the coup d'es- 
sai in husbandship, I see no cause to doubt 
that he will treat my friend as tenderly and 
gingerly, as if he were a little girl of.six years 
old, and the fair Phillippa his first wax doll. 



* Persons of the larger size are often verv silent. 
An ingenious friend of mine holds a Iheory \hnl ihe 
desirable qnantily of" animal spirits is originally dis- 
tributed pretly equally amongst men; biu liiat it is 
lost, absorbed, and diluted in people of unusual bulk, 
and only shines forth in full vigour in those of a 
smaller frame : as the glass of alcohol, which will 
jiovverfiilly impregnate a pint of water, will be 
scare elv perreived in a gallon. For instance, (waiv- 
ing particnlar examples, of which he brought many,) 
he holds that a company of light infantry would prove 
far more vivacious than a troop of life-guards; and 
has no hesitation in. asserting that Ihe famous tall 
regiment of Frederick the Great must have been the 
dullest part of the whole Prussian army. I do not 
answer for the truth of his assertion, though my friend 
makes out a very good case, as your clever theorist 
seldom fails to do, right or wrong. Indeed I brought 
FalstafT as a case in point against him. lie admitted 
the mere bulk, the " huge rotundity," and the quan- 
tity of animal spirits that distinguished the witty 
knight, " but then," added he, " 1 am sure he w as 
short." 



WALKS IN THE COUNTRV^ 

HANNAH BINT. 

The Shaw, leading to Hannah Bint's habi- 
tation, is, as I perhaps have said before, a 
very pretty mixture of wood and coppice ; thai, 
is to say, a tract of thirty or forty acres co- 
vered with fine growing timber — ash, and oak^ 
and elm — very regularly planted ; and inter- 
spersed here and there with large patches of 
underwood, hazel, maple, birch, holly, and 
hawthorn, woven into almost impenetrable 
thickets by long W'reaths of the bramble, the 
briony, and the briar-rose, or by the pliant and 
twisting garlands of the wild honeysuckle. 
In other parts, the Shaw is quite clear of its 
bosky undergrowth, and clothed only with 
large beds of feathery fern, or carpets of flow- 
ers, primroses, orchises, cowslips, ground-ivy, 
crane's-bill, cotton-grass, Solomon's seal, and 
forget-me-not, crowded together with a profu- 
sion and brilliancy of colour, such as 1 have 
rarely seen equalled even in a garden. Here 
the wild hyacinth really enamels the ground 
with its fresh and lovely purple ; there, 

"On aged roots, with bright green mosses clad, 
Dwells the wood sorrel, with its hnght thin leaves 
Heart-shaped and triply folded, and its root 
Creeping like beaded coral ; whilst around 
Flourish the copse's pride, anemones, 
With rays like golden studs on ivory laid 
Most delicate; but touched with purple clouds, 
Fit crown for April's fair but changeful brow." 

The variety is much greater than I have enu- 
merated ; for the ground is so unequal, now 
swelling in gentle ascents, now dimpling into 
dells and hollows, and the soil so different in 
different parts, that the sylvan Flora is unu- 
sually extensive and complete. 

The season is, however, now too late for 
this floweriness ; and except the tufted wood- 
bines, which have continued in bloom during 
the whole, of this lovely autumn, and some 
lingering garlands of the purple wild-veitch, 
wreathing round the thickets, and uniting with 
the ruddy leaves of the bramble, and the pale 
festoons of the briony, there is little to call 
one's attention from the grander heauties of 
the trees — the sycamore, its broad leaves al- 
ready spotted — the oak, heavy with acorns — 
and the delicate shining rind of the weeping 
birch, " the lady of the woods," thrown out 
in strong relief from a back-ground of holly 
and hawthorn, each studded with coral ber- 
ries, and backed with old beeches, beginning 
to assume the rich, tawny hue which makes 
them perhaps the most picturesque of au- 
tuinnal trees, as the transparent freshness of 
their young foliage is undoubtedly the choic- 
est ornament of the forest in spring. 

A sudden turn round one of these magnifi- 
cent beeches brings us to the boundary of the 
Shaw, and leaning upon a rude gate, we look 
over an open space of about ten acres of 



2G 



250 



OUR VILLAGE, 



jrround, still more varied and broken than that 
which we have passed, and surrounded on all 
sides by thick woodland. As a piece of co- 
lour, nothing can be well finer. The ruddy 
glow of the heath -flower, contrasting, on the 
one hand, Avith the golden-blossomed furze — 
on the other, with a patch of buck-wheat, of 
which the bloom is not past, although the 
grain be ripening, the beautiful buck-wheat, 
whose transparent leaves and stalks are so 
brightly tinged with vermilion, while the deli- 
cate pink-white of the flower, a paler persi- 
caria, has a feathery fall, at once so ricli and 
so graceful, and a fresh and reviving odour, 
like that of birch trees in the dew of a May 
evening. The bank that surmounts this at- 
tempt at cultivation is crowned with the late 
foxglove and the stately mullein ; the pasture 
of which so great a part of the waste consists, 
looks as green as an emerald ; a clear pond, 
with the bright sky reflected in it, lets light 
into the picture : the white cottage of the 
keeper peeps from the opposite coppice; and 
the vine-covered dwelling of Hannah Bint 
rises from amidst the pretty garden, which 
lies bathed in the sunshine around it. 

The living and moving accessories are all 
in keeping with the cheerfulness and repose 
of the landscape. Hannah's cow grazing 
quietly beside the keeper's pony : a brace of 
fat pointer puppies holding amicable inter- 
course with a litter of young pigs ; ducks, 
geese, cocks, hens, and chickens scattered 
over the turf; Hannah herself sallying forth 
from the cottage-door, with her milk-bucket in 
her hand, and her little brother following with 
the milkinij-stool. 

My friend, Hannah Bint, is by no means an 
ordinary person. Her father, Jack Bint, (for 
in all his life he never arrived at the dignity 
of being called John, indeed in our parts, he 
was commonly known by the cognomen of 
London Jack,) was a drover of high repute in 
his profession. No man, between Salisbury 
Plain and Smithfield, was thought to conduct 
a flock of sheep so skilfully through all the 
difficulties of lanes and commons, streets and 
high-roads, as Jack Bint, aided i)y Jack Bint's 
famous dng, Watch ; for Watch's rough, hon- 
est face, black, with a little white abotit the 
muzzle, and one white ear, was as well known 
at fairs and markets, as his master's equally 
honest and weather-beaten visage. Lucky 
was the dealer that could secure their services ; 
Watch being renowned for keeping a flock 
together better than any shepherd's dog on the 
road — Jack, for delivering them more punc- 
tually, and in better condition. No man had 
a more thorough knowledge of the ])roper 
night stations, where good feed might be pro- 
cured for his charge, and good liquor for 
Watch and himself; Watch, like other sheep 
dogs, being accustomed to live chiefly on 
bread and beer. His master, although not 
averse to a pot of good double X, preferred 



gin ; and they who plod slowly along, through 
wet and weary ways, in frost and in fog, have 
undoubtedly a stronger temptation to indulge 
in that cordial and reviving stimulus, than we 
water-drinkers, sitting in warm and comforta- 
ble rooms, can readily imagine. For certain, 
our drover could never resist the gentle seduc- 
tion of the gin-bottle, and being of a free, 
nrrferry, jovial temperament, one of those per- 
sons commonly called good fellows, who like 
to see others happy in the same way with 
themselves, he was apt to circulate it at his 
own expense, to the great improvement of his 
popularity, and the great detriment of his 
finances. 

All this did vastly well whilst his earnings 
continued proportionate to his spendings, and 
the little family at home were comfortably 
supported by his industry : but when a rheu- 
matic fever came on, one hard winter, and 
finally settled in his limbs, reducing the most 
active and hardy man in the parish to the state 
of a confirmed cripple, then his reckless im- 
providence stared him in the face ; and poor 
Jack, a thoughtless, but kind creature, and a 
most afiectionate father, looked at his three 
motherless children with the acute misery of 
a parent, who has brought those whom he 
loves best in the world, to abject destitution. 
He found help, where he probably least ex- 
pected it, in the sense and spirit of his young 
daughter, a girl of twelve years old. 

Hannah was the eldest of the family, and 
had, ever since her mother's death, which 
event had occurred two or three years before, 
been accustomed to take the direction of their 
domestic concerns, to manage her two brothers, 
to feed the pigs and the poultry, and to keep 
house during the almost constant absence of 
her fatiier. .She was a quick, clever lass, of a 
high spirit, a firm temper, some pride, and a 
horror of accepting parochial relief, which is 
every day becoming rarer amongst the pea- 
santry ; but which forms the surest safeguard 
to the sturdy independence of the P]nglish 
character. Our little damsel possessed this 
quality in perfection ; and when her father 
talked of giving up their comfortable cottage, 
and removing to the work-house, whilst she 
and her brothers must go to service, Hannah 
formed a bold resolution, and without disturb- 
ing the sick man by any participation of her 
hopes and fears, proceeded after settling their 
trifling aflairs to act at once on her own plans 
and designs. 

Careless of the future as the poor drover 
had seemed, he had yet kept clear of debt, 
and by subscribing constantly to a benefit 
club, had secured a pittance that might at 
least assist in supporting him during the long 
years of sickness and helplessness to which 
he was doomed to look forward. This his 
daughter knew. She knew, also, that the 
employer in whose service his health had suf- 
fered so severely, was a rich and liberal cattle- 



WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. 



251 



dealer in the neighbourhood, who would will- 
ingly aid an old and faithful servant, and had, 
indeed, come forward with offers of money. 
To assistance from such a quarter Hannah 
saw no objection. Farmer Oakley and the 
parish wore quite distinct thinos. Of him, 
accordinoly, she asked, not money, but some- 
Ihinp; much more in his own way — "a cow! 
any cow ! old or lame, or what not, so that it 
were a cow ! she would be bound to keep it 
well ; if she did not, he might take it back 
again. She even hoped to pay for it by and 
by, by instalments, but that she would not 
promise !" and partly amused, partly interested 
by the child's earnestness, the wealthy yeo- 
man gave her, not as a purchase, but as a pre- 
sent, a very fine young Alderney. She then 
went to the lord of the manor, and, with equal 
knowledge of character, begged his permis- 
sion to keep her cow on the Shaw common. 
"Farmer Oakley had given her a fine Alder- 
ney, and she would be bound to pay the rent, 
and keep her father off the parish, if he would 
only let it graze on the waste;" and he, too, 
half from real good-nature — half, not to be 
outdone in liberality by his tenant, not only 
granted the requested permission, but reduced 
the rent so much, that the produce of the vine 
seldom fails to satisfy their kind landlord. 

Now, Hannah showed great judgment in 
setting up as a dairy-woman. She could not 
have chosen an occupation more completely 
unoccupied, or more loudly called for. One 
of the most provoking of the petty difficulties 
which beset peojile with a small establishment, 
in this neighbourhood, is the trouble, almost 
the impossibility, of procuring the pastoral 
luxuries of milk, eggs, and butter, which rank, 
unfortunately, amongst the indispensable ne- 
cessaries of housekeeping. To your thorough- 
bred Londoner, who, whilst grumbling over 
his own breakfast, is apt to fancy that thick 
cream, and fresh butter, and new-laid eggs, 
grow, so to say, in the country — form an actual 
part of its natural produce — it may be some 
comfort to lenrn, that in this great grazing 
district, however the calves and the farmers 
may l)e the better for cows, nobody else is ; 
that farmers' wives have ceased to keep poul- 
try ; and that we unlucky villagers sit down 
often to our first meal in a state of destitution, 
which may well make him content with his 
thill milk and his Cambridge butter, when 
compared to our imputed pastoralities. 

Hannah's Alderney restored to us one rural 
privilege. Never was so cleanly a little milk- 
maid. She changed away some of the cot- 
tage finery, which, in his prosperous days, 
poor Jack had pleased himself with bringing 
home ; tiie China tea-service, the gilded mugs, 
and tiie painted waiters, for the more useful 
utensils of the dairy, and speedily established 
a regular and gainful trade in milk, eggs, 
butter, honey, and poultrjf — for poultry they 
had always kept. 



Her domestic management prospered equal- 
ly. Her father, who retained the perfect use 
of his hands, began a manufacture of mats 
and baskets, which he constructed with great 
nicety and adroitness; the eldest boy, a sharp 
and clever lad, cut for him his rushes and 
osiers; erected, under his sister's direction, a 
shed for the cow, and enlarged and cultivated 
the garden (always with the good leave of 
her kind patron the lord of the manor) until 
it became so ample, that the produce not only 
kept the pig, and half kept the family, but 
afforded another branch of merchandise to the 
indefatigable directress of the establishment. 
For the younger hoy, less quick and active, 
Hannah contrived to obtain an admission to 
the charity school, where he made grejit pro- 
gress — retaining him at home, however, in 
the hay-making, and leasing season, or when- 
ever his services could he made available, to 
the great annoyance of the schoolmaster, 
whose favourite he is, and who piques him- 
self so much on George's scholarship, (your 
heavy sluggish boy at country work often 
turns out quick at his book,) that it is the 
general opinion that this much-vaunted pupil 
will, in process of time, be promoted to the 
post of assistant, and may, possibly, in course 
of years, rise to the dignity of a parish peda- 
gogue in his own person ; so that his sister, 
although still making him useful at odd times, 
now considers George as pretty well off her 
hands, whilst his elder brother Tom, could 
take an under-gardener's place directly, if he 
were not too important at home to be spared 
even for a day. 

In short, during the five years that she has 
ruled at the Shaw cottage, the world has gone 
well with Hannah Bint. Her cow, her calves, 
her pigs, her bees, her poultry, have each, in 
their several ways, thriven and prospered. 
She has even brought Watch to like butter- 
milk as well as strong beer, and has nearly 
persuaded her father (to whose wants and 
wishes she is most anxiously attentive) to ac- 
cept of milk as a substitute for gin. Not 
but Hannah hath had her enemies as well as 
her betters. Why should she notl The old 
woman at the lodge, who always piqued her- 
self on being spiteful, and crying down new 
ways, foretold from the first that she would 
come to no good, and could not forgive her for 
falsifying her prediction ; and Betty Barnes, 
the slatternly widow of a tippling farmer, 
who rented a field, and set up a cow herself, 
and was universally discarded for insufferable 
dirt, said ail that the wit of an envious woman 
could devise against Hannah and her Alder- 
ney; nay, even Ned Miles, the keeper, her 
next neighbour, who had whilome held entire 
sway over the Shaw common, as well as its 
coppices, grumbled as much as so good-na- 
tured and genial a person could grumble, 
when he found a little girl sharing his do- 
minion, a cow grazing beside his pony, and 



252 



OUR VILLAGE. 



vuloar cocks and hens hovering' around the 
buck-wheat destined to feed his nnhle phea- 
sants. Nobody tliat had been accustomed to 
see that parao-on of keepers, so tall and manly, 
and pleasant-looking, with his merry eye, and 
his knowingr smile, striding- gaily along, in 
his green coat, and his gold-laced hat, with 
Neptune, his nohle Newfoundland dog, (a re- 
triever in the sporting world.) and his beautiful 
spaniel Flirt at his heels, could conceive how 
askew he looked, when he first found Hannah 
and Watch holding equal reign over his old 
territory, the Shaw common. 

Yes ! Hannah hath had her enemies ; but 
they are passing away. The old woman at 
the lodge is dead, poor creature; and Betty 
Barnes, having herself taken to tippling, has 
lost the few friends she once possessed, and 
looks, luckless wretch, as if she would soon 
die too! — and the keeper — why, he is not 
dead, or like to die ; but the change that has 
taken place there is the most astonishing of 
all — except, perhaps, the change in Hannah 
herself. 

Few damsels of twelve j'ears old, generally 
a very pretty age, were less pretty than Han- 
nah Bint. Short and stunted in her figure, 
thin in face, sharp in feature, with a muddled 
complexion, wild sunburnt hair, and eyes, 
whose very brightness had in them some- 
thing startling, over-informed, super-subtle, 
loo clever for her age. — at twelve years old 
she had quite the air of a little old fairy. 
Now, at seventeen, matters are mended. Her 
complexion has cleared : her countenance 
hath developed itself; her r.gure has shot up 
into height and lightness, and a sort of rustic 
grace; her. bright, acute eye is softened and 
sweetened by the womanly wish to please ; her 
hair is trimmed, and curled and brushed, with 
exquisite neatness ; and her whole dress ar- 
ranged with that nice attention to the becom- 
ing, the suitable both in form and texture, 
which would be called the highest degree of 
coquetry, if it did not deserve the better name 
of propriety. Never was such a transmogri- 
fication beheld. The lass is really pretty, 
and Ned Miles has discovered that she is so. 
There he stands,,the rogue, close at her side, 
(for he hath joined her whilst we have been 
telling her little story, and the milking is 
over!) — there he stands — holding her milk- 
pail in one hand, and stroking Watch with 
the other; whilst she is returning the com- 
pliment, by patting Neptune's magnificent 
head. There they stand, as much like lovers 
as maybe; he smiling, and she blushing — 
he never looking so handsome, nor she so 
pretty in all their lives. There they stand, 
in blessed forgetfulness of all except each 
other; as happy a cou))le as ever trod the 
earth. There they stand, and one would not 
disturb them for all the milk and butter in 
Christendom. I should not wonder if they 
were fixing the wedding-day. 



CHILDREN OF THE VILLAGE. 

THE ROBINS. 

" What have you got in your hat, Ed- 
ward "?" said Arthur Maynard to his cousin 
Edward Stanhope, as they met one day in our 
village street, near which they both resided ; 
" what can you have there 1 a bird's nest]" 

" Oh I hope not !" exclaimed Julia May- 
nard, who was walking with her brother and 
a younger sister, " taking bird's nests is 
cruel." 

" Cruel or not, Miss .Tulia," replied Ed- 
ward, "a bird's nest it is. Look, Arthur," 
continued he, displaying a nest full of poor 
little unfledged creatures, opening four great 
mouths as wide as they could gape ; " look, 
they are robins." 

"Robins! robin redbreasts ! the household 
bird! the friend of man!" cried Artiiur ; 
" take a robin's nest ! oh, fie, fie !" 

" The robin redbreast," said little Sophy 
Maynard, " that when the poor Children in 
the Wood were starved to death, covered 
them over with leaves. Did you never hear 
old nurse Andrews repeat the old ballad 1 I 
can almost say it myself: — 

"No burial this pretty pair 
OC any niiin receives, 
Till Robin Redbreast painfully 
Did cover them with leaves," — 

shouted Sophy : " you that pretend to be so 
fond of poetry, to take a robin's nest." 

"Poetry!" rejoined Edward, contemptu- 
ously, "a penny ballad! an old woman's 
song ! call that poetry !" 

"I like to hear it though," persisted little 
Sophy ; " I had rather hear nurse Andrews 
repeat the Children in the Wood, than any 
thing; call it what names you like." 

"And it was but the other day," said Julia, 
" that papa made me learn some verses just 
to the same effect out of Mr. Lamb's Speci- 
mens. Did you ever hear thetn ] 

Call to the robin redbreast and the wren, 
Since o'er shadv groves they l)over, 
And with flowers and leaves do cove.- 
Tlie friendless bodies of unburied men. 

Now I am quite sure that these lines are po- 
etry; and, at all events, every body holds the 
robin sacred for his social qualities, he is so 
tame, so confiding, so familiar; no one would 
ever think of taking his nest, even if bird's- 
nesting were not the cruellest thing in the 
world," continued Julia, returning to her first 
exclamation. "Every body cherishes the 
robin." 

" So do I," replied her incorrigible cousin ; 
" I am so fond of the robin and his note, that 
I mean to bring up all four of these young 
ones, and tame thein, ai;d make friends of 
them." 

" Put back the nest, and I will teach you a 



CHILDREN OF THE VILLAGE, 



253 



better way," said Arthur; "for we mean to 
tame some robins ourselves this summer." 

"Put back the nest indeed !" rejoined Ed- 
ward ; " I must make haste home, and get the 
butler to g^ive me a cage, and Fanny to help 
me to feed them. Put back the nest indeed !" 
and off ran the naughty taker of birds' nests, 
vainly pursued by little Sophy's chidings, by 
.Julia's persuasions, by Arthur's remonstrances, 
and by the united predictions of all three that 
he would never rear the unfortunate young- 
linos. 

Very true were these predictions. One by 
one, in spite of all the care of Edward and his 
sister Fanny, who crammed them twenty times 
a day with all sorts of food, proper or impro- 
per, bread, meat, eggs, herbs, and insects, 
with every mess, in short, that they had ever 
heard recommended for any bird ; one by one 
the poor little shivering creatures, shivering 
although wrapt in lamb's-wool and swan's- 
down, pined, and dwindled, and died ; and 
Fanny, a kind-hearted little girl, fretted and 
cried; and Edward, not less vexed, but too 
proud to crjs grumbled at his ill-luck, and de- 
clared that he would never trouble himself 
with birds again as long as he lived. "I 
wonder how Arthur has succeeded with his !" 
thought he to himself; "I think he and the 
girls talked of getting some — but of course, 
they all died. I am sure no people could take 
more pains than Fanny and I. I'll never 
trouble myself with birds again." 

About two months after this soliloquy, the 
young Stanhopes received an invitation to dine 
with their cousins, for it was Sophy's birth- 
day, and the children had a half-holiday; and 
after dinner they were allowed to' eat their 
cherries and strawberries in their own veran- 
dah, a place they were all very fond of. And 
a very pretty place this verandah was. 

Fancy a deep shaded trellis running along 
one end of the house, covered with vines, pas- 
sion-flowers, clematis, and jessamine, looking 
over gay flower-beds, the children's own 
flower-beds, to an arbour of honeysuckle, 
laburnum, and china-roses, which Arthur had 
made for Julia ; clusters of green-house i)lants, 
their own pet geraniums, arranged round the 
pillars of the verandah; and the verandah it- 
self, furnished with their own tables and 
chairs, and littered with tlieir toys and their 
small garden tools : as pretty an out-of-door 
play-room as heart could desire. 

It was a fine sunny afternoon towards the 
end of June, and the young folks enjoyed the 
fruits and the flowers, and the sweet scent of 
the bean l)lossoms and the new-mown hay in 
the neighbouring fields, and were as happy as 
happy could be. At last, after the girls had 
pointed out their richest geraniums and largest 
heartsease, and they had been properly praised 
and admired, Arthur said, "I think it is time 
to show Edward our robins." And at the 
word, little Sophy began strewing bread 
— 



crums at one end of the verandah as fast as 
her hands could go. 

"Bobby! Bobby! pretty Bobby!" cried 
Sophy; and immediately the prettiest robin 
that ever was seen came flying out of the ar- 
bour towards her; not in a direct line, but zig- 
zag as it were, stopping first at a rose tree, 
then swinging on the top of a lily, then perch- 
ing on the branch of a campanula that bent 
under him — still coming nearer and nearer, 
and listening, and turning up his pretty head 
as Sophy continued to cry, " IJobby ! Bobby !" 
and sometimes bowing his body, and jerking 
his tail in token of pleased acknowledgement, 
until at last he alighted on the ground, and 
began picking up the bread crums with 
which it was strewed. Whilst presently two 
or three young robins with their speckled 
breasts (for the red feathers do not appear 
until they are three or four months old) came 
fluttering about the verandah, flying in and 
out quite close to the children, hopping round 
them, and feeding at their very feet ; not shy 
at all, not even cautious like the old birds, 
who had seen more of the world, and looked 
at the strangers with their bright piercing eyes 
rather mistrustfully, as if they knew, that there 
were such things as little boys who take birds' 
nests, and little girls who keep birds in cages. 
" Bobby ! pretty Bobby !" continued Sophy, 
quite enchanted at the good conduct of her 
pets, and calling upon her cousins for their 
tribute of admiration. Fanny willingly ex- 
pressed her delight; and Edward looking 
somewhat foolish, wondered how they be- 
came so tame. 

" We used to throw down the crums from 
breakfast and dinner in this place all the win- 
ter," said Julia; "the poor birds are so glad 
of them in the hard weather ! And one par- 
ticular robin used to come for them every day, 
and grew quite familiar; he would even wait 
here for us, and fly to meet us as soon as that 
quick eye of his spied a white frock turning 
the corner. So then we began to talk to him, 
and to feed him regularly." 

" I always saved a great bit of my bread for 
Bobby," interrupted Sophy. 

"And he grew as tame as yon see; and 
when he had young ones, he brought them 
here with him," resumed her sister. 

" You should have seen them the first day," 
said Sophy ; " that was the prettiest sight. 
The little things did not know how to help 
themselves, so there they stood about, some 
on the geraniums and some on the rose trees, 
chirping, and opening their bills for the old 
ones to feed them ; and the poor old birds flew 
about from one to the other with bread crums, 
not taking a morsel themselves. You cannot 
think how much the young ones ate ! There 
was one great greedy fellow who perched on 
my rake, who made his poor papa bring him 
seven mouthfuls before he was satisfied. And i 
now they are saucy ! see how saucy they are !" j 



254 



OUR VILLAGE. 



continued the little girl as one of the boldest 
came close to her, and caught a crum wliich 
she was flinging to him before it reached the 
ground, " see how saucy ! O pretty, pretty 
Bobbies ! I do love them so." 

" We all like the poor confiding creatures 
who pay us the compliment of trusting so 
entirely in our kindness and good faith, I be- 
lieve," said Arthur, half laughing at her 
eagerness; "and after all, Edward," added 
he, as the two boys, bat in hand, marched off 
to cricket, " after all, you must confess that 
our method of taming robins is better than 
yours, and that one bird who comes to you at 
liberty, of his own free will, is worth a dozen 
kidnapped in the nest, luckless wretches, and 
mewed u]) in a cage." 

Edward confessed that his cousin was right, 
and never took a bird's nest aorain. 



EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. 

THE GENERAL AND HIS LADY. 

All persons of a certain standing in life, 
remember — for certainly nothing was ever 
more unforgetable — the great scarlet fever of 
England, when volunteering was the order of 
the day ; when you could scarcely meet with 
a man who was not, under some denomination 
or other, a soldier; when a civil topic could 
hardly find a listener ; when little boys played 
at reviewing, and young ladies learned the 
sword exercise. It was a fine ebullition of 
national feeling — of loyalty and of public 
spirit, and cannot be looked back to without 
respect; but, at the moment, the strange con- 
trasts — the perpetual discrepancies — and the 
comical self-importance which it produced and 
exhibited, were infinitely diverting. I was a 
very little gi^l at the time ; but even now I 
cannot recollect without laughing, the appear- 
ance of a cornet of yeomanry cavalry, who 
might have played Falstaff without stuffing, 
and was obliged to complete his military de- 
corations by wearing (and how he contrived 
to keep up the slippery girdle, one can hardly 
imagine) three silken sashes sewed into one! 
To this day, too, I remember the chuckling 
delight with which a worthy linen-draper of 
my acquaintance heard himself addressed as 
Captain, whilst measuring a yard of ribbon ; 
pretending to make light of the appellation, 
but evidently as proud of his title as a newly 
dubbed knight, or a peer of the last edition ; 
and I never shall forget the astonishment with 
which I beheld a field-officer, in his double 
epaulettes, advance obsequiously to the car- 
riage-door, to receive an order for five shillings 
worth of stationery ! The nrevailing spirit 
fell in exactly with the national character, — 
loyal,patriotic, sturdy, and independent; very 



proud, and a little vain; fond of excitement, 
and not indifferent to personal distinction ; 
the whole population borne along by one 
laudable and powerful impulse, and yet each 
man preserving, in the midst of that great 
leveller, military discipline, his individual 
peculiarities and blameless self-importance. 
It was a most amusing era ! 

In large country towns, especially where 
they mustered two or three different corps, 
and the powerful stimulant of emulation was 
superadded to the original martial fury, the 
goings on of these Captain Pattypans furnish- 
ed a standing comedy, particularly when aided 
by the solemn etiquette and strong njilitary 
spirit of their wives, who took precedence 
according to the rank of their husbands, from 
the colonel's lady down to the corporal's, and 
were as complete martialists, as proud of the 
services of their respective regiments, and as 
much impressed with the importance of field- 
days and reviews, as if they had actually 
mounted the cockade and handled the firelock 
in their own proper persons. Foote's inimi- 
table farce was more than realized ; and the 
ridicules of that period have only escaped 
being perpetuated in a new " Mayor of Gar- 
rat," by the circumstance of the whole world, 
dramatists and all, being involved in them. 
" The lunacy was so ordinary, that the whip- 
pers were in arms too." 

That day is past. Even the yeomanry 
cavalry, that last lingering remnant of the 
volunteer system, whom I have been accus- 
tomed to see annually parade through the 
town of B., with my pleasant friend Captain 
M. at their head, — that respectable body of 
which the band always appeared to me so 
much more numerous than the corps, — even 
that respectable body is dissolved ; whilst 
the latest rag of the infantry service — the 
long-preserved uniform and cocked-hat of my 
old acquaintance. Dr. R., whilome physician 
to the B. Association, figured last summer as 
a scarecrow, stuffed with straw, and perched 
on a gate, an old gun tucked under its arm, 
to frighten the sparrows from his cherry-or- 
chard ! Except the real soldiers, and every 
now and then some dozen of fox-hunters at a 
hunt-ball, (whose usual dress-uniform, by the 
way, scarlet over black, makes them look just 
like a flight of ladybirds,) excepting these gal- 
lant sportsmen, and the real bona fide officers, 
one cannot now see a red coat fof love or 
money. The glory of the volunteers is de- 
parted ! 

In the mean time I owe to them one of the 
pleasantest recollections of my early life. 

It was towards the beginning of the last 
war, when the novelty and freshness of the 
volunteer spirit had somewhat subsided, and 
the government was beginning to organize a 
more regular defensive force, under the name 
of local militia, that our old friend Colonel 
Sanford was appointed, with the rank of 



EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. 



255 



brigadier ofeneral, to the command of the dis- 
trict in which we resided. Ever since I could 
recollect, I had known Colonel Sanford — in- 
deed a little brother of mine, who died at the 
atje of six months, had had the honour to be 
his godson ; and from my earliest remem- 
brance, the o-ood Colonel — fie upon me to for- 
get his brioradiership I — the good General had 
been set down by myself, as well as by the 
rest of the world, for a confirmed old bachelor. 
His visits to our house had, indeed, been only 
occasional, since he had been almost constant- 
ly on active service, in difterent quarters of 
tiie globe ; so that we had merely caught a 
sight of him as he passed from the East In- 
dies to the West, or in his still more rapid 
transit, from Gibraltar to Canada. For full a 
dozen years, however, (and further the recol- 
lection of a young lady of sixteen could hardly 
be expected to extend,) he had seemed to be 
a gentleman very considerably on the wrong 
side of fifty, — "or by'r Lady inclining to 
threescore," — and that will constitute an old 
bachelor, in the eyes of any young lady in 
Christendom. 

His appearance was not calculated to dimi- 
nish that impression. In his person, General 
Sanford was tall, thin, and erect; as stiflT and 
perpendicular as a ramrod ! with a bald head, 
most exactly powdered ; a military queue ; a 
grave formal countenance; and a complexion, 
partly tanned and partly frozen, by frequent 
exposure to the vicissitudes of different cli- 
mates, into one universal and uniform tint of 
reddish brown, or brownish red. 

His disposition was in good keeping with 
this solemn exterior, — grave and saturnine. 
He entered little into ladies' conversation, 
with whom, indeed, he seldom came much in 
contact; and for whose intellect he was apt 
to profess a slight shade of contempt, — an 
unhappy trick, to which your solemn wiseacre 
is sometimes addicted. All men, I fear, en- 
tertain the opinion ; but the clever ones dis- 
creetly keep it to themselves. With other 
gentlemen he did hold grave converse, on 
politics, the weather, the state of the roads, 
the news of the day, and other gentlemanly 
topics; and when much at ease in his com- 
pany, he would favour them with a few pros- 
ing stories, civil and military One in par- 
ticular was of formidable length. I have seen 
a friend of his wince as he began, " When I 
was in Antigua." — For the rest, the good 
General was an admirable person ; a gentle- 
man, by birth, education, and character; a 
man of the highest honour, the firmest princi- 
ples, and the purest benevolence. He was an 
excellent officer, also, of the old school ; one 
who had seen much service; was a rigid dis- 
ciplinarian, and somewhat of a martinet; — 
Just the man to bring the new levies into or- 
der, although not unlikely to look with con- 
siderable scorn on the holiday soldiers, who 



had never seen any thing more nearly resem- 
bling a battle, than a sham fight at a review. 

He paid us a visit, of course, when he came 
to be installed into his new office, and to take 
a house at B. his destined head-quarters ; and 
after the first hearty congratulations on his 
promotion, his old friend, a joker by profes- 
sion, began rallying him, as usual, on the ne- 
cessity of taking a wife; on which, instead of 
returning his customary grave negative, the 
General stammered, looked foolish, and, in- 
credible as it may seem that a blush could be 
seen through such a complexion, actually 
blushed; and when left alone with his host, 
after dinner, in lieu of the much dreaded 
words " When I was in Antigua !" seriously 
requested his advice on the subject of matri- 
mony : which that sage counsellor, certain 
that a marriage was settled, and not quite sure 
that it had not already taken place, immediate- 
ly gave, in the most satisfactory manner; and 
before the conversation was finished, was in- 
vited to attend the wedding on the succeeding 
Thursday. 

The next time that we saw the General, he 
was accompanied by a lovely little girl, whom 
he introduced as his wife, but who might 
readily have passed for his grand-daughter. I 
wanted a month of sixteen ; and I was then, 
and am now, perfectly convinced, that Mrs. 
Sanford was my junior. The fair bride had 
been a ward of the bridegroom's — the orphan, 
and I believe, destitute daughter of a brother 
officer. He had placed her, many years back, 
at a respectable country boarding-school, 
where she remained, until his new appoint- 
ment, and, as he was pleased to say, his 
friends' suggestions induced him to resolve 
upon matrimony, and look about for a wife, 
as a necessary appendage to his official situa- 
tion. 

It is probable that his wife's exceeding 
beauty might have had something to do with 
his resolution as well as with his choice. I 
have never seen a lovelier creature. Her 
figure was small, round, and girlish ; full of 
grace and symmetry. Her face had a child- 
like purity and brilliancy of colouring ; an 
alternation of blush and smile, a sweetness 
and innocence of expression, such as might 
beseem a Hebe — only still more youthful than 
the goddess of youth. Her manners were 
exactly those of a child come home for the 
holidays, — shy and bashful, and shrinking 
from strangers ; playful and affectionate with 
those whom she loved, especially her husband, 
who doated on her, and of whom she was very 
fond, — and showing, in the midst of her timid- 
ity and childishness, considerable acuteness 
and power of observation. 

At first she seemed, as well she might be, 
quite bewildered by the number of persons 
who came to visit her. For, living in a large 
town, and holding in right of her husband's 



256 



OUR VILLAGE, 



office, a station of no small importance in the 
country, every person, of the slightest gentil- 
ity in the town and neighbourhood, the whole 
visiting population of these, in general, very 
distinct and separate societies, thought proper 
to wait upon Mrs. Sanford. Mrs. Sanford 
was the fashion of B., and of B. shire. "Not 
to know her, argued yourself unknown." All 
the town and all the county called, and all the 
town invited her to tea, and all the county 
requested her company to dinner; and she, 
puzzled, perplexed, and amazed, hardly know- 
ing by sight one individual of her innumerable 
acquaintance; unable to distinguish between 
one person and another ; often forgetting titles ; 
never remembering names ; and ignorant as 
an infant of artificial distinctions, made twenty 
blunders in an hour; and kept the poor Gene- 
ral, as punctilious an observer of the duties 
of society as of the duties of the service, in a 
perpetual state of fidget and alarm. Her mis- 
takes were past all count, — she mislaid invita- 
tions ; forgot engagements ; mismatched her 
company ; gave the mayor of B. the precedence 
of the county member ; and hath been heard 
to ask an old bachelor after his wife, and an 
old maid after her children. There was no 
end to Mrs. Sanford's blunders. The old 
Brigade-Major, a veteran of the General's 
own standing, lame of a leg, and with a pro- 
digious scar across his forehead, was kept on 
the constant stump with explanatory messages 
and conciliatory embassies, — and declared, 
that he underwent much harder duty in that 
service, than ever he had performed in his 
official capacity of drilling ihe awkward squad. 
The General, not content with dispatching his 
aide-de-camp, exhausted himself in elaborate 
apologies ; but embassies, apologies and ex- 
planations were all unnecessary. Nobody 
could be angry with Mrs. Sanford. There 
was no resisting the charm of her blushing 
youthfulness ; her pleading voice; her ready 
confession of error, and her evident sorrow 
for all her little sins, whether of ignorance or 
heedlessness ; no withstanding her sweetness 
and simplicity. Even offended self-love, the 
hardest to appease of all the passions, yielded 
to the artlessness of Mrs. Sanford. 

She, on her part, liked nothing so well as 
to steal away from her troublesome popularity, 
her visiters, and her fine clothes, to the ease 
and freedom of the country ; to put on a 
white frock and straw-bonnet, and run about 
the woods and fields with some young female 
friend, primrosing or bird's-nesting, according 
to the season. 1 was her usual companion in 
these rambles, and enjoyed them, perhaps, as 
much as she did : but in a far quieter way. 
Her animal spirits seemed inexhaustible ; I 
never knew her weary; and strong, agile, 
and entirely devoid of bodily fear, the thought 
of danger never seemed to come across her. 
How she enjoyed spending a long day at our 
house ! now bounding over a ditch, to gather 



a tuft of wild flowers ; now climbing a pol- 
lard, to look for a bird's nest ; now driving 
through the lanes in a donkey-chaise ; now 
galloping across the common on a pony ; now 
feeding the chickens ; now weeding the gravel 
walks; now making hay; and now reaping. 
These were her delights ! All her pleasures 
were equally childish: she cherished abun- 
dance of pets, such as school-girls love; kept 
silk-worms, dormice, and canary birds ; a 
parrot, a squirrel, and a monkey ; three lap- 
dogs, and a Persian cat; enjoyed a fair, and 
was enchanted with a pantomime; always 
supposing that her party did not consist of 
fine people or of strangers, but was composed 
of those to whom she was accustomed, and 
who were as well disposed to merriment and 
good-humour as herself. 

With regard to accomplishments, she knew 
what was commonly taught in a country 
school above twenty years ago, and nothing 
more : played a little, sang a little, talked a 
little indifferent French ; painted shells and 
roses, not particularly like nature, on card- 
racks and hand-screens; danced admirably; 
and was the best player at battledoor and 
shuttlecock, hunt-the-slipper and blind-man's- 
buff, in the county. Nothing could exceed 
the glee with which, in any family where she 
was intimate, she would join the children in 
a game of romps, herself the gayest and hap- 
piest child of the party. 

For cards she had no genius. Even the 
noise and nonsense of a round-table could not 
reconcile her to those bits of painted paste- 
board ; this was unlucky : it is true that the 
General, who played a good rubber, and look- 
ed upon it, next to a review or a battle, as the 
most serious business of life, and who had, 
moreover, a settled opinion that no woman 
had intellect enough to master the game, 
would hardly have wished to have been her 
partner at the whist-table; but he also loved 
a snug party at piquet, just to keep him awake 
after dinner, and would have liked exceedingly 
that Mrs. Sanford should have known enough 
of the rules to become a decent antagronist. 
He was not unreasonable in his expectations, 
he did not desire that she should play well 
enough to win. He only wanted her to un- 
derstand sufficient of the game to lose in a 
creditable manner. But it would not do : she 
was unconquerably stupid ; never dealt the 
right number of cards ; never showed her 
point ; was ignorant even of the common 
terms of the art ; did not know a quart from 
a quint, or a pique from a repique ; could not 
tell when she was capotted. There was no 
comfort in beating her ; so the poor General 
was fain to accept his old Brigade-Major as a 
substitute, who gave him three points and 
beat him. 

In other respects, she was an excellent 
wife ; gentle, affectionate, and sweet-tempered. 
She accommodated herself admirably to all 



EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. 



257 



the General's ways; listened to his admoni- 
tions with deference, and to his stories with 
attention — the formidable one, beginning-, 
" when I was in Antigua," not excepted ; 
was kind to the old Brigade-lMajor ; and when 
he, a confirmed old bachelor, joined his patron 
in certain dissertations on the natural inferior- 
ity of the sex, heard them patiently, and if 
she smiled, took good care they should not 
find her out. 

To be sure, her carelessness did occasion- 
ally get her husband into a scrape. Once, 
for instance, he, being inspecting certain corps 
tvvent)^ miles off, she undertook to bring his 
dress clothes, for the purpose of attending a 
ball given in his honour, and forgot his new 
inexpressibles, thereby putting the poor Gen- 
eral to the trouble and expense of sending an 
express after the missing garment, and keep- 
ing him a close prisoner till midnight, in ex- 
pectation of the return of his messenger. 
Another time, he being in London, and the 
trusty Major also absent, she was commission- 
ed to inform him of the day fixed for a grand 
review ; sate down for the purpose ; wrote a 
long letter full of chit-chat — and he could not 
abide long letters ; never mentioned military 
affairs ; and being reminded of her omission, 
crammed the important intelligence into a 
crossed postscript under the seal, which the 
General, with his best spectacles, could not 
have deciphered in a month ! so that the un- 
lucky commander never made his appearance 
on the ground, and but for a forty years' re- 
putation for exactness and punctuality, which 
made any excuse look like truth, would have 
fallen into sad disgrace at head-quarters. 

In process of time, however, even these 
little errors ceased. She grew tall, and her 
mind developed itself v/ith her person ; still 
lively, ardent and mercurial in her tempera- 
ment, with an untiring spirit of life and mo- 
tion, and a passionate love of novelty and 
gaiety, her playfulness ripened into infplli- 
gence, her curiosity became rational, and her 
delight in the country deepened into an intense 
feeling of the beauties of nature. Thrown 
amidst a large and varying circle, she became, 
in every laudable sense of the phrase, a per- 
fect woman of the world. Before a change 
in the volunteer system, and a well-merited 
promotion took the General from B., she had 
learned to manage her town visits and her 
country visits, to arrange soirees and dinner 
parties, to give balls, and to plan picnics, 
and was the life and charm of the neighbour- 
hood. I would not even be sure that she 
had not learned piquet ; for lovely as she 
was, and many as there were to tell her 
that she was lovely, her husband was always 
her first object ; and her whole conduct seem- 
ed guided by the spirit of that beautiful line 
in the most beautiful of ballads : 

For auld Robin Gray 's been a gude man to me. 



Since his death — for she has been long a 
widow — Lady Sanford — have I not said that 
the good General became Sir Thomas before 
his decease! — has lived mostly on the conti- 
nent: indulging, but always with the highest 
reputation, her strong taste for what is gayest 
in artificial life and grandest in natural scene- 
ry. I have heard of her sometimes amongst 
the brilliant crowds of the Roman carnival, 
sometimes amidst the wildest recesses of the 
Pyrenees ; now looking down the crater of 
Vesuvius ; now waltzing at a court ball at Vi- 
enna. She has made a trip to Athens, and 
has talked of attempting the ascent of Mont 
Blanc ! At present she is in England ; for a 
friend of mine saw her the other day at the 
Cowes regatta, full of life and glee, almost as 
pretty as ever, and quite as delightful. Of 
course, being also a well-dowered and child- 
less widow, she has had lovers by the hun- 
dred, and offers by the score; but she always 
says that she has made up her mind not to 
marry again, and I have no doubt of her keep- 
ing her resolution. She loves her liberty too 
dearly to part with the blessing; and well as 
she got on with Sir Thomas, I think she has 
had enough of matrimony. Besides, she has 
now reached a sedate age, and there would be 
a want of discretion, which hitherto she never 
has wanted, in venturing 

" What was that you said, ma'am 1 The 
newspaper! Have I read the newspaper"? — 
People will always talk to me when I am 
writing! — Have I read to-day's paper] No; 
what do you wish me to look at? This co- 
lumn : Police reports — new publications — 
births'? — oh, the marriages! ' Yesterday, at 
Bow Church, Mr. Smith to Miss Brown.' 
Not that ] Oh ! the next ! — ' On Friday last, 
at Cheltenham, by the Venerable the Arch- 
deacon P , Dennis O'Brien, Esq., of the 

— th regiment.' — But what do I care for Den- 
nis O'Brien, Esq. 1 ' What's Hecuba to me, 
or I to Hecuba V I never heard of the gen- 
tleman before in my days. Oh ! it 's the lady ; 
'Dennis O'Brien, Esq. to Lady Sanford' — 
'Angels and ministers of grace defend us! 
here is a surprise ! — 'to Lady Sanford !' Ay, 
my eyes did not deceive me, it's no mistake; 
'relict of the late Major-General Sir Thomas 
Sanford, K. C. B.' And so much for a wi- 
dow's resolution! and a gay widow's too ! I 
would not have answered for one of the de- 
mure. A General's widow at the ripe age of 
forty (oh, age of indiscretion !) married to an 
ensign in a marching regiment ; young enough 
to be her son, I warrant me ; and as poor as a 
church mouse ! If her old husband could but 
know what was going forward, he would 
chuckle in his grave, at so notable a proof of 
the weakness of the sex — so irresistible a con- 
firmation of his theory. Lady Sanford mar- 
ried again ! Who, after this, shall put faith 
in woman 1 Lady Sanford married again ! 



22* 



2H 



258 



OUR VILLAGE 



GOING TO THE RACES. 

A MEMORABLE dfiy was the third of last 
June to Mary and Ilenrietta Coxe, the yonntr 
dancrhters of Simon Coxe the carpenter of 
Aberleijih, for it was the first day of Ascot 
Races, and the first time of their ^oing to that 
celebrated union of sport and fashion. There 
is no pleasure so s^reat in the eyes of our conn- 
try damsels as a jaunt to Ascot. In the first 
place, it is, when you g'et there, a o^enuine 
English amusement, open alike to rich and 
poor, elejjant as an opera, and merry as a fair; 
in the second, this village of Aherleicrh is situ- 
ate about fourteen miles from the course, just 
within distance, almost out of distance, so that 
there is commonly enoufrh of suspense and 
difficulty — the slight difficulty, the short sus- 
pense, which add such zest to ))leasure ; final- 
ly, at Ascot you are sure to see the King, to 
see him in his graciousness and his dignity, 
the finest gentleman in Europe, the greatest 
sovereign of the world. Truly it is nothing 
extraordinary that his liege subjects should 
flock to indulge their feelings of loyally by 
the sight of such a monarch, and that the an- 
nouncement of his presence should cover a 
barren heath with a dense and crowded popu- 
lation of all ranks and all ages, from the 
duchess to the gipsy, from the old man of 
eighty to the child in its mother's arms. 

All people love Ascot Races ; but our conn- 
try lasses love them above all. It is their fa- 
vourite wedding jaunt, for half our young cou- 
ples are married in the race week, and one or 
two matches have seemed to me got up pur- 
posely for the occasion ; and of all the atten- 
tions that can be offered by a lover, a drive to 
the Races is the most irresistible. In short, 
so congenial is that gay scene to love, that it 
is a moot point which are most numerous, the 
courtships that conclude there in the shape of 
bridal excursions, or those which begin on 
that favoured spot in the shape of parties of 
pleasure ; and the delicate experiment called 
"popping the question," is so often put in 
practice on the very course itself, that when 
Robert Hewitt, the young farmer at the Holt, 
asked Master Coxe's permission to escort his 
daughters, not only the good carpenter, but 
his neighbours the blacksmith and the shoe- 
maker, looked on this mark of rustic gallantry 
as the precursor of a declaration in form ; and 
all the village cried out on Iletta Coxe's ex- 
treme good luck, Hetta being supposed, and 
with some reason, to be the chief object of his 
attention. 

Robert Hewitt was a young farmer of the 
old school, honest, frugal, and industrious ; 
thrifty, thriving, and likely to thrive; one of 
a fine yeomanly spirit, not ashamed of his sta- 
tion, and fond of following the habits of his 
forefathers, sowing his own corn, driving his 
own team, and occasionally ploughing his own 



land. As proud, perhaps, of his blunt speech 
and homely ways as some of his brother farm- 
ers of their superior refinement and g-entility. 
Nothing could exceed the scorn with which 
Robert Hewitt, in his market-cart, drawn by 
his good horse Dobbin, would look down on 
one neighbour on his hunter, and another in 
his gig. To the full as proud as any of them 
was Robert, but in a different way, and per- 
haps a safer. He piqued himself, like a good 
Englishman, on wearing a smock frock, smok- 
ing his pipe, and hating foreigners, to our in- 
tercourse with whom he was wont to ascribe 
all the airs and graces, the new fashions, and 
the effeminacy, which annojrpd him in his 
own countrymen. He hated the French, he 
detested dandies, anr' he abhorred fine ladies, 
fine ways, and finery of any sort. Such was 
Robert Hewitt. 

Henrietta Coxe was a pretty girl of seven- 
teen, and had passed the greater part of her 
life with an aunt in the next town, who had 
been a lady's maid in her youth, and had re- 
tired thither on a small annuity. To this 
aunt, who had been dead about a twelve- 
month, she was indebted for a name, rather 
too fine for common wear — I believe she wrote 
herself Henrietta-Matilda; a large wardrobe, 
pretty much in the same predicament; and an 
abundant stock of superfine notions, some skill 
in mantua-making and millinery, and a legacy 
of a hundred pounds to be paid on her wed- 
ding-day. Her beauty was quite in the style 
of a wax doll : blue eyes, flaxen hair, delicate 
features, and a pink and white complexion, 
much resembling that sweet pea which is 
known by the name of the painted lady. Very 
pretty she was certainly, with all her airs and 
graces ; and very pretty, in spite of her airs 
and graces, did Robert Hewitt think her; and 
love, who delights in contrasts, and has an 
especial pleasure in oversetting wise resolu- 
tions, and bending the haughty self-will of the 
lords of the creation, was beginning to make 
strange havoc in the stout yeoman's heart. 
His o])erations, too, found a very unintentional 
coadjutrix in old Mrs. Hewitt, who, taking 
alarm at her son's frequent visits to the car- 
penter's shop, unwarily expressed a hope that 
if her son did intend to marry one of the 
Coxes, he would have nothing to do with the 
fine lady, but would choose Mary, the elder 
sister, a dark-haired, pleasant-looking young 
woman of two-and-twenty, who kept the house 
as clean as a palace, and was the boast of the 
village for industry and good-humour. Now 
this unlucky caution gave Robert, who loved 
his mother, but did not choose to be managed 
by her, an additional motive for his lurking 
preference, by piquincf his self-will ; add to 
which, the little damsel herself, in the absence 
of other admirers, took visible pleasure in his 
admiration; so that affairs seemed drawing to 
a crisis, and the party to Ascot appeared likely I 
to end like other jaunts to the same place, in 



GOING TO THE RACES. 



259 



a wedding-. It is true that the invitation, 
wliich had heen readily and gratefully accept- 
ed by her sister, had been received l)y Miss 
Hetta with some little demur. "Going to 
the Races was delightful ! but to ride in a cart 
behind Dobbin was odious. Could not Mr. 
Hewitt hire a phaeton, or borrow a gig 1 
However, as her sister seemed to wish it, she 
might perhaps go, if she could find no better 
conveyance." And with this concession the 
lover was contented ; the more especially as 
the destined finery was in active preparation. 
Flounces, furbelows, and frippery of all de- 
scriptions, enough to stock a milliner's shop, 
did Hetta produce for the adornment of her 
fair person ; and Robert looked on in silence, 
sometimes thinking how pretty she would 
look ; sometimes, how soon he would put an 
end to such nonsense when once they were 
married ; and sometimes, how odd a figure he 
and Dobbin should cut by the side of so much 
beauty and fashion. 

Neither Dobbin nor his master were fated 
to be so honoured. The evening before the 
Races, there happened to be a revel at Whitley 
Wood : thither Hetta repaired ; and there she 
had the ill fortune to be introduced to Monsieur 
Auguste, a young Frenchman, who had lately 
hired a room at B. where he vended eau de 
Colojrne and French toys and essences, and 
did himself the honour, as his bills expressed, 
to cut the hair and the corns of the nobility 
and gentry of the town and neighbourhood. 
Monsieur was a dark, sallow, foreign-looking 
personage, with tremendous whiskers, who 
looked at once fierce and foppish, was (juried 
and perfumed in a manner that did honour to 
his double profession, and wore gold rings in 
his ears and on his fingers, a huge bunch of 
seals at his side, and a gaudy brooch at his 
bosom. Small chance had Robert Hewitt 
against such a rival, especially when, smitten 
with her beauty or her hundred pounds, he 
devoted himself to Hetta's service, made fine 
speeches in most bewitching broken English, 
braved for her sake the barbarities of a country 
dance, and promised to initiate her into the 
mysteries of the waltz and the quadrille; and, 
finally, requested the honour to conduct her in 
a cabriolet, the next day, to Ascot Races. 
Small chance had our poor farmer against 
such a Monsieur. 

The morning arrived, gloomy, showery, 
and cold, and at the appointed hour up drove 
the punctual Robert, in a new market-cart, 
painted blue with red wheels, and his heavy 
but handsome horse Dobbin (who Avas indeed 
upon occasion the fore horse of the team), as 
sleek and shining as good feed and good dress- 
ing could make him. Up drove Robert with 
his little sister (a child of eleven years old, 
who was to form one of the party) sitting at 
his side; whilst equally punctual, at Master 
Coxe's door, stood the sisters ready dressed, 
Mary in a new dark gown, a handsome shawl, 



and a pretty straw bonnet, with a cloth cloak 
hanging on her arm ; Hetta in a flutter of 
gauze and ribbons, pink and green, and yellow 
and blue, looking like a parrot tulip, or a mil- 
liner's doll, or a picture of the fashions in the 
Lady's Magazine, or like any thing under the 
sun but an English country girl. Robert 
looked at her and then at Mary, who was 
vainly endeavouring to persuade her to put on, 
or at least to take, a cloak, and thought for 
once without indignation of his mother's ad- 
vice ; he got out, however, and was preparing 
to assist them into the cart, when suddenly, 
to the astonishment of every body but Helta, 
for she had said nothing at home of her en- 
counter at the revel, Monsieur Augusfe made 
his appearance in a hired gig of the most 
wretched description, drawn by an equally 
miserable jade, alighted at the house and 
claimed Mademoiselle's promise to do him 
the honour to accompany him in his cabriolet. 
The consternation was general. Mary remon- 
strated with her sister mildly but earnestly ; 
Master Coxe swore she should not go; but 
Hetta was resolute ; and farmer Hewitt, whose 
first impulse had been to drub the Frenchman, 
changed his purpose when he saw how will- 
ing she was to he carried off. " Let her go," 
said he, " Monsieur is welcome to her com- 
pany ; for my part, I think they are well 
matched. It would be a pity to part them." 
And lifting Mary rapidly into the cart, he 
drove off at a pace of which Dobbin, to judge 
from his weiaht, appeared incapable, and to 
which that illustrious steed was very little 
accustomed. 

In the mean while Hetta was endeavouring 
to introduce her new beau to her father, and 
to reconcile him to her chauffe of escort; and 
the standers-by, consisting of half the men 
and boys in the village, were criticising the 
Frenchman's equipage: "I could shake the 
old chaise to pieces with one jerk, it's so 
ramshackle," cried Ned Jones, Master Coxe's 
foreman. "The wheel will come to pieces 
long before they set to Ascot," added Sam 
the apprentice. "The old horse has a spavin 
in the off fore-leg, that 's what makes him so 
lame," said Will Ford the blacksmith. "And 
he has been down within the month. Look 
at his knees !" rejoined Jem the carter. " He's 
blind of an eye," exclaimed one urchin. "He 
shies," cried another. " The reins are rotten," 
observed Dick the collarmaker. " The French- 
man can't drive," remarked Jack the drover, 
coming up to join the crew ; " he 'd as nearly 
as possible run foul of my pigs." " He '11 
certainly overturn her, poor thing," cried one 
kind friend, as overcome by her importunities 
her father at length consented to her departure. 
" The chaise will break down," said another. 
" Break ! he '11 break her neck." added a third. 
" They'll be drenched to the skin in this show- 
er," exclaimed a fourth; — and amidst thesecon- 
soling predictions the happy couple departed. 



260 



OUR VILLAGE. 



Robprt and Mary, on their side, proceeded 
for some time in almost total silence ! Robert 
too angry for speech, and Mary feeling her- 
self, however innocent, involved in the con- 
sequences of her sister's delinquency ; so 
that little passed beyond Anne Hewitt's de- 
lightful remarks on the beauty of the country, 
and the hedge-rows, bright with the young 
leaves of the oak, and gay with the pearly 
thorn-blossom, and the delicate briar rose; 
and her occasional exclamations at the sudden 
apijearance of some tiny wren, or the peculiar 
interrupted flight of some water-wagtail, as 
he threw himself forward, then rested for a 
moment, self-poised in the air, then started on 
agaiq with an up-and-down motion, like a ball 
tossed from the hand, keeping by the side of 
the cart for half a mile or more, as is fre- 
quently the way with that sociable bird. 
Little passed beyond trifles such as these, 
until Robert turned suddenly round to his 
companion with the abrupt question : " Pray, 
Miss Mary, do you like Frenchmen V " I 
never was acquainted with any," replied Mary ; 
" but I think I should like Englishmen best. 
It seems natural to prefer one's own country- 
men." "Ay, to be sure," replied Robert, 
" to be sure it is ! You are a sensible girl, 
Mary Coxe ; and a good girl. It would be 
well for your sister if she had some of your 
sense." " Hetta is a good girl, I assure you, 
Farmer Hewitt ; a very good girl," rejoined 
Mary, warmly, "and does not want sense. 
But only consider how young she is, and her 
having no mother, and being a little spoilt by 
my poor aunt, and so pretty, and every body 
talking nonsense to her, no wonder that she 
should sometimes be a little wrong, as she 
was this morning. But I hope that we shall 
meet her on the course, and that all will go 
right again. Hetta is a good girl, and will 
make a good wife." " To a Frenchman," re- 
plied Robert, drily; and the conversation 
turned to other subjects, and was kept up 
with cheerfulness and good-humour till they 
reached Ascot. 

Anne and Mary enjoyed the races much. 
They saw the line of carriages, nine deep — 
more carriages than they thought ever were 
built ; and the people — more people than they 
thought the whole world could hold; had a 
confused view of the horses, and a distinct 
one of the riders' jackets ; and Anne, whose 
notions on the subject of racing had been 
rather puzzled, so far enlarged her knowledge 
and improved her mind as to comprehend that 
yellow, crimson, green, and blue, in short, all 
the colours of the rainbow, were trying which 
should come first to the winning-post; they 
saw punch, a puppet-show, several peep- 
shows, and the dancing-dogs; admired the 
matchless disjjlay of beauty and elegance 
when tiie weather allowed the ladies to walk 
up and down the course ; were amused at the 
bustle and hurry-scurry, v/hen a sudden shower 



drove them to the shelter of their carriages ; 
saw the Duke of Wellington ; had a merry 
nod from the lively boy. Prince George; and 
had the honour of sharing, with some thou- 
sands of his subjects, a most graceful bow 
and most gracious smile from his Majesty. 
In short, they had seen every thing and every 
body, except Hetta and her beau ; and no- 
thing had been wanting to Mary's gratification, 
but the assurance of her sister's safety; for 
Mary had that prime qualification for a sight- 
seer, the habit of thinking much of what she 
came to see and little of herself. She made 
light of all inconveniences, covered little 
Anne (a delicate child) with her own cloak 
during the showers, and contrived, in spite of 
Robert's gallant attention to his guest, that 
Anne should have the best place under the 
umbrella, and the most tempting portion of 
the provisions ; so that our farmer, by no 
means wanting in moral taste, was charmed 
with her cheerfulness, her good-humour, and 
the total absence of vanity and selfishness; 
and when, on her ascending the cart to return, 
he caught a glimpse of a pretty foot and 
ankle, and saw how much exercise and plea- 
sure had heightened her complexion and 
brightened her hazel eyes, he could not help 
thinking to himself, " My n)other was right. 
She 's ten times handsomer than her sister, 
and has twenty times more sense, — and, be- 
sides, she does not like Frenchmen." 

But where could Hetta be ] what had be- 
come of poor Hetta 1 This question, which 
had pressed so frequently on Mary's mind 
during the Races, became still more painful 
as they proceeded on their road home, which, 
leading through cross country lanes, far away 
from the general throng of the visiters, left 
more leisure for her affectionate fears. They 
had driven about two miles, and Robert was 
endeavouring to comfort her with hopes that 
their horse's lameness had forced them back 
again, and that her sister would be found safe 
at Aberleigh, when a sudden turn in the lane 
discovered a disabled gig, without a horse or 
driver, in the middle of the road, and a woman 
seated on a bank by the side of a ditch — a 
miserable object, tattered, dirty, shivering, 
drenched, and crying as if her heart would 
break. Was it, could it be Hetta 1 Yes, 
Hetta it was. All the misfortunes that had 
been severally predicted at their outset had 
befallen the unfortunate pair. Before they 
had travelled three miles, their wretched horse 
had fallen lame in his near fore-leg, and had 
cast the off hind-shoe, which, as the black- 
smith of the place was gone to the Races, and 
nobody seemed willing to put himself out of 
the way to oblige a Frenchman, had nearly 
stopped them at the beginning of their expe- 
dition. At last, however, they met with a 
man who undertook to shoe their steed, and 
whose want of skill added a prick to their 
other calamities ; then Monsieur Auguste 



THE CHINA JUG. 



261 



broke a shaft of the cabriolet by drivinor 
asfainst a post, the setting- and bandaofina- of 
which broken liiiib made another iona delay; 
then came a pelting shower, during which 
they were forced to stand under a tree ; when 
they lost tlieir way, and owing to the people 
of whom Monsieur inquired not understanding 
his English, and Monsieur not understanding 
theirs, went full five miles round about; then 
they arrived at the Chequers public house, 
wiiicii no effort could induce their horse to 
pass, so there they stopped perforce to bait 
and feed ; then, when they were getting on as 
well as could be expected of a horse with 
three lame legs and a French driver, a wagon 
came past them, carried away their wheel, 
threw Monsieur Auguste into the hedge, and 
lodijed Miss Henrietta in the dilch ; so now 
the beau was gone to the next village for as- 
sistance, and the belle was waiting- his return 
on the bank. Poor Hetta was evidently tired 
of her fine lover and the manifold misadven- 
tures wiiich his unlucky gallantry had brought 
upon her, and accepted very thankfully the 
ofter which Anne and Mary made, and Robert 
did not oppose, of taking her into the cart, and 
leaving a line written in pencil on a leaf of 
Mary's pocket-book, to inform Monsieur of 
her safety. Heartily glad was poor Hetta to 
find herself behind the good steed Dobbin, 
under cover of her sister's warm cloak, pitied 
and comforted, and in a fair way to get home. 
Heartily glad would she have been, too, to 
have found herself reinstated in the good 
graces of her old admirer. But of that she 
saw no sign. Indeed, the good yeoman took 
some pains to show that, although. he bore no 
malice, his courtship was over. He goes, 
however, oftener than ever to the carpenter's 
house; and the gossips of Aberleigh say that 
this jaunt to Ascot will have its proper and 
usual catastrophe, a merry wedding ; that 
Robert Hewitt will be the happy bridegroom, 
hut that Hetta Coxa will not be the bride. 



THE CHINA JUG. 

One of the prettiest rustic dwellings in our 
pretty neighbourhood, is the picturesque farm- 
house which stands on the edtre of VVokefield 
Common, so completely in a bottom, that the 
])assengers who traverse the high road see in- 
deed the smoke from the chimneys floating 
like a vapour over the woody hill which forms 
the back ground, but cannot even catch a 
glimpse of the roof, so high does the turfy 
common rise above it; whilst so steeply does 
the ground decline to the door, that it seems 
as if no animal less accustomed to tread the 
hill-side than a goat or a chamois could ven- 
I ture to descend the narrow footpath which 
winds round the declivity, and forms the near- 



est way to the village. The cart-track, thrid- 
ding the mazes of the hills, leads to the house 
by a far longer but very beautiful road ; the 
smooth fine turf of the Common varied by 
large tufts of furze and broom rising in an ab- 
rupt bank on one side, on the other a narrow 
well-timbered valley, bordered by hanging 
woods, and terminated by a large sheet of 
water, close beside which stands the farm, a 
low irregular cottage snugly thatched, and its 
different out-buildings, all on the smallest 
scale, but sriving the air of comfort and habi- 
tation to the spot that nottiinsf can so thorough- 
ly convey as an English barn-yard with its 
complement of cows, pigs, horses, chickens, 
and children. 

One part of the way thither is singularly 
beautiful. It is where a bright and sparkling 
spring has formed itself into a clear pond in a 
deep broken hollow by the road-side : the 
bank all around covered with rich grass, and 
descending in unequal terraces to the pool : 
whilst on every side around it, and at different 
heigrhts, stand ten or twelve noble elms, cast- 
ing their green shadows mixed with the light 
clouds and the blue summer sky on the calm 
and glassy water, and giving, (especially 
when the evening sun lights up the little 
grove, causing the rugged trunks to shine like 
gold, and the pendent leaves to glitter like the 
burnished wings of the rose beetle.) a sort of 
pillared and columnar dignity to the scene. 

Seldom too would that fountain, famous for 
the purity and sweetness of its waters, be 
without some figure suited to the landscape; 
child, woman, or country girl, leaning from 
the plank extendq^ over the spring, to fill her 
pitcher, or returning with it, supported by one 
arm on her head, recalling all classical and 
pastoral images, the beautiful sculptures of 
Greece, the poetry of Homer and of Sophocles, 
and even more than these, the habits of ori- 
ental life, and the Rachels and Rebeccas of 
Scripture. 

Seldom would that spring be without some 
such figure ascending the turfy steps into the 
lane, of w-hom one might inquire respecting 
the sequestered farm-house, whose rose-cover- 
ed porch was seen so prettily from a turn in 
the road ; and often it would be one of the 
farmer's children who would answer you ; for 
in spite of the vicinity of the great pond, all 
the water for domestic use Avas regularly 
brought from the Elmin Spring. 

Wokefield-Pond Farm was a territory of 
some thirty acres; one of the " little bargains," 
as they are called, which once abounded, but 
are now seldom found, in Berkshire; and at 
the time to which our story refers, that is to 
say, about twenty years ago, its inhabitants 
were amongst the poorest and most industrious 
people in the country. 

George Mearing was the only son of a rich 
yeoman in the parish, who held this " little 
bargain" in addition to the manor farm. 



262 



OUR VILLAGE. 



George was an honest, thonghtless, kind- 
hearted, trood-humonred lad, quite unlilve his 
father, who, shrewd, hard, and monpy-crettiiinr, 
often regretted his son's deficiency in the quali- 
ties hy which he had risen in the world, and 
reserved all his favour and affection for one 
who possessed them in full perfection, — his 
only dauohter, Martha. Martha was a dozen 
years older than her hrother, with a large bony 
figure, a visage far from prepossessing, a harsh 
voi(;e, and a constitutional scold, which, scru- 
pulous in her cleanliness, and vigilant in her 
economy, was in full activity all day long. 
She seemed to go about the house for no other 
purpose than that of finding fault, maundering 
now at one, and now at another, — her brother, 
the carters, the odd boy, the maid, — every one, 
in short, except her father, wiio, connecting 
the ideas of scolding and good housewifery, 
thought that he gained or at least saved money 
by tiie constant exercise of this accomplish- 
ment, and listened to her accordingly with 
great delight and admiration ; "her mother," 
thouglit he to himself, "was a clever manag- 
ing woman, and sorry enough was I to lose 
her; but gracious me, she was nothing to 
Martha! where she spoke one word, Martha 
speaks ten." 

The rest of the family heard this eternal 
din with far less complacency. They agreed, 
indeed, that she could not help scolding, that 
it was her way, and that they were all fools 
to take notice of it; but yet they would flee, 
one and all, before the outpouring of her wrath, 
like birds before a thunder .shower. 

The person on whom the siorm fell oftenest 
and loudest was of course her own immediate 
subject, the maid ; and of the many damsels 
who had undergone the discipline of Martha's 
tongue, none was ever more the object of her 
objurgation, or deserved it less, than Dinah 
Moore. But Dinah had many sins in her 
stern mistress's eye, which would hardly have 
been accounted such elsewhere. In the first 
place she was young and pretty, and to youth 
and beauty Martha had strong objections ; 
then she was somewhat addicted to rustic 
finery, especially in the article of j)ink top- 
knots, — and to rosy ribbons Martha had al- 
most as great an aversion as to rosy cheeks ; 
then again the young lass had a spirit, and 
when unjustly accused would vindicate her- 
self with more wit than prudence, and better- 
tempered persons than Martha cannot abide 
that qualification ; moreover the little damstd 
had an irresistible lightness of heart, and a 
gaiety of temper, which no rebuke could tame, 
no severity repress ; laughter was as natural 
to her, as chiding to her mistress; all her la- 
bours went merrily on : she would sing over 
the mashing tub, and smile through the wash- 
ing week, out-singing Martha's scolding, and 
out-smiling Martha's frowns. 

This in itself would have been sufficient 
cause of offence: but when Martha fancied, 



and fancied truly, that the pink top-knots, the 
smiles, and the songs were all aimed at the 
heart of her brother George, of whom, in her 
own rough way, she was both fond and proud, 
the pretty songstress became insupportable: 
and when George in despite of her repeated 
warnings, did actually one fine morning es- 
pouse Dinah Moore, causing her in her agita- 
tion to let fall an old-fashioned china wash- 
hand bason, the gift of a long-deceased god- 
mother, which, with the jug belonging to it, 
she valued more than any other of her earthly 
possessions ; no wonder that she made a vow 
never to speak to her brother whilst she lived, 
or that more in resentment than in covetous- 
ness (for Martha Mearing was rather a harsh 
and violent, than an avaricious woman) she 
encouraged her father in his angry resolution 
of banishing the culprit from his house, and 
disinheriting him from his property. 

Old Farmer Mearing was not, however, a 
wicked man, although in many respects a 
hard one. He did not turn his son out to 
starve : on the contrary, he settled him in the 
Pond Farm, with a decent though scanty 
plenishing, put twenty pounds in his pocket, 
and told him that he had nothing more to ex- 
pect from him, and that he must make his 
own way in the world as he had done forty 
years before. 

George's heart would have sunk under tliis 
renunciation, for he was of a kind but weak 
and indolent nature, and wholly accustomed 
to de|)end on his father, obey his orders, and 
rely on him for support; but lie was sustained 
by the bolder and firmer spirit of his wife, 
who, strong, active, lively and sanguine, find- 
ing herself for the first time in her life, her 
own mistress, in possession of a comfortable 
home, and married to the man of her heart, 
saw nothing but sunshine before them. Dinah 
had risen in the world, and George had fallen; 
and this circumstance, in addition to an origi- 
nal difference of temperament, may sufficiently 
account for their difference of feeling. 

During the first year or two, Dinah's prog- 
nostics seemed likely to be verified. George 
ploughed and sowed and reaped, and she 
made butter, reared poultr)s and fatted pigs: 
and their industry prospered, and the world 
went well with the young couple. But a bad 
harvest, the death of their best cow, the lame- 
ness of their most serviceable horse, and more 
than all, perbajis, the birth of four little girls 
in four successive years, crip|)led them sadly, 
and brought poverty and the iear of poverty to 
their hapjiy fire-side. 

Still, however, Dinah's s])irit continued un- 
diminished. Her children, although, to use 
her own phrase, " of the wrong sort," grew 
and flourished, as the children of poor people 
do grow and flourish, one hardly knows how; 
and by the time that the long-wished-for boy 
made his appearance in the world, the elder 
oirls had become almost as useful to their la- 



THE CHINA JUG. 



263 



ther as if they had been " of the right sort" 
themselves. Never were seen such hardy 
little elves! They drove the plough, tended 
the kine, folded the sheep, fed the pigs, worked 
in the garden, made the hay, hoed the turnips, 
reaped the corn, hacked the beans, and drove 

the market-cart to B on occasion, and 

sold the butter, egsfs, and poultry as well as 
their mother could have done. 

Strong, active, and serviceable as boys were 
the little lasses; and pretty with all, though 
as brown as so many gipsies, and as untrained 
as wild coats. They had their mother's bright 
and sparkling countenance, and her gay and 
sunny temper, a heritage more valuable than 
house or land, — a gift more precious than ever 
was bestowed on a favoured princess by bene- 
ficent fairy. But the mother's darling was 
one who bore no resemblance to her either in 
mind or person, her only son and youngest 
child Moses, so called after his grandfather, in 
a lurking hope, which was however disap- 
pointed, that the name might propitiate the 
offended and wealthy yeoman. 

Little IMoses was a fair, mild, quiet boy, 
who seemed at first sight far fitter to wear 
petticoats than any one of his madcap sisters; 
but there was an occasional expression in his 
deep grey eye that gave token of sense and 
spirit, and an unfailing steadiness and dili- 
gence about the child that promised to vindi- 
cate his mother's partiality. She was deter- 
mined that Moses should be, to use the coun- 
try phrase, "a good scholar;" the meaning of 
w-hieh is, by the way, not a little dissimilar 
from that which the same words bear at Ox- 
ford or at Cambridge. Poor Dinah was no 
" scholar" herself, as the parish register can 
testify, where her mark stands below George's 
signature in the record of her marriag-e; and 
the girls bade fair to emulate their mother's 
ignorance, Dinah having given to each of the 
four the half of a year's schooling, upon the 
principle of ride and tie, little Lucy going one 
day, and little Patty the next, and so on with 
the succeeding pair; in this way adroitly edu- 
cating two children for the price of one, their 
mother in her secret soul holding it for girls a 
waste of time. But when Moses came in 
question, the case was altered. He was des- 
tined to enjoy the benefit of an entire educa- 
tion, and to imbibe unshared all the learning 
that the parish pedagogue could bestow. An 
admission to the Wokefield free-school en- 
sured him this advantage, together with the 
right of wearing the long primitive blue cloth 
coat and leathern girdle, as well as the blue 
cap and yellow tassel by which the boys were 
distingruished ; and by the time he was eight 
years old, he had made such progress in the 
arts of writing and ciphering, that he was pro- 
nounced by the master to be the most promis- 
ing pupil ill the school. 

At this period, misfortunes, greater than 
they had hitherto known, began to crowd 



around his family. Old Farmer Mearing 
died, leaving all his property to Martha; and 
George, a broken-hearted toil-worn man, who 
had been only supported in his vain efforts to 
make head against ill-fortune by the hope of 
his father's at last relenting, followed him to 
the grave in less than two months. Debt and 
difficulty beset the widow, and even her health 
and spirits began to fail. Her only resource 
seemed to be to leave her pleasant home, give 
up every thing to the creditors, get her girls 
out to service, and try to maintain herself ard 
Moses by washing or charing, or whatever 
wc-k her failing strength would allow her to 
perform. 

Martha, or as she was now called, Mrs. 
Martha, lived on in lonely and apparently 
comfortless aflluence at the Manor Farm. She 
had. taken no notice of Dinah's humble sup- 
plications, sent injudiciously by Patty, a girl 
whose dark and sparkling beauty exactly re- 
sembled what her mother had been before her 
unfortunate marriage; but on Moses, so like 
his father, she had been seen to gaze wistfully 
and tenderly, when the little procession of 
charity boys passed her on their way to church : 
though on finding herself obseived, or perhaps 
on detecting herself in such an indulgence, the 
softened eye was immediately withdrawn, and 
the stern spirit seemed to gather itself into a 
resolution only the stronger for its momentary 
weak'ness. 

Mrs. Martha, now long past the middle of 
life, and a confirmed old maid, had imbi!)ed a 
few of the habits and peculiarities which are 
supposed, and perhai)S justly, to characterise 
that condition. Amongst other things she 
had a particular fancy for the water from the 
Elmin spring, and could not relish her tem- 
perate supper if washed down by any other 
beverage; and she was accustomed to fetch it 
herself in the identical china jug, the present 
of her godmother, the bason belonging to 
which she had broken from the shock slie un- 
derwent when hearing of George's wedding. 
It is even possible, so much are we the crea- 
tures of association, that the constant sight of 
this favourite piece of porcelain, which was 
really of very curious and beautiful Nankin 
china, might, by perpetually reminding her of 
her loss, and the occasion, serve to confirm 
her inveterate aversion to poor George and his 
family. 

However this might be, it chanced that one 
summer evening Mrs. Martha sallied forth to 
fetch the sparkling draught from the Elmin 
spring. She filled her jug as usual, but much 
rain had fallen, and the dame, no lonijer so 
active as she had been, slipped when about to 
re-ascend the bank with her burthen, and 
found lierself compelled either to throw her- 
self forward and grasp the trunk of the nearest 
tree, to the imminent peril of her china jug, of 
which she was compelled to let go, or to slide 
back to the already tottering and slippeiy 



261 



OUR VILLAGE 



plank, at the risk, almost the certainty, of 
plungingr head foremost into the water. If 
Mrs. Martha had been asked, on level ground 
and out of dantrer, whether she preferred to 
be soused in her own person, or to break her 
china jui?;, she would, most undoubtedly, the- 
oretically have chosen the ducking ; but theory 
and practice are diiTerent matters, and follow- 
ing the instinct of self-preservation, she let 
the dear mug go, and clung to the tree. 

As soon as she was perfectly safe she began 
to lament, in her usual vituperative strain, 
over her irreparable loss, scolding the totter- 
ing plank and the slippery bank, and finally, 
there being no one else to bear the blame, her 
own heedless haste, which had cost her the 
commodity she valued most in the world. 
Swinging herself round, however, still sup- 
ported by the tree, she had the satisfaction to 
perceive that the dear jug was not yet either 
sunken or broken. It rested most precariously 
on a tuft of bulrushes towards the centre of 
the pool, in instant danger of both these ca- 
lamities, and, indeed, appeared to her to be 
visibly sinking under its own weight. What 
could she do ] She could never reach it ; and 
whilst she went to summon assistance, the 
precious porcelain would vanish. What could 
she do"? 

Just as she was asking herself this ques- 
tion, she had the satisfaction to hear footsteps 
in tlie lane. She called ; and a small voice 
was heard singing, and the little man Moses 
with his satchel at his back, made his appear- 
ance, returning from school. He had not 
heard her, and she would iiot call him — not 
even to preserve her china treasure. Moses, 
however, saw the dilemma, and pausing only 
to pull off his coat, plunged into the water, to 
rescue the sinking cup. 

The summer had been wet, and the pool 
was unusually high, and Mrs. Martha, startled 
to perceive that he was almost immediately 
beyond his depth, called him earnestly and 
vehemently to return. The resolute boy, how- 
ever, accustomed from infancy to dabble like 
the young water-fowl amidst the sedges and 
islets of the great pond, was not to be fright- 
ened by the puny waters of the Elmin spring. 
He reached, though at some peril, the tuft of 
bulrushes — brought the jug triumphantly to 
land — washed it — filled it at the fountain- 
head, and finally offered it, with his own sweet 
and gracious smile, to Mrs. Martha. And she 
— oh ! what had she not suffered during the 
last few moments, whilst the poor orphan — 
her brother George's only hoy, was risking 
his life to preserve for her a paltry bit of 
earthenware ! What had she not felt during 
those few but long moments ! Her woman's 
heart melted within her; and instead of seiz- 
ing the precious porcelain, she caught the 
dripping boy in her arms — half-smolhered 
him with kisses, and vowiul that lier home 
should be his home, and her fortune his fortune. 



And she kept her word, — she provided am- 
ply and kindly for Dinah and her daughters; 
but Moses is her heir, and he lives at the 
Manor Farm, and is married to the prettiest 
woman in the county ; and Mrs. Martha has 
betaken herself to the Pond-side, w-ith a tem- 
per so much ameliorated, that the good farmer 
declares the greatest risk his children run is, 
of being spoilt by aunt Martha: — one in par- 
ticular, her godson, who has inherited the 
name and the favour of his father, and is her 
own especial little Moses. 



EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. 

TOM HOPKINS. 

They who knew the little town of Cranley 
some thirty years ago, must needs remember 
Tom Hopkins, the loudest, if not the greatest 
man in the place, and one of the most cele- 
brated sportsmen in that sporting neighbour- 
hood, which he had honoured with his resi- 
dence for a longer time than he — still in the 
prime of life, and as tenacious of his preten- 
sions to youth as a fading beauty — cared to 
hear tell of. Tom, whose family was none of 
the most illustrious, his ancestors having been 
from time immemorial grocers in the town, 
had had the good luck, before he was out of 
petticoats, to take the fancy of a rich relation, 
a grand-aunt, who, captivated as grand-aunts 
are wont to be, by a happy union of prettiness 
and mischief, rosy cheeks and naughty tricks, 
the usual merits of a spoilt child, installed the 
chubby-faced Pickle into the post of present 
pet, and future heir, — sent him to school at 
her own expense, and declared her intention 
to make a gentleman of him in proper time, — 
a prospect which, as her hopeful grand-nephew 
happily conceived the immunities and privi- 
leges of gentility to consist of idleness and 
field-sports, proved sufficiently delightful to 
reconcile him to the previous formality of 
learning " small Latin and less Greek," and 
bore him safely through the forms, with no 
less reputation than that of being the greatest 
dunce tiiat ever quitted the school. When 
that hai)py time arrived, however, there was 
some difference of opinion as to his destina- 
tion, Tom having set his heart on one mode 
of killing, whilst his grand-aunt had decided 
on another. " I will he a soldier," cried Tom, 
already enamoured of the art of gunnery. 
"You shall be an apothecary," replied aunt 
Deborah, equally devoted to the draught and 
the pill. Physic and arms fought a pitched 
battle, and long and obstinate was the con- 
test; there was even some danger that the 
dispute might have ended in disinheritance, to 
tlie probable benefit of the county hospital, 
when a discreet friend prudently suggested 



EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. 



265 



the possibility of uniting the two nnodes of 
puttiriEj people out of the world, and Tom con- 
sented to don the apron and sleeves and be- 
come i/n s;nri^im apolhicaire, under promise of 
flourishinor at some future period as an army 
surgeon — a promise which, though not kept 
to the letter, was at least so far realized as to 
make him a surgeon of militia, and obtain for 
him the enviable privilege of wearingr a red 
coat, and meddling with fire-arms. These de- 
lights, however ecstatic, soon lost their gloss 
and their novelty; Tom speedily discovered 
that hunting and shooting were his real voca- 
tion ; and aunt Deborah happening to die and 
to leave him a comfortable independence, he 
retired from the service, after one winter spent 
in country quarters, returned to his native 
town, built himself a house, set up an estab- 
lishment, consisting of a couple of hunters, a 
brace of pointers, a servant lad, and an old 
woman, and began to make war on the hares, 
foxes, pheasants, partridges, and other fersi 
natura', under the character of a sportsman, 
which he filled with eminent ability and suc- 
cess, being universally reckoned one of the 
boldest riders and best shots in the county. 

At the time of which I speak, he was of an 
age somewhat ecpiivocal ; public fame called 
him forty, whilst he himself stuck obstinately 
at thirty-two ; of a stout active figure, rather 
manly than gentlemanly, and a bold jovial 
visage, in excellent keeping with his person, 
distinguished by round bright stupid black 
eyes, an aquiline nose, a knowing smile, and 
a general comely vulgarity of aspect. His 
voice was hoarse and deep, his manner bluff 
and blunt, and his conversation loud and hois-- 
terous. With all these natural impediments 
to good company, the lowness of his origin 
recent in their memories, and the flagrant fact 
of his residence in a country town, staring 
them in the face, Mr. Tom Hopicins made his 
way into almost every family of consideration 
in the neighbourhood. Sportmanship, sheer 
sportmanship, the qualification that, more than 
any other, commands the respect of your great 
English landholder, surmounted every obsta- 
cle. There was not a man in the * * shire 
hunt who fenced so well, or we.it so fast over 
a country ; and every table in the county was 
open to so eminent a personage. 

With the ladies, he made his way by dif- 
ferent qualities ; in the first place he was a 
character, an oddity; and the audacity of his 
vulgarity was tolerated, where a man only 
half as boisterous would have been scouted ; 
then he was gallant in his way, aflfected, per- 
haps felt, a great devotion to the sex, and they 
were half amused, half pleased, with the 
rough flattery which seemed, and probably 
was, so sincere. Then they liked,- as all wo- 
men like, his sturdiness of character, his bold- 
ness, his stanciiness, and his zeal. He won 
Lady Frances's heart by canvassing for her 
husband in a contested election, during which 



he performed more riding, drinking, and roar- 
ing, told more lies and made more noise than 
any ten of the fee'd agents ; he achieved the 
Countess's good graces by restoring her fat 
asthmatic lap-dog to health, apj)etite, and ac- 
tivity. N. B. As Mr. Thomas Hopkins took 
Chloe home to Cranley to be nursed, it is 
likely that the Abernethy system may fairly 
claim the merit of that cure; — and he even 
made a favourable impression on a young 
Marchioness, by riding to London, above 
seventy miles, in order to match a shade of 
netting silk, thereby winning a considerable 
wager against time of the Marquis. Tn short, 
Tom Hopkins was so general a favourite with 
the female world, that, but for three or four 
flat refusals, consequent on as many very pre- 
sumptuous offers, he would certainly have 
fallen into the mistake of thinking he might 
marry w'hom he would. As it was, he kept 
his own counsel, only betraying his soreness 
by a transient avoidance of ladies' company, 
and a proneness to descant at the Hunt dinners 
on the comforts of a single state, and the mani- 
fold evils of matrimony. 

His house was an ugly brick dwelling of 
his own erection, situate in the principal street 
of Cranley, and adorned with a green door 
and a brass knocker, giving entrance into a 
stone passage, which, there being no other way 
to the stab e, served both for himself, and that 
very dear part of himself, his horses, whose 
dwelling was certainly far more commodious 
than their master's. His accommodations 
were simple enough. The dining-parlour, 
which might pass for his only sitting-room, — 
for the little dark den which he called his 
drawing-room was not entered three times a 
year, — the dining-parlour was a small square 
room, coloured pea-green with a gold mould- 
ing, adorned with a series of four prints on 
shooting, and four on hunting, together with 
two or three portraits of eminent racers, riders, 
hunters, and grooms. Guns and fishing-rods 
were suspended over the mantel-piece ; pow- 
der-horns, shot-belts, and game-bags, scattered 
about; a choice collection of flies for angling 
lay in one corner, whips and bridles in another, 
and a pile of books and papers. — Colonel 
Thornton's Tour, Daniel's Rural Sports, and 
a heap of Racing Calendars, occupied a third ; 
Ponto and Carlo lay basking on the hearth- 
rug, and a famous little cocking spaniel, Flora 
by name, a conscious favourite, was generally 
stretched in state on an arm-chair. 

Here, except when the owner was absent 
on a sporting expedition, which, between fish- 
ing, shooting, hunting, and racing, did, it 
must be confessed, happen pretty often ; here 
his friends were sure to find a hearty welcome, 
a good beef-steak (his old housekeeper was 
famous for cookery), and as much excellent 
port and super-excellent Madeira (Tom, like 
most of his school, eschewed claret and other 
thin potations) as their host could prevail on 



23 



21 



266 



OUR VILLAGE. 



them to swallow. Many a good fellow hath 
" heard the chimes at midnight" in this little 
room. Here Tom sate in his glory, telling 
interminable stories of his own exploits, and 
those of his dogs and horses; stories in every 
sense of the word, but yet as innocent as false- 
hoods well can be — in the first place, because 
they were always lies of vanity, not lies of 
malice, and could do harm to no creature upon 
earth; — in the second, because the orator 
being somewhat lengthy and prosy, his hear- 
ers were apt to be troubled with " the disease 
of not listening, the malady of not marking," 
and seldom knew what he was talking about. 
Moreover, having told fibs of this sort all his 
life, I don't think he could help it; I don't 
even believe that he knew when he did it, or 
that he could, to save his life, have separated 
the true from the false, in any one of his le- 
gends. He was incurable. It did not even 
hurt his conscience to be found out. 

Such was Tom Hopkins; and such, allow- 
ing for the difference of thirty years, Tom 
Hopkins is still. Some changes are however 
observable in that gallant sportsman, such 
changes as thirty years are wont to bring. He 
sits somewhat heavier in the saddle, and 
mounts somewhat seldomer, — has well-nigh 
given up fishing and shooting, — has exchanged 
fox-hunting for coursing, — sold his hunters 
and purchased a staid roadster, — keeps a brace 
of greyhounds, of whose pedigree he vaunts 
much, — belongs to two coursing meetings, 
and swears every year that his dog was cheated 
out of the cup. 

This is his winter amusement. In the 
summer he diverts himself like other idle, 
gentlemen ; cons over the Sporting Magazine, 
and the newspaper of the day ; lounges to the 
inn to see the ccraches change horses, and ob- 
serves to a second whether the Regulator or 
the Defiance keeps time best; or stands sen- 
tinel in the garden, firing, from time to time, 
to keep the sparrows from the cherry trees. 
On wet days he is often seized with a fancy 
for mending and altering, and walks about the 
house, with a hammer sticking out of his 
pocket, doing no good, or a carpenter at his 
heels doing harm ; sometimes dozes in his 
easy chair, and sometimes complains of a 
twinge of the gout. He has nearly given up 
country visiting, but is a great man at the 
Oranley Club, where he tells longer stories 
than ever of the chases, the hounds, and the 
hunters of his youth ; of the great contested 
election ; of matchless belles, now, alas ! no 
more, and lords who have not left their fellow; 
rails at the degeneracy of the times, the de- 
cline of beauty, the increase of dandyism, the 
adulteration of port wine, and the decrease of 
good fellowship; gets half tipsy, and finally 
staggers home, escorted by his maid Dorothy, 
a rosy-che(-ked damsel, of whose handiness 
and skill in cookery (his old house-keeper 
having long been dead,) he boasts almost as 



much as of the breed of his greyhounds, and 
whom the President of the Cranley Club has 
betted with his Vice, "that old Tom Hopkins," 
(so he irreverently calls him), " with all his 
talk of Duchesses and Countesses, will marry 
before the year is out ;" and truly, I think 
so too. 



LOUISA. 

I HAVE said, in talking of my fair friend, 
Little Miss Wren — the Bareness Blanken- 
hausen, I beg her pardon, how one forgets 
these new-married ladies' new titles ! — I have 
said that this was a year fruitful in white 
gloves, silver favours and bride-cake ; and 
since that event, weddings and tidings of 
weddings have poured in faster than ever. 
The last of these conjunctions is to me by far 
the most astonishing — so astonishing that al- 
though assisting at the ceremony 1 can hardly 
believe that it has taken place ; but am still 
experiencing the same sort of surprise, that 
one feels at the death of an invalid of ten 
years' standing, or the termination of a twenty 
years' chancery suit. 

It was on Monday last that I had the dou- 
ble pleasure of attending the nuptials of an 
old friend, and of giving in my resignation 
of the post of confidante, which I had filled 
with great credit and honour for twenty years 
and upwards. A married woman no longer 
needs the sympathy and consolation of a lis- 
tening and pitying love-friend. Her story, 
according to all the laws of romance, is fairly 
over. So is my occupation. I shall miss it 
at first, just as one living in a church-yard 
would miss an entire cessation of those bells, 
which yet, from habit, he scarcely heard. I 
shall miss poor Louisa's sighs and blushes, 
written or spoken, especially when the post 
comes in, and she will miss me, perhaps, the 
most of the two ; for I cannot help thinking 
that by the time the honey-moon is over, the 
necessity for a discreet confidante may be as 
pressing as ever. I cannot disguise from my- 
self, that a damsel who has been used to fall 
in love with a new object at the end of every 
two or three months lor the last twenty years, 
more or less, may, from mere habit, and with- 
out the slightest intentional infraction of the 
nuptial vow, fairly forget that she is married, 
and relapse into her old custom ; more espe- 
cially as her husband appears to be the only 
young man she has ever known with whom 
she has never even fancied herself in love. 

Louisa L. and myself were old schoolfel- 
lows. Her father is a West-Indian pl^jnter 
of some property, who, having lost many chil- 
dren in the j)esliferous climate of liarbadoes, 
did not choose to carry thither his only re- 
maining daughter, and left her at school dur- 



LOUISA. 



267 



ing a long residence on his estate, not as a 
parlour-boarder but as a common pupil. She 
was a fine-looking girl, with a tall showy 
figure, and a face amazingly like what one 
sees in those old family portraits, which bear 
so great a resemblance to each other, what- 
ever they might do to the originals. Like 
them, our heroine was distinguished by regu- 
lar features, a high narrow forehead, black 
sleepy eyes, long dark hair, a clear com- 
plexion, and a general languishing composure 
of aspect. 

Now this sounds like the description of a 
beautiful woman as well as of a beautiful pic- 
lure; and so it would be, only that, unluckily, 
whilst content that the portrait should keep 
one look and one expression, we are a})t to ex- 
pect the real woman to vary occasionally, and 
are so unreasonable as to be disappointed 
when we find her countenance, however hand- 
some (for the handsomer it is, the more we 
expect from it), fixed in the same mould of 
comely silliness from year's end to year's end. 
Li such a case, almost any change would be 
felt as a relief, and a little ugliness would tel! 
exceedingly. 

Her conversation was quite in keeping with 
her style of person ; much of the sort (making 
due allowance for the interval of a century) 
that one might expect from Sir Peter Lely's 
portrait of one's great-grandmother seated on 
a bank, attired in a robe of bhie satin, with a 
crook in her hand, a rose in her bosom, and 
two or three sheep at her feet. 

Simile apart, Louisa was a thoroughly 
well-meaning young woman, with little wit, 
and much good-nature, with a mind no more 
adapted to contain knowledge than a sieve to 
hold water; and a capacity of unlearning, a 
faculty of forgetting, most happily suited to 
the double and triple course of instruction 
which her father's protracted absence doomed 
her to undergo. vShe had been in the first 
class for five years to my certain knowledge ; 
there I found her and there I left her, going 
over the same ground with each successive 
set, and regularly overtaken and outstripped 
by every girl of common talent. The only 
thing in which she ever made any real pro- 
ficiency was music; by dint of incredible ap- 
plication she sang tolerably, played well on 
the piano, and better on the harp. But she 
had no genuine love even for that; and began 
to weary, as well she might, of her incessant 
practice, and her interminable education. The 
chief effect of this natural weariness was a 
strong desire to be married, the only probable 
mode of release that occurred to her ; for of 
her father's return she and every one had be- 
gun to despair. How to carry this wish into 
effect, jierplexed her not a little. If she had 
been blessed with a manoeuvring mamma, in- 
deed, the business might soon have been done. 
But poor Louisa was not so lucky. She had 
only an old bachelor uncle, and two maiden 



aunts, who, quite content to see to her com- 
forts in a kind, quiet way ; to have her at 
home in the holidays ; to keep her well 
dressed, and well supplied with fruit and 
pocket-money, continued to think of her as a 
mere school-girl, and never dreamed of the 
grand object by Which her whole soul was 
engrossed. So that the gentle damsel, left 
entirely to the resources of her own genius, 
could devise no better plan than to fix her 
own thoughts and attention, fall in love, as 
she called and perhaps thought it, with every 
man of suitable station who happened to fall 
in her way. The number of these successive, 
or alternate, or simultaneous preferences — for 
often she had two beaux, who were laid aside 
and taken up, in a sort of see-saw, as either 
happened to cross her path ; and sometimes 
she had literally two at once — was really 
astonishing. So was her impartiality. Rich 
or poor, old or young, from seventeen to se- 
venty, nothing came amiss. Equally amazing 
was the exceedingly small encouragement 
upon which her fancy could work ; to dance 
with her, to sit next her at dinner, to ask her 
to play, one visit, one compliment, a look, a 
word, or half a word, was enough to send 
her sighing through the house, singing tender 
airs, and reading novels and love-ditties. The 
celebrated ballad in which Cowley gives a 
list of his mistresses — the " Chronicle," as 
he calls it — was but a type of the bead-roll 
of names that miohthave been strung up from 
her fancies. The common duration of a fit 
was about a month or six weeks, sometimes 
more, sometimes less, as one love-wedge 
drove out another ; but generally the ' decline 
and fall' of these attachments (I believe that 
is the phrase), began at the month's end. 

It was astonishing how well these little 
dramas were gotten up: any body not in the 
secret would have thought her really a tender 
inamorata, she had so iriany [)retty sentiment- 
alities, would wear nothing but the favourite's 
favourite colour, or sigh out her so\il over his 
favourite song, or hoard liis notes or visiting 
tickets in her bosom. One of her vagaries 
cost me a bad cold. The reigning swain hap- 
pened to be a German count, who, talking 
somewhat fantastically of the stars, expressed 
a sort of superstitious devotion to the beauti- 
ful constellation Orion; he could not sleep, he 
said, till he had gazed on it. Now, our luck- 
less damsel took this for a sort of covert as- 
signation, a tender rendezvous of looks and 
thoughts, like the famous story of tlie two 
lovers in the Spectator; and the sky prospect 
from her apartment being rather limited, she 
used, to my unspeakable annoyance, to come 
star-gazing to mine. This acces, being en- 
couraged by more attention than usual on the 
part of the gentleman — or rather she being 
unused to foreign manners, and mistaking the 
courtesy to a fair lady for a particular devo- 
tion, — lasted three whole months. Of course 



268 



OUR VILLAGE. 



she fell into other mistakes besides the aene- 
ral one of fancyintj all men in love with her. 
One winter, for instance, she fancied that a 
sickly gentleman, who used to sun himself on 
the pavement on our side of the square, walked 
there to listen to her music; so she ohlisrinorly 
moved her harp close to an open window (in 
December ! N. B. she caught as bad a cold 
by these noon-day serenades, as ever her mid- 
night assignations with the belted Orion gave 
me,) and played and sang during the whole 
time of his promenade. A little while after 
we discovered that the poor gentleman was 
deaf. 

Nor were her own mistakes, though they 
were bad enough, the worst she had to en- 
counter. A propensity so ridiculous could not 
escape undetected amongst such a tribe of 
tricksy and mischievous spirits; nor could all 
the real regard attracted by the fair Louisa's 
many good qualities save her from the mal- 
practices of these little mockers. It was such 
fun to set her whirligig heart a-spinning, to 
give her a fresh object — sometimes a venera- 
ble grandfather, sometimes a school-boy bro- 
ther, sometimes a married cousin — any lover 
would answer her purpose, and the more ab- 
surd or impossible, the better for ours. 

I will, however, do myself tlie justice to 
sa}', that partly from compassion, and partly 
from vanity at being elected to the post of con- 
fidante, I was not by many degrees so guilty 
as many of my compeers. To be sure one 
Valentine, a piece of original poetry, with 
about as much sense and meaning as the fa- 
mous love-song by a person of quality, and a 
few flowery billets to match, pnrjiorting to 
come from the same quarter, — that Valentine! 
I must plead guilty to that Valentine — but 
that was a venial oflence, and besides she 
never found it out. So when I left the school, 
and even when six months after her father un- 
expectedly returned and took her to reside 
with him in a country town, 1 still continued 
the favoured depository of her secrets and her 
sighs. 

We lived in distant counties, and met so 
seldom, that our intercourse was almost en- 
tirely epistolary. Intercourse did I say? My 
share of the correspondence, or of the dialogue, 
was little better than what a confidante on the 
French stage sustains with the bc//e princefise, 
from whom she is obliged to hear a hundred 
times told tale. I was a mere woman of straw 
— a thing to direct to. She never cared for 
aiiswers. luckily for me; for at first whilst 
my j'oung civility and conscientious sense of 
the duties of a polite letter-writer instigated 
me to reply point by point to her epistles, 
such blunders used to ensue as are sometimes 
produced in a game of cross ])urposes — a per- 
petual jostling of hopes and fears; condolence 
out of season; congratulation mistimed ; praise 
misapplied; eternal confusion; never-ending 
mistakes. So, farther than half-a-dozen un- 



meaning affectionate words, I left oft" writing 
at all, perhaps with the lurking hope that she 
would follow my example. No such thing. 
The vent was necessary — I was the safety- 
valve to her heart, by which dangerous explo- 
sions were prevented. On she wrote — and oh 
such letters ! crossed and recrossed, and in 
such a hand ! so pretty and so unreadable ! 
Straight and far apart, with long tails meeting 
each other, and the shorter letters all alike, all 
m's and n's.* In vain did I remonstrate 
against this fashionable but barbarous calli- 
graphy, above all against the iniquitous chec- 
querwork; on she went from bad to worse, 
till at last, to my great comfort, her letters be- 
came altogether illegible, and my conscience 
was absolved from the necessity of even try- 
ing to read them. A frank made no differ- 
ence; -she went on with her double crossing, 
only there was double the quantit)^ Any 
thing like a regular perusal of these precious 
epistles was entirely out of the question ; and 
yet I used to get at the meaning of most of 
them in the process of folding and unfolding, 
just as one sometimes catches the substance 
of an unreadable book by the mere act of cut- 
ting open the leaves. I knew her so well, 
that I could trace by a catch-word the pro- 
gress of her history, and the particular object 
of her present regard — how she was herself 
in love with a lord, and how accusing a pre- 
sumptuous linen-draper of being enamoured of 
her; how she had a young baronet at her feet, 
and how she could talk of nothing but an itin- 
erant musician. Twice had she called on me 
to fulfil an old promise of attending her to the 
altar; and once (I was young and silly then 
myself,) once I had been so far taken in as 
actually to prepare a wedding-suit. Of course, 
when the final summons came, I was utterly 
incredulous. It was something like the fable 
of the shepherd's boy and the wolf; not a soul 
believed her, till the news arrived in a regular 
authentic document — a letter from her father 
— a worthy matter-of-fact man, whom poor 
Louisa's vagaries had actually kept in purga- 
tory, — to mine, who also held the fair damsel 
for mad. Mr. S. mentioned his intended son- 
in-law as belonging to the medical profession ; 
and on looking back to Louisa's letters, which 
under the new stimulus of curiosity, as to the 
a)i]iroaching deiwiicnicnt, we contrived to de- 
cipher, W'C discovered that for upwards of two 
months Louisa had been deeply smitten with 

a yotuig physician newly arrived at L , 

whom she called by the name of Henry, and 
of whose fine tall person, as well as his dark 
and manly beauty she gave a most flaming 
description. This, of course, was the gentle- 
man. I hastened to repair my fault and pre- 
pare my dresses ; wrote a letter of congratula- 

* Of nil the varieties of bad writing, this, which 
looks at first sight quite plain, whilst to dooipher it 
would puzzle an (Edipus, is the most provoking. 



CHILDREN OF THE VILLAGE, 



269 



lion, packpd my trunk, and set off. Imafrine 

my astonishment, on arriving^ at L , to find 

Louisa tetc-a-iele with a little fair lad of eigh- 
teen or twenty, the head and shoulders shorter 
than herself, soft, delicate and lady-like — the 
very imajje of one of Beaumont and Fletcher's 
girls, who dress themselves in boys' clothes 
for love — and to be introduced to him as Mr. 
Peter Siiarp, surgeon, the happy/w/w of Miss 
Louisa ! 1 was never in so much danger of 
laughing in rny life. 

I gathered, however, from her admissions, 
and her father's more rational account, that 
whilst our fair friend was, according to the 
vulgar phrase, " setting her cap" at the hand- 
some physician, the young surgeon, who had 
just finished his education by walking the 

hospitals, returned to L , was taken into 

partnership by his father, and advised by his 
friends to look about for a wife as a necessary 
appendage to bis profession — perhaps he might 
also be advised as to the lady, for Louisa has 
a pretty fortune for a country apothecary. 
However that might be, he began, as he as- 
sures me, to pay suit and service; whilst the 
fair object of his devotion, whose heart, or ra- 
ther whose fancy, was completely pre-occu- 
pied, and who thought of Mr. Peter, if she 
thought of him at all, as a mere boy, entirely 
overlooked himself and his attentions — they 
being perhaps the only attentions of a young 
man which she ever did overlook in the whole 
course of her life. She confesses that the 
first entire sentence she ever heard him utter 
was the offer — the actual offer of heart and 
hand. Most ladies in her situation would 
have been a little posed; but Louisa is not a 
woman to be taken unawares : she has thought 
too much on the subject ; has too well-founded 
a reliance on her own changeability : besides, 
she had set her heart on the "pomp, pride, 
and circumstance of glorious" bridal ; the wed- 
ding was the thing — the wedding-day — the 
man was of little importance; Peter might do 
as well as Henry — so she said yes, and all 
was settled. 

And a very splendid wedding it was ; really, 
for those who like such things, almost worth 
the troubles and anxieties of a twenty years' 
love. The whole cnrtege, horses, carriages, 
friends, and bridemaids, down to the very 
breakfast cake and gloves, were according to 
most approved usage of books or of life. It 
might have made a fine conclusion to a novel ; 
it did make a splendid paragraph in a news- 
paper. Every detail was correct, except one 
— nobody cried. That did vex her. That 
was an omission. She tried hard to repair it 
herself, and flourished her cambric handker- 
chief; but not a tear could she shed ; neither 
could we, the bridemaidens, nor the father, 
nor the nuptial father, nor the clergyman, nor 
the clerk — nobody cried. The bridegroom 
came nearest — he, the only one who ought 
not to cry; but luckily he became sensible 

"" 23* 



that it would be a breach of etiquette, and 
turned the involuntary emotion into a smile. 
All else went well. May the omen be auspi- 
cious, and tears, and the source of tears, keep 
far away from the kind and gentle Louisa ! 



CHILDREN OF THE VILLAGE. 

HARRY LEWINGTON. 

" Beg, Frisk, beg !" said little Harry Lew- 
ington, as he sate in state on an inverted bas- 
ket at his grandmother's door, discussing with 
great satisfaction, a huge porringer of bread 
and milk, whilst his sister Lucy, who had al- 
ready despatched her breakfast, sate on the 
ground opposite to him, now twisting the long 
wreaths of the convolvulus-major into garlands 
— now throwing them away. " Beg, Frisk, 
beg!" repeated Harry, holding a bit of bread 
just out of the dog's reach ; and the obedient 
Frisk squatted himself on his hind legs, and 
held up his fore paws, in patient supplication, 
until it pleased Master Harry to bestow upon 
him the tempting morsel. 

The little boy and the little dog were great 
friends, notwithstanding that Harry, in the 
wantonness of power, would sometimes tease 
and tantalise his poor pet more than a good 
boy should have done. Frisk loved him dear- 
ly, much better than he did Lucy, although 
Lucy gave him every day part of her break- 
fast, without making him beg, and would tie 
pretty ribbons round his neck, and pat and 
stroke his rough head for half an hour toge- 
ther. Harry was Frisk's prime favourite ; 
perhaps because the little dog, being himself 
of a merry disposition, liked the boy's lively 
play better than the girl's gentle caresses ; 
perhaps because he recollected that Harry 
was his earliest patron, and firmest friend, 
during a time of great trouble : quadrupeds of 
his species having a knack of remembering 
past kindness, which it would do the biped, 
called man, no harm to copy. 

Poor Frisk had come as a stray dog to Ab- 
erleigh. If he could have told his own story, 
it would probably have been a very pitiful 
one, of distresses and wanderings, of "hun- 
ger and foul weather," of kicks and cuffs, and 
all "the spurns that patient merit of the un- 
worthy takes." Certain it is that he made 
his appearance at Mrs. Lewington's door in a 
miserable plight, wet, dirty, and half-starved; 
that there he encountered Harry, who took an 
immediate fancy to him, and Mrs. Lewington, 
who drove him off with a broom ; that a vio- 
lent dispute ensued between the good dame 
and her grandson, Harry persisting in inviting 
him in, Mrs. Lewington in frightening him 
away ; that at first it ended in Frisk's being 
established as a sort of' out-door pensioner, 



270 



OUR VILLAGE. 



subsistinor on odds and ends, stray bones, and 
cold potatoes, surreptitiously obtained for him 
by bis yountr protector, and sleepintr in the 
identical basket, which, turned topsy-turvy, 
afterwards served Harry for a seat; until, at 
length, Mrs. Lewinnfton, who had withstood 
the incessant importunity of the patron, and 
the persevering- humility of his client, was 
prnpitiated by Frisk's own docroish exploit in 
barkinor away a set of pilferers, who were 
makino' an attack on her great pear-tree, and 
so friofbtcned the thieves, that they not only 
scampered off in all baste, but left behind them 
their implements of thievery, a ladder, two 
baskets, and a sack; the grood dame being- 
thus actually a gainer by the intended robbe- 
ry, and so well satisfied with Frisk's conduct, 
that she not only admitted him into her bouse, 
but considered him as one of her most vigilant 
and A'aluable inmates, worth all the watchmen 
that ever sprung a rattle. 

The new guard proved to be a four-footed 
person of singular accomplishments. He 
could fetch or carry, either by land or by 
water ; would pick up her thimble or cotton, 
if his old mistress happened to drop them ; 
carry Lucy's little pattens to school in case of 
a shower ; or take Harry's dinner to the same 
place with unimpeachable honesty. Moreover 
he was so strong on his hind legs, walked up- 
right so firmly and gracefully, cut so many 
capers, and had so good an ear for music, that 
the more sagacious amongst the neighbours 
suspected him of having been, at least, the 
principal performer in a company of dancing 
dogs, even if he were not the learned dog 
Munito himself. Frisk, and his exploits, were 
the wonder of Aberleigh, where he had now 
resided a twelve-month (for August was come 
round again) with honour and credit to him- 
self, and perfect satisfaction to all parties. 

" Beg, Frisk, beg!" said Harry, and gave 
him, after long waiting, the expected morsel ; 
and Frisk was contented, but Harry was not. 
The little boy, though a good-humoured fellow 
in the main, had fits of naughtiness which 
were apt to last all day, and this promised to 
be one of his worst. It was a holiday more- 
over, when he had nothing to do but to be 
naughty, and in the afternoon his cousins, 
Susan and William were to come and see him 
and Lucy, and the pears were to be gathered, 
and the children to have a treat; and Harry, 
in his impatience, thought the morning would 
never be over, and played such pranks byway 
of beguiling the time — buffeting Frisk for in- 
stance, burning his own fingers, cutting the 
curls off his sister's doll's flaxen wig, and 
finally breaking his grandmother's spectacles, 



mellow Windsor pears; William up the tree 
gathering and shaking, Lucy and Susan catch- 
ing them in their pinafores, and picking them 
up from the ground ; now ]>iling the rich fruit 
into the great baskets that the thieves had left 
behind ; and now, happy urchins, eating at 
discretion of the nicest and ripest; Frisk bark- 
inor gaily amongst them a-s if he were eating 
Windsor pears too. 

Poor Harry ! He could hear all their glee 
and merriment through the o])en window as 
he lay in bed, and the storm of passion havingr 
subsided into a gentle rain of self-pity, there 
he lay weeping and disconsolate, a grievous 
sob bursting forth every now and then as he 
heard the loud peal of childish laughter, and 
thought how he should have laughed, and 
how happy he should have been, and wondered 
whether his grandmother would so far relent 
as to let him get up to supper, and whether 
Lucy would be so good-natured as to bring 
him a pear. " It will be very ill-natured if 
she does not," thought Harry, and the poor 
boy's tears burst out anew. All on a sudden 
be heard a little foot on the stair, pit-a-pat, and 
thought she was coming. Pit-a-pat came the 
foot, nearer and nearer, and at last a small 
head peeped, half-afraid, through the half-open 
door. But it was not Lucy's head ; it was 
Frisk's — poor Frisk whom Harry had been 
teasing all the morning, and who now came 
into the room wagging his tail with a great 
pear in his mouth, jumped on the bed, and laid 
it in the little boy's hand. 



Note. — They who are accustomed to dogs 
whose sagacity has been improved by domes- 
tication and good society, will not be surprised 
at the foregoing anecdote. Cowper's story of 
the water-lily is quite a case in point ; and a 
greyhound of my acquaintance, whose favour- 
ite playground was a large orchard, used reg- 
ularly to bring the fallen apples to his mistress, 
was particularly anxious to get there after a 
windy night, and seemed to take singular 
])leasure in the amusement. This might be 
imitation ; but an exploit of my own lamented 
and beautiful Mayflower, can hardly be traced 
to such an origin. Poor May, in common 
with most pet dogs, generally cared little for 
the persons whose duty it was to feed and at- 
tend upon her; she seemed to know that it 
was their place, and received their services 
with calm and aristocratic civility, reserving 
all demonstrations of affection for her friends 
of the parlour. One of her attendants, how- 
lively, g-ood-humoured boY» called 



ever, a lively, g-ood-humourea boy, 
Tom, she honoured with a considerable share 
— that before his visiters arrived, indeed al- j of her attention, liked his company, and to 



most immediately after dinner, he contrived to 
get sent to bed in disgrace. 

Poor Harry ! There he lay sprawling, kick- 
ing, and roaring, whilst Susan and William, 
and Lucy, were happily busy about the fine 



the astonishment of the whole household, cer- 
tainly liked him, a partiality which Tom re- 
turned with interest, combing and caressing 
her whenever opportunity offered. Master 
Tom was a celebrated player at marbles, and 



THE ELECTION. 



271 



May was accustomed to stand at his side 
watching or seeming- to watch the game. One 
afternoon she jumped over the half-hatch into 
the stahle, evidently in search of her friend 
Tom. — No Tom was there ; raced round the 
garden — still in vain; peeped into the kitchen 
— Tom was as much to seek as ever ; the 
maids who saw that slie had something in her 
mouth, and were amused by her earnest search- 
ing air, tried to detain her or to decoy her into 
the parlour, but without the slightest success. 
On she went from chaise-house to wood-house, 
from wood-house to coal-house, from coal- 
house to cart-house, until she caught a well- 
known sound from the knife-board, and, open- 
ing a door in the way, darted on the astonished 
Tom (whose fright at the apparition cost one 
of our best carving forks, which he broke in 
his surprise) and deposited in his hand a mar- 
ble, which, as we afterwards found, she had 
picked up in the road, following up her present 
by a series of capers and gambols, the most 
joyous and triumphant that can be imagined. 



THE ELECTION. 

A FEW years back a gentleman of the name 
of Danby came to reside in a small decayed 
borough town, not situate in our parts, and 
whether in Wiltshire or Cornwall matters not 
to our story, although to one of those counties 
the aforesaid town probably belonged, being 
what is called a close borough, the joint pro- 
perty of two noble families. Mr. Danby was 
evidently a man of large fortune, and that for- 
tune as evidently acquired in trade, — indeed 
he made no more secret of the latter circum- 
stance than of the former. He built himself! 
a large, square, red house, equally ugly and 
commodious, just without the town; walled 
in a couple of acres of ground for a kitchen 
garden ; kept a heavy one-horse chaise, a stout 
pony, and a brace of greyhounds; and having 
furnished his house solidly and handsomely, 
and arranged his domestic affairs to his heart's 
content, began to look about amonost his 
neighbours ; scraped acquaintance with the 
lawyer, the apothecary, and the principal 
tradesman; subscribed to the reading room 
and the billiard room ; became a member of 
the bowling green and the cricket club, and 
took as lively an interest in the affairs of his 
new residence, as if he had been born and 
bred in the borough. 

Now this interest, however agreeable to 
himself, was by no means equally conducive 
to the quiet and comfort of the place. Mr. 
Danby was a little, square, dark man, with a 
cocked-up nose, a good-humoured, but very 
knowing smile, a pair of keen black eyes, a 
loud voluble speech, and a prodigious activity 
both of mind and body. His very look beto- 



kened his character, — and that character was 
one not uncommon among the middle ranks of 
Englishmen. In short, besides being, as he 
often boasted, a downright John Bull, the 
gentleman was a reformer, zealous and un- 
compromising as ever attended a dinner at the 
Crown and Anchor, or made an harangue in 
Palace-yard. He read Cobbett; had his own 
scheme for the redemption of tithes ; and a 
plan, which, not understanding, I am sorry I 
cannot undertake to explain, for clearing off 
the national debt without loss or injury to any 
body. 

Besides these great matters, which may ra- 
ther be termed the theorique than the prac- 
tique of reform, and which are at least per- 
fectly inoffensive, Mr. Danby condescended to 
smaller and more worrying observances; and 
was, indeed, so strict and jealous a guardian 
of the purity of the corporation, and the incor- 
ruptibility of the vestry, that an alderman 
could not wag a finger, or a churchwarden stir 
a foot, without being called to an account by 
this vigilant defender of the rights, liberties, 
and purses of the people. He was, beyond a 
doubt, the most troublesome man in the parish 
— and that is a wide word. In the matter of 
reports and inquiries Mr. Hume was but a 
type of him. He would mingle economy 
with a parish dinner, and talk of retrenchment 
at the mayor's feast; brought an action, under 
the turnpike act, against the clerk and trea- 
surer of the commissioners of the road ; com- 
menced a suit in chancery with the trustees 
of the charity school ; and finally, threatened 
to open the borough — that is to say, to support 
any candidate who should offer to oppose the 
nominees of the two great families, the one 
whig and the other tory, who now possessed 
the two seats in parliament as quietly as their 
own hereditary estates; — a threat which re- 
cent instances of successful opposition in other 
places rendered not a little formidable to the 
noble owners. 

What added considerably to the trouble- 
some nature of Mr. Danby's inquisitions was, 
the general cleverness, ability, and informa- 
tion of the individual. He was not a man of 
classical education, and knew little of books; 
but with things he was especially conversant. 
Although very certain that Mr. Danby had 
been in business, nobody could guess what 
that business had been. None came amiss to 
him. He handled the rule and the yard with 
equal dexterity; astonished the butcher by his 
insight into the mysteries of fattening and 
dealing; and the grocer by his familiarity 
with tiie sugar and coffee markets ; disentan- 
gled the perplexities of the confused mass of 
figures in the parish books with the dexterity 
of a sworn accomptant ; and was so great 
upon points of law, so ready and accurate in 
quoting reports, cases, and precedents, that he 
would certainly have passed for a retired at- 
torney, but for the zeal -and alertness with 



272 



OUR VILLAGE, 



which, at his own expense, he was apt to 
rush into lawsuits. 

With so remarkable a genius for turmoil, it 
is not to be doubted that Mr. Danby, in spite 
of many excellent and sterlinor qualities, suc- 
ceeded in drawinjT upon himself no small de- 
gree of odium. The whole corporation were 
officially his enemies; but his principal oppo- 
nent, or rather the ])erson whom he considered 
as his principal opponent, was Mr. Cardon- 
nel, the rector of the parish, who, besides 
several disputes pending between them (one 
especially respecting the proper situation of 
the church-organ, the placing of which har- 
monious instrument kept the whole town in 
discord for a twelvemonth,) was married to 
the Lady Elizabeth, sister of the Earl of B., 
one of the patrons of the borough ; and being, 
as well as his wife, of a very popular and 
amiable character, was justly regarded by Mr. 
Danby as one of the chief obstacles to his pro- 
jected reform. 

Whilst, however, our reformer was, from 
the most patriotic motives, doing his best or 
his worst to dislike Mr. Cardonnel, events of 
a very different nature were operating to bring 
them together. Mr. Danby's family consisted 
of his wife, — a quiet lady-like woman, with 
very ill health, who did little else than walk 
from her bed to her sofa, eat water-gruel and 
drink soda-water, — and of an only daughter, 
who was, in a word, the very apple of her fa- 
ther's eye. 

Rose Danby was indeed a daughter of whom 
any father might have been proud : — of middle 
height and exquisite symmttry, with a rich, 
dark, glowing complexion, a profusion of 
glossy, curling, raven hair, large affectionate 
black eyes, and a countenance at once so 
sweet and so spirited, that her ready smile 
played over her face like a sunbeam. Her 
temper and understanding were in exact keep- 
ing with such a countenance — playful, gentle, 
clever, and kind ; and her accomplishments 
and acquirements of the very highest order. 
When her father entered on his new residence 
she had just completed her fifteenth year; and 
he, unable longer to dispense with the plea- 
sure of her society, took her from the excel- 
lent school near London, at which she had 
hitherto been placed, and determined that her 
education should be finished by masters at 
home. 

It so happened, that this little town con- 
tained one celebrated artist, a professor of 
dancing, who kept a weekly academy for 
young ladies, which was attended by half the 
families of gentility in the county. M. Le 
Grand (for the dancing-master was a little 
lively Frenchman) was delighted with Rose. 
He declared that she was his best pupil, his 
very best, the best that ever he had in his life. 
" Mais voyez, done. Monsieur !" said he one 
day to her father, who would have scorned to 
know the French for "How d'ye do;" — 



" Voyez, comme elle met de I'aplomb, de la 
force, de la nettete, dans ses entrechats ! 
Qu'elle est leste, et legere, et petrie de graces, 
la petite!" And Mr. Danby comnrehending 
only that the artist was praising nis darling, 
swore that Monsieur was a good fellow, and 
returned the compliment, after the English 
fashion, by sending him a haunch of venison 
the next day. 

But M. Le Grand was not the only admirer 
whom Rose met with at the dancing-school. 

It chanced that Mr. Cardonnel also had an 
only daughter, a young person, about the same 
age, bringing up under the eye of her mother, 
and a constant attendant at the professor's 
academy. The two girls, nearly of a height 
and both good dancers, were placed together 
as partners ; and being almost equally prepos- 
sessing in person and manner, (for Mary Car- 
donnel was a sweet, delicate, fair creature, 
whose mild blue eyes seemed appealing to 
the kindness of every one they looked upon,) 
took an immediate and lasting fancy to each 
other; shook hands at meeting and parting, 
smiled whenever their glances chanced to en- 
counter; and soon began to exchange a few 
kind and hurried words in the pauses of the 
dance, and to hold more continuous chat at 
the conclusion. And Lady Elizabeth, almost 
as much charmed with Rose as her daughter, 
seeing in the lovely little girl every thing to 
like and nothing to disapprove, encouraged and 
joined in the acquaintance; attended with a 
motherly care to her cloaking and shawling; 
took her home in her own carriage when it 
rained ; and finally waylaid Mr. Danby, who 
always came himself to fetch his darling, and 
with her bland and gracious smile requested 
the pleasure of Miss Danby's company to a 
party of young people, which she was about 
to give on the occasion of her daughter's birth- 
day. I am afraid that our sturdy reformer 
was going to say. No! — But Rose's "Oh 
papa!" was irresistible; and to the party she 
went. 

After this, the young people became every 
day more intimate. Lady Elizabeth waited 
on Mrs. Danby, and Mrs. Danby returned the 
call ; but her state of health precluded visit- 
ing, and her husband, who piqued himself on 
firmness and consistency, contrived, though 
with some violence to his natural kindness of 
temper, to evade the friendly advances and 
invitations of the rector. 

The two girls, however, saw one another 
almost every da)^. It was a friendship like 
that of Rosalind and Celia, whom, by the 
way, they severally resembled in temper and 
character — Rose having much of the brilliant 
gaiety of the one fair cousin, and Mary the 
softer and gentler charm of the other. They 
rode, walked and sang together; were never 
happy asunder; played the same music; read 
the same books; dressed alike; worked for 
each other; and interchanged their own little 



THE ELECTION. 



273 



properly of trinkets and flowers, with a gene- 
rosity that seemed only emulous which should 
give most. 

At first, Mr. Danby was a little jealous of 
Rose's partiality to the rectory ; but she was 
so fond of him, so attentive to his pleasures, 
that he could not find in his heart to check 
hers : and when after a long and dangerous 
illness, with which the always delicate Mary 
was affected, Mr. Cardonnel went to him, and 
with tears streaming down his cheeks, told 
him he believed that under Providence he 
owed his daughter's life to Rose's unwearying 
care, the father's heart was fairly vanquished ; 
he wrung the good rector's hand, and never 
grumbled at her long visits again. Lady 
Elizabeth, also, had her share in producing 
this change of feeling, by presenting him in 
return for innumerable baskets of peaches and 
melons, and hot-house grapes (in the culture 
of which he was curious,) with a portrait of 
Rose, drawn by herself — a strong and beauti- 
ful likeness, with his own favourite greyhound 
at her feet; a picture which he would not 
have exchanged for " The Transfiguration." 

Perhaps too, consistent as he thought him- 
self, he was not without an unconscious re- 
spect for the birth and station which he atTected 
to despise ; and was, at least, as proud of the 
admiration which his daughter excited in those 
privileged circles, as of the sturdy indepen- 
dence which he exhibited by keeping aloof 
from them in his own person. Certain it is, 
that his spirit of reformation insensibly re- 
laxed, particularly towards the rector ; and 
that he not only ceded the contested point of 
the organ, but presented a splendid set of pul- 
pit hangings to the church itself. 

Time wore on ; Rose had refused half the 
offers of gentility in the town and neighbour- 
hood ; her heart appeared to be invulnerable. 
Her less afl[luent and less brilliant friend was 
generally understood (and as Rose, on hearing 
the report, did not contradict it, the rumour 
passed for certainty) to be engaged to a nephew 
of her mother's. Sir William Frampton, a 
young gentleman of splendid fortune, who had 
lately passed much time at his fine place in 
the neighbourhood. 

Time wore on ; and Rose was now nineteen, 
when an event occurred, which threatened a 
grievous interruption to her happiness. The 
Earl of B,'s member died ; his nephew Sir 
William Frampton, supported by his uncle's 
powerful interest, offered himself for the bo- 
rough ; an independent candidate started at the 
same time ; and Mr. Danby found himself 
compelled, by his vaunted consistency, to in- 
sist on his daughter's renouncing her visits to 
the rectory, at least until after the terminatioij 
of the election. Rose wept and, pleaded^ 
pleaded and wept in vain. Her father was 
obdurate; and she, after writing a most affec- 



2K 



tionate note to Mary Cardonnel, retired to het 
own room in very bad spirits, and perhaps, foi 
the first time in her life, in very bad humour. 

About half an hour afterwards. Sir William 
Frampton and Mr. Cardonnel called at the red 
house. 

" We are come, Mr. Danby," said the 
rector, "to solicit your interest" — • 

"Nay, nay, my good friend," returned the j 
reformer — "you know that my interest is pro- 
mised, and that I cannot with any consist- 
ency" — 

" To solicit your interest with Rose" — re- 
sumed his reverence. 

" With Rose !" interrupted Mr. Danby. 

" Ay — for the gift of her heart and hand, — 
that being, I believe, the suffrage which my 
good nephew here is most anxious to secure," 
rejoined Mr. Cardonnel. 

" With Rose !" again ejaculated Mr. Danby: 
" Why, I thought that your daughter" — 

"The gipsy has not told you, then!" re- 
plied the rector. " Why William and she 
have been playing the parts of Romeo and 
Juliet for these six months past." 

" My Rose !" again exclaimed Mr. Danby. 
" W^hy Rose ! Rose ! I say !" and the aston- 
ished father rushed out of the room, and re- 
turned the next minute, holding the blushing 
girl by the arm. 

" Rose, do you love this young man V 

" Oh, papal" said Rose. 

" Will you marry him ?" 

"Oh, papa!" 

" Do you wish me to tell him that you will 
not marry him ]" 

To this question Rose returned no answer ; 
she only blushed the deeper, and looked down 
with a half smile. 

"Take her, then," resumed Mr. Danby; 
" I see the girl loves you. I can't vote for 
you, though, for I 've promised, and you 
know, my good Sir, that an honest man's 
word" — 

" I don't want your vote, my dear Sir," in- 
terrupted Sir William Frampton ; " I don't 
ask for your vote, although the loss of it may 
cost me my seat, and my uncle his borough. 
This is the election that I care about ; the 
only election worth caring about — Is it not, 
my own sweet Rose? — the election of w'hich 
the object lasts for life, and the result is hap- 
piness. That's the election worth caring 
about — Is it not, mine own Rose 1" 

And Rose blushed an affirmative; and Mr. 
Danby shook his intended son-in-law's hand, 
until he almost wrung it off, repeating at every 
moment — "I can't vote for you, for a man 
must be consistent ; but you 're the best fellow 
in the world, and you shall have my Rose. 
And Rose will be a great lady," continued the 
delighted father; — "ray little Rose will be a 
great lady after all !" 



274 



OUR VILLAGE, 



A CASTLE IN THE AIR. 

" Can any one tell me of a house to be let 
hereabouts'?" asked I, this afternoon, coming 
into the room, with an open letter in my hand, 
and an unusual animation of feeling and of 
manner. " Our friends, the Camdens, want 
to live amongst us again, and have commis- 
sioned me to make inquiries for a residence." 
This announcement, as I expected, gave 
general delight; for Mr. Camden is the most 
excellent and most agreeable person under the 
sun, except his wife, who is even more amia- 
ble than her amiable husband : to regain such 
neighbours was felt to be an universal benefit, 
more especially to us who were so happy as 
to call them friends. My own interest in the 
house question was participated by all around 
me, and the usual enumeration of vacant man- 
sions, and the several objections to each (for 
where ever was a vacant mansion without its 
objection'?) began with zeal and rapidity. 
" Cranley Hall," said one. 
"Too large!" 
"Hinton Park?" 
" Too much land." 

" The White House at Hannonby — the Bel- 
videre, as the late people called it ■?" 

" What I Is that flourishing establishment 
done up 1 But Hannonby is too far off — ten 
miles at least." 

" Queen's-bridge Cottage'?" 
" Ay, that sweet place would have suited 
exactly, but it's let. The Browns took it 
only yesterday." 

"Sydenham Court'?" 

"That inight have done too, but it is not in 
the market. The Smiths intend to stay." 
" Lanton Abbey '?" 
"Too low; grievously damp." 
By this time, however, we had arrived at 
the end of our list; nobody could remember 
another place to be let, or likely to be let, and 
confessing ourselves too fastidious, we went 
again over our catalogue raisonne with expecta- 
tions much sobered, and objections much modi- 
fied, and were beginning to find out that Cran- 
ley Hall was not so very large, nor Lanton 
Abbey so exceedingly damp, when one of our 
party exclaimed suddenly, " We never thought 
of liatherden Hill! surely that is small 
enough and dry enough !" and it being im- 
mediately recollected that Hatherden was only 
a mile off, we lost sight of all faults in this 
great recommendation, and wrote immediately 
to the lawyer who had the charge of letting 
the place, whilst I myself and my most effi- 
cient assistant, sallied forth to survey it on the 
instant. 

It was a bright cool afternoon about the 
middle of August, and we proceeded in high 
spirits towards our destination, talking as we 
went, of the excellence and agreeableness of 
our delightful friends, and anticipating the 



high intellectual pleasure, the gratification to 
the taste and the affections, which our renewed 
intercourse with persons so accomplished and 
so amiable, could not fail to afford ; both 
agreeing that Hatherden was the very place 
we wanted, the very situation, the ver)' dis- 
tance, the very size. In agreeing with me, 
however, my companion could not help re- 
minding me rather maliciously, how very 
much, in our late worthy neighbours', the 
Norris's time, I had been used to hate and 
shun this paragon of places; how frequently 
I had declared Hatherden too distant for a 
walk, and too near for a drive ; how constantly 
I had complained of fatigue in mounting the 
hill, and of cold in crossing the common; and 
how, finally, my half-yearly visits of civility 
had dwindled first into annual, then into bien- 
nial calls, and would doubtless have extended 
themselves into triennial marks of remem- 
brance, if our neighbours had but remained 
long enough. "To be sure," added he, recol- 
lecting, probably, how he, with his stricter 
sense of politeness, used to stave off a call 
for a month together, taking shame to himself 
every evening for his neglect, retaining ' at 
once the conscience and the sin !' " To be 
sure, Norris was a sad bore ! We shall find 
the hill easier to climb when the Camdens 
live on the top of it." An observation to 
which I assented most heartily. 

On we went gaily; just pausing to admire 
Master Keep, the shoemaker's farming, who 
having a bit of garden-ground to spare, sowed 
it with wheat instead of planting it with pota- 
toes, and is now, aided by his lame apprentice, 
very literally carrying his crop. I fancy they 
mean to thresh their corn in the wood-house, 
at least there they are depositing the sheaves. 
The produce may amount to four bushels. My 
companion, a better judge, says to three; and 
it has cost the new farmer two superb scare- 
crows, and gunpowder enough for a review, 
to keep off the sparrows. Well, it has been 
amusement and variety, however ! and gives 
him an interest in the agricultural corner of 
the county newspaper. Master Keep is well 
to do in the world, and can afford himself such 
a diversion. For my part, I like these little 
experiments, even if they be not over-gainful. 
They show enterprise : a shoemaker of less 
genius would never have got beyond a crop of 
turnips. 

On we went — down the lane,' over the 
bridge, up the hill — for there really is a hill, 
and one of some steepness for Berkshire, and 
across the common, once so dreary, but now 
bright and glittering, under the double influ- 
ence of an August sun, and our own good 
spirits, until we were stopped by the gate of 
the lawn, which was of course locked, and 
obliged to wait until a boy should summon 
the old woman who had charge of the house, 
and who was now at work in a neighbouring 
harvest-field, to give us entrance. 



A CASTLE IN THE AIR. 



275 



Boys in plenty were there. The fine black- 
headed lad, George Ropley — who, with his 
olive complexion, his bright darli eyes, and 
his keen intellinrent features, looks so Italian, 
but who is yet in all his ways so thoroughly 
and (Tenially English — had been gathering in 
his father's crop of apples, and was amusing 
himself with tossing some twenty amongst as 
many urchins of either sex who had collected 
round him, to partake of the fruit and the 
sport. There he stood tossing the ripe ruddy 
apples ; some high in the air for a catch, some 
low amongst the bushes for a hunt; some one 
way, some another, puzzling and perplexing 
the rogues, but taking care that none should 
go appleless in the midst of his fun. And 
what fun it was to them all, thrower and catch- 
ers! What infinite delight! How they laughed 
and shouted, and tumbled and ran ! How they 
watched every motion of George Ropley' s 
hand ; the boys and the girls, and the " tod- 
dling wee things," of whom one could not 
distinctly make out whether they were the one 
or the other ! And how often was that hand 
tossed up empty, flinging nothing, in order to 
cheat the wary watchers ! — Now he threw an 
apple into the midst of the group, and what a 
scramble ! Then at a distance, and what a 
race ! The five nearest started ; one, a great 
boy, stumbled over a mole-hill, and was flung 
out; two of the little ones were distanced; 
and it was a neck-and-neck heat between a girl 
in a pink frock (my acquaintance Liddy 
Wheeler) and a boy in a tattered jacket, name 
unknown. With fair play Liddy would have 
beaten, but he of the ragged jacket pulled her 
back by her new pink frock, rushed forward, 
and conquered, — George gallantly flinging his 
last apple into her lap to console her for her 
defeat. 

By this time the aged portress (Dame 
Wheeler, Liddy's grandmother) had given us 
admittance, and we soon stood on the steps in 
front of the house, in calm survey of the 
scene before us. Hatherden was just the 
place to like or not to like, according to the 
feeling of the hour; a respectable, comfortable 
country house, with a lawn before, a paddock 
on one side, a shrubbery on the other; offices 
and a kitchen garden behind, and the usual 
ornaments of villas and advertisements, a 
green-houseand a verandah. Now my thoughts 
were cmi/eurde rose, and Hatherden was charm- 
ing. Even the beds intended for flowers on 
the lawn, but which, under a summer's neglect, 
were now dismal receptacles of seeds and 
weeds, did not shock my gardening eye so 
much as my companion evidently expected. 
" We must get my factotum, Clarke, here to- 
morrow," so ran my thoughts, " to clear away 
that rubbish, and try a little bold transplant- 
ing : late hollyhocks, late dahlias, a few pots 
of lobelias and chrysanthemums, a few patch- 
es of coreopsis and china-asters, and plenty of 
scarlet geraniums, will soon make this deso- 



lation flourishing. A good gardener can move 
any thing now-a-days, whether in bloom or 
not," thought I, with much complacency, 
"and Clarke's a man to transplant Windsor 
forest without withering a leaf. We 'II have 
him to-morrow," 

The same happy disposition continued after 
I entered the house. And when left alone in 
the echoing empty breakfast-room, with only 
one shutter opened, whilst Dame Wheeler 
was guiding the companion of my survey to 
the stable-yard, I amused myself with making 
in my own mind, comparisons between what 
had been, and what would be. There she 
used to sit, poor Mrs. Norris, in this large 
airy room, in the midst of its solid handsome 
furniture, in a great chair at a great table, 
busily at work for one of her seven small 
children ; the table piled with frocks, trou- 
sers, petticoats, shirts, pinafores, hats, bonnets, 
all sorts of children's gear, masculine and 
feminine, together with spelling-books, copy- 
books, ivory alphabets, dissected maps, dulls, 
toys, and gingerbread, for the same small 
people. There she sate, a careful mother, 
fretting over their naughtiness and their ail- 
ments ; always in fear of the sun, or the 
wind, or the rain, of their running to heat 
themselves, or their standing still to catch 
cold : not a book in the house fit for a person 
turned of eight years old ! not a grown-up 
idea ! not a thought beyond the nursery ! 
One wondered what she could have talked of 
before she had children. Good Mrs. Norris, 
such was she. Good Mr. Norris was, for all 
purposes of neighbourhood, worse still. He 
was gapy and fidgety, and prosy and dozy, 
kept a tool-chest and a medicine-chest, weigh- 
ed out manna and magnesia, constructed fish- 
ing-flies, and nets for fruit-trees, turned nut- 
meg-graters, lined his wife's work-box, and 
dressed his little daughter's doll ; and had a 
tone of conversation perfectly in keeping with 
his tastes and pursuits, abundantly tedious, 
thin and small. One talked down to him, 
worthy gentleman, as one would to his son 
Willy. These were the neighbours that had 
been. What wonder that the hill was steep, 
and the way long, and the common dreary? 
Then came pleasant thougfhts of the neigh- 
bours that were to be. The lovely and ac- 
complished wife, so sweet and womanly ; 
the elegant and highly-informed husband, so 
spirited and manly ! Art and literature, and 
wisdom and wit, adorning with a wreathy and 
garlandy splendour all that is noblest in mind 
and purest in heart ! What wonder that 
Hatherden became more and more interesting 
in its anticijiated charms, and that I went 
gaily about the place, taking note of all that 
could contribute to the comfort of its future 
inhabitants. 

Home I came, a glad and busy creature, 
revolving in my mind the wants of the house 
and their speediest remedies — new paper for 



276 



OUR VILLAGE 



the drawinor-room ; new wainscoting for the 
dining- parlour; a stove for the laundry; a 
lock for the wine-cellar; baizinjj the door of 
the library ; and new painting the hall ; — to 
say nothing of the grand design of Clarke and 
the flower-beds. 

So full was I of busy thoughts, and so de- 
sirous to put my plans in train without the 
loss of a moment, that although the tossing 
of apples had now resolved itself into a most 
irregular game of cricket, — George Ropley 
being batting at one wicket, with little Sam 
Coper for his mate at the other ; — Sam, an 
urchin of seven years old, but the son of an 
old player, full of cricket blood, born, as it 
were, vv'ith a bat in his hand, getting double 
the notches of his tall partner, — an indignity 
which that well-natured stripling bore with 
surprising good-humour: and although the 
opposite side consisted of Liddy Wheeler 
bowling at one end, her old competitor of the 
ragged jacket at the other, and one urchin in 
trousers, and one in petticoats, standing out ; 
in spite of the temptation of watching this 
comical parody on that manly exercise, render- 
ed doubly amusing by the scientific manner 
in which little Sam stood at his wicket, the 
perfect gravity of the fieldsman in petticoats, 
and the serious air with which those two 
worthies called Liddy to order whenever she 
transgressed any rule of the game: — Sam 
will certainly be a great player some day or 
other, and so (if he be not a girl, for really 
there 's no telling) will the young gentleman 
standing out. In spite, however, of the great 
temptation of overlooking a favourite divertise- 
ment, with variations so truly original, home 
we went, hardly pausing to observe the hous- 
ing of Master Keep's wheat harvest. Home 
we went, adding at every step a fresh story to 
our Castle in the Air, anticipating happy 
mornings and joyous evenings at dear Hather- 
den ; in love with the place and all about it, 
and quite convinced that the hill was nothing, 
the distance nothing, and the walk by far the 
prettiest in this neighbourhood. 

Home we came, and there we found two 
letters : one from Mr. Camden, sent per coach, 
to say that he found they must go abroad im- 
mediately, and that they could not therefore 
think of coming into Berkshire for a year or 
more ; one from the lawyer left in charge of 
Hatherden, to say, that we could not have the 
place, as the Norris's were returning to their 
old house forthwith. And my Castle is knock- 
ed down, blown up — which is the right word 
for the demolishing of such airy edifices 1 
And Hatherden is as far off", and the hill as 
steep, and the common as dreary as ever. 



THE TWO SISTERS. 

The pretty square Farm-house, standing at 
the corner where Kibes Lane crosses the 
brook, or the brook crosses Kibes Lane, (tor 
the first phrase, although giving by far the 
closest picture of the place, does, it must be 
confessed, look rather Irish,) and where the 
aforesaid brook winds away by the side of 
another lane, until it spread into a river-like 
dignity, as it meanders through the sunny 
plain of Hartley Common, and finally disap- 
pears amidst the green recesses of Pinge 
Wood — that pretty square Farm-house, half 
hidden by the tall elms in the flower court 
before it, which, with the spacious garden and 
orchard behind, and the extensive barn-yards 
and out-buildings, so completely occupies one 
of the angles formed by the crossing of the 
lane and the stream, — that pretty Farm-house 
contains one of the happiest and most pros- 
perous families in Aberleigh, the large and 
thrivingf family of Farmer Evans. 

Whether from skill or from good fortune, or 
as is most probable, from a lucky mixture of 
both, every thing goes right in his great farm. 
His crops are the best in the parish ; his hay 
is never spoiled ; his cattle never die ; his 
servants never thieve; his children are never 
ill. He buys cheap, and sells dear : money 
gathers about him like a snow-ball ; and yet, 
in spite of all this provoking and intolerable 
prosperity, every body loves Farmer Evans. 
He is so hospitable, so good-natured, so gen- 
erous, — so homely ! There, after all, lies the 
charm. Riches have not only not spoilt the 
man, but they have not altered him. He is 
just the same in look, and word, and way, 
that he was thirty years ago, when he and his 
wife, with two sorry horses, one cow, and 
three pigs, began the world at Dean-Gate, a 
little bargain of twenty acres, two miles oflT: 
— ay, and his wife is the same woman ! — the 
same frugal, tidy, industrious, good-natured 
Mrs. E vans, so noted for her activity of tongue 
and limb, her good looks, and her plain dress- 
ing: as frugal, as good-natured, as active, and 
as plain dressing a Mrs. Evans at forty-five 
as she was at nineteen, and, in a different 
way, almost as good-looking. 

Their children — six "boys," as Farmer 
Evans promiscuously calls them, whose ages 
vary from eight to eight-and-twenty — and 
three girls, two grown up, and one not yet 
seven, the youngest of the family, are just 
what might be expected from parents so sim- 
ple and so good. The young men, intelligent 
and well-conducted ; the boys, docile and 
promising ; and the little girl as pretty a curlj'- 
headed, rosy-cheeked poppet, as ever was the 
pet and plaything of a large family. It is, 
however, with the eldest daughters that we 
have to do. 

Jane and Fanny Evans were as much alike 



THE TWO SISTERS. 



277 



as hath often befallen any two sisters not born 
at one time ; — for in the matter of twin chil- 
dren, there has been a series of puzzles ever 
since the days of the Dromios. Nearly of an 
atje, (I believe that at this moment both are 
turned of nineteen, and neither have reached 
twenty,) exactly of a stature, (so high that 
Frederick would have coveted them for wives 
for his tall regiment) — with hazel eyes, large 
mouths, full lips, white teeth, brown hair, 
clear healthy complexions, and that sort of 
nose which is neither Grecian nor Roman, nor 
aquiline, nor le petit nez retrousse that some 
persons prefer to them all ; but a nose which, 
moderately prominent, and sufficiently well- 
shaped, is yet, as far as I know, anonymous, 
although it be perhaps as common and as well- 
looking a feature as is to be seen on an Eng- 
lish face. 

Altogether, they were a pair of tall and 
comely maidens, and being constantly attired 
in garments of the same colour and fashion, 
looked at all times so much alike, that no 
stranger ever dreamed of knowing them apart ; 
and even their acquaintances were rather ac- 
customed to think and speak of them generally 
as " the Evans's " than as the separate indi- 
viduals, Jane and Fanny. Even those who 
did pretend to distinguish the one from the 
other, were not exempt from mistakes, which 
the sisters, Fanny especially, who delighted 
in the fun so often produced by the unusual 
resemblance, were apt to favour by changing 
places in a walk, or slipping from one side to 
the other at a country tea-party, or playing a 
hundred innocent tricks to occasion at once a 
grave blunder, and a merry laugh. 

Old Tabitha Goodwin, for instance, who, 
being rather purblind, was jealous of being 
suspected of seeing less clearly than her 
neighbours, and had defied even the J^vans's 
to puzzle her discernment — seeking in vain 
on Fanny's hand the cut finger which she had 
dressed on Jane's, ascribed the incredible cure 
to the merits of her own incomparable salve, 
and could hardly be undeceived, even by the 
pulling off of Jane's glove, and the exhibition 
of the lacerated digital sewed round by her 
own bandage. 

Young George Bailey too, the greatest beau 
in the parish, having betted at a Christmas 
party that he would dance with every pretty 
girl in the room, lost his wager (which Fanny 
had overheard) by that saucy damsel's slip- 
ping into her sister's place, and persuading 
her to join her own unconscious partner; so 
that George danced twice with Fanny and not 
at all with Jane ; — a liattering piece of malice, 
which proved, as the young gentleman (a rus- 
tic exquisite of the first water) was pleased to 
assert, that Miss Fanny was not displeased 
with her partner. How little does a vain man 
know of woman-kind ! If she had liked him, 
she would not have played the trick for the 
mines of Goleonda. 



24 



In short, from their school-days, vi^hen Jane 
was chidden for Fanny's bad work, and Fanny 
slapped for Jane's bad spelling, down to this, 
their prime of womanhood, there had been no 
end to the confusion produced by this remark- 
able instance of family likeness. 

And yet Nature, who sets some mark of in- 
dividuality upon even her meanest productions, 
making some unnoted difference between the 
lambs dropped from one ewe, the robins bred 
in one nest, the flowers growing on one stalk, 
and the leaves hanging from one tree, had not 
left these young maidens without one great 
and permanent distinction — a natural and strik- 
ing dissimilarity of temper. Equally indus- 
trious, affectionate, happy, and kind ; each 
was kind, happy, affectionate, and industrious 
in a different way. Jane was grave ; Fanny 
was gay. If you heard a laugh or song, be 
sure it was Fanny: she who smiled, for cer- 
tain was Fanny : she who jumped the stile 
when her sister opened the gate, was P^anny : 
she who chased the pigs from the garden as 
merrily as if she were running a race, so that 
the very pigs did not mind her, was Fanny. 

On the other hand, she that so carefully was 
making, with its own ravelled threads, an in- 
visible darn in her mother's handkerchief, and 
hearing her little sister read the while ; she 
that so patiently was feeding, one by one, two 
broods of young turkeys ; she that so pensively 
was watering her own bed of delicate and 
somewhat rare plants, — the pale stars of the 
Alpine pink, or the alabaster blossoms of the 
white evening primrose, whose modest flowers, 
dying off into a blush, resembled her own 
character, was Jane. 

Some of the gossips of Aberleigh used to 
assert, that Jane's sighing over the flowers, 
as well as the early steadiness of her charac- 
ter, arose from an engagement to my lord's 
head gardener, an intelligent, sedate, and 
sober young Scotchman. Of this I know 
nothing. Certain it is, that the prettiest and 
newest plants were always to be found in 
Jane's little flower-border, and if Mr. Archi- 
bald Maclane did sometimes come to look after 
them, I do not see that it was any business of 
anybody's. ■ 

In the mean time, a visiter of a different \ 
description arrived at the farm. A cousin of! 
Mrs. Evans's had been as successful in trade | 
as her husband had been in agriculture, and 1 
he had now sent his only son to become ac- 
quainted with his relations, and to spend some 
weeks in their family. 

Charles Foster was a fine young man, 
whose father was neither more nor less than 
a rich linen-draper in a great town ; but whose 
manners, education, mind, and character might 
have done honour to a far higher station. He 
was, in a word, one of nature's gentlemen ; 
and in nothing did he more thoroughly show 
his own taste and good-breeding, than by en- 
tering entirely into the homely ways and old- 



278 



OUR VILLAGE, 



fashioned habits of his country cousins. He 
was delitjhted with the simplicity, fruirality, 
and industry, which blended well with the 
sterling uroodness and genuine abundance of 
the great English farm-house. The young 
women especially pleased him much. They 
formed a strong contrast with anything that 
he had met with before. No finery ! no co- 
quetry ! no French ! no piano ! It is impos- 
sible to describe the sensation of relief and 
comfort with which Charles Foster, sick of 
musical Misses, ascertained that the whole 
dwelling did not contain a single instrument, 
except the bassoon, on which George pjvans 
was wont, every Sunday at church, to excru- 
ciate the ears of the whole congregation. He 
liked both sisters, .lane's softness and con- 
siderateness engaged his full esteem ; but 
Fanny's innocent playfulness suited best with 
his own high spirits, and animated conversa- 
tion. He had known them apart from the 
first; and indeed denied that the likeness was 
at all puzzling, or more than is usual between 
sisters, and secretly thought Fanny as much 
prettier than her sister, as she was avowedly 
merrier. In doors and out, he was constantly 
at her side ; and before he had been a month 
in the house, all its inmates had given Charles 
Foster, as a lover, to his young cousin ; and 
she, when rallied on the subject, cried fie ! 
and pish ! and pshaw ! and wondered how 
people could talk such nonsense, and liked to 
have such nonsense talked to her better than 
any thing in the world. 

Affairs were in this state, when one night 
Jane appeared even graver c«nd more thought- 
ful than usual, and far, far sadder. She sighed 
deeply; and Fanny, for the two sisters shared 
the same little room, inquired tenderly, " What 
ailed her?" The inquiry seemed to make 
Jane worse. She burst into tears, whilst 
Fanny hung over her, and soothed her. At 
length, she roused herself by a strong effort ; 
and turning away from her affectionate com- 
forter, said in a low tone: "I have had a 
great vexation to-night, Fanny ; Charles Fos- 
ter has asked me to marry him." 

"Charles Foster! Did you say Charles 
Foster r' asked poor Fanny, trembling, un- 
willing even to trust her own senses against 
the evidence of her heart; " Charles Foster]" 

"Yes, our cousin, Charles Foster." 

"And you have accepted him]" inquired 
Fanny, in a hoarse voice. 

" Oh no ! no ! Do you think I have forgot- 
ten poor Archibald ] Besides / am not the 
person whom he ought to have asked to marry 
him ; false and heartless as he is. I would 
not be his wife; cruel, unfeeling, unmanly as 
his conduct has been ! No! not if he could 
make me queen of England ]" 

" You refused him then ]" 

" No, my father met us suddenly, just as I 
was recovering from the surprise and indigna- 
tion, that at first struck me dumb. But I 



shall refuse him most certainly; — the false, 
deceitful, ungrateful villain !" 

" My dear father ! He will be disappointed. 
So will my mother." 

"They will both be disa])pointed, and both 
angry — hut not at my refusal. Oh, how they 
will despise him!" added Jane; and poor 
Fanny, melted by her sister's sympathy, and 
touched by an indignation most unusual in 
that mild and gentle girl, could no longer 
command her feelings, but flung herself on 
the bed in that ajony of passion and grief, 
which the first great sorrow seldom fails to 
excite in a young heart. 

After a while she resumed the conversation. 
"We must not blame him too severely, Jane. ] 
Perhaps my vanity made me think his atten- | 
tions meant more than they really did, and j 
you had all taken up the notion. But you | 
must not speak of him so unkindly. He has ' 
done nothing but what is natural. You are i 
so much wiser, and better than I am, my own 
dear Jane ! He laughed and talked with r.ie : 
but he felt your goodness, — and he was right. 
I was never worthy of him, and you are; and 
if it were not for Archibald, I should rejoice 
from the bottom of my heart," continued Fan- 
ny, sobbing, " if you would accept" — but un- 
able to finish her generous wish, she burst into 
a fresh flow of tears ; and the sisters, mutually 
and strongly affected, wept in each other's 
arms, and were comforted. 

That night Fanny cried herself to sleep : 
but such sleep is not of long duration. Be- 
fore dawn she was up, and pacing, with rest- 
less irritability, the dewy grass-walks of the 
garden and orchard. In less than half an 
hour, a light elastic step (she knew the sound 
well!) came rapidly behind her; a hand, (oh, 
how often had she thrilled at the touch of that 
hand !) tried to draw hers under his own ; 
whilst a well-known voice addressed her in 
the softest and tenderest accents : " Fanny, 
my own sweet Fanny ! have you thought of 
what I said to you last night]" 

"To me?" replied Fanny with bitterness. 

"Ay, to be sure, to your own dear self! 
Do you not remember the question I asked j 
you, when your good father, for the first time 
unwelcome, joined us so suddenly that you ' 
had no time to say, Yes] And will you not 
say Yes now ]" 

"Mr. Foster!" replied Fanny, with some 
spirit, " you are under a mistake here. It was 
to Jane that you made a proposal yesterday 
evening ; and you are taking me for her at this 
moment." 

" Mistake you for your sister ! Propose to 
Jane! Incredible! Impossible! You are jest- 
\iig." 

"Then he mistook Jane for me, last night; 
and he is no deceiver !" thought Fanny to her- 
self, as with smiles beaming briglitly through I 
her tears, she turned round at his reiterated | 
prayers, and yielded the hand he sought to his j 



CHILDREN OF THE VILLAGE, 



279 



pressmre. " He mistook her for me ! He, 
that defied us to perplex him !" 

And so it was: aa unconscious and unob- 
served change of place, as either sister re- 
sumed her station beside little Betsy, who 
had scampered away after a glow-worm, added 
to the deepening twilight, and the lovers' na- 
tural embarrassment, had produced the confu- 
sion which gave poor Fanny a night's misery, 
to be compensated by a lifetime of happiness. 
Jane was almost as glad to lose a lover as her 
sister was to regain one : Charles is gone home 
to his father's to make preparations for his 
bride; Archibald has taken a great nursery 
garden, and there is some talk in Aberleigh 
that the marriage of the two sisters is to be 
celebrated on the same day. 



CHILDREN OF THE VILLAGE. 

PRIDE SHALL HAVE A FALL. 

" So you Aberleigh boys are about to play 
Sandleford," said George Leslie to Horace 
Lucas : — " have you a good eleven ?" 

" Our players are pretty fair, I believe," re- 
plied Horace, " but the number is short. Both 
sides have agreed to take a mate or two from 
other parishes, and I rode over to ask your 
cousin Charles and yourself to join our Aber- 
leigh party." 

. " Faith ! you are in luck, my good friend," 
cried George Leslie, "you may look upon the 
game as won. Charles, to be sure, is no great 
hand ; can't bowl ; hits up ; and a bad field — 
a slow awkward field. But I — Did you never 
see me play 1 And I am so much improved 
this season ! I ought to be improved, for I 
have seen such play, and such players ! I am 
just returned from my aunt's, who lives within 
a mile of Bramshill — Sir John's you know — 
and there were all the great men of the day, 
all the Lord's men : Mr. Ward ; and Mr. 
Budd — I'm thought to stand at my wicket 
very much like Mr. Budd ; Saunders, who is 
reckoned, take him all in all, the best player 
in England; Saunders; and Broadbridge the 
Sussex bowler — I don't patronize their system, 
though, I stick to the old steady scientific 
game; Lord Frederick; and Mr. Knight — 
he's a fine figure of a man is Mr. Knight, the 
finest figure of any of them, and very great in 
the field; old Howard the bowler, — he's my 
model; and in short, almost every celebrated 
cricketer in England. I know that you West- 
minsters think that nobody can do any thing 
so well as yourselves; but as far as cricket 
goes — ask Charles, he'll tell you that you are 
in luck to have me." And off the young gen- 
tleman strutted to pay his compliments to some 
ladies who were talking to his mother on the 
other side of tlie lawn ; for this conversation 
took place on a fine day in July, under the 



heavy shadow of some tall elms, in Mrs. Les- 
lie's beautiful grounds. 

George's speech had been delivered in a 
high, solemn, vaunting tone, as grave as Don 
Quixote; but of the two who remained, Hor- 
ace, a quick, arch, lively lad, laughed outright, 
and Charles, a mild, fair, delicate boy, could 
not help smiling. 

" He gives himself a comfortable character, 
however," said Horace, " rather too good to 
be true ; whilst of you he speaks modestly 
enough. Are you so bad, Charles'? And is 
he such a parag'^n of cricketers 1 Does he bat 
like Mr. Budd, and field like Mr. Knight, and 
bowl like Howard 1" 

" Why, not exactly," was the reply; "but 
there 's more truth than you think for. He 's 
a good, but uncertain player ; and I am a bad 
one, a very bad one; shy and timid and awk- 
ward ; always feeling when the game is over 
that I could have done better; just as I have 
felt when a clever man, your father for in- 
stance, has had the goodness to speak to me, 
how much better I ought to have talked. Son-e- 
how the power never comes at the right time, 
at either game ; so that I may say, as some 
people say of cucumbers, that I like cricket, 
but that cricket does not like me." 

"Good or bad, my dear fellow, I'll take 
you," said Horace, " nervousness and all. It's 
a pity that you two cousins could not make 
over to one another some parcel of your seve- 
ral qualities ; you would be much the happier 
for a dash of George's self-conceit, and he 
could spare enough to set up a whole regiment 
of dandies ; whilst he would be all the better 
for your superfluous modesty. However, I'll 
take you both, right thankfully." And the 
arrangements were entered into forthwith. 
They were to meet on the ground the ensuing 
morning to play the match ; different engage- 
ments preventing the Leslies from practising 
with the Aberleigh side that evening, as Hor- 
ace had wished and intended ; for our friend 
Horace, ardent and keen in every thing, whe- 
ther of sport or study, had set his heart on 
winning this match, and was very desirous of 
trying the powers of his new allies. Fifty 
times during the evening did he count over his 
own good players, and the good players of the 
other side, and gravely conclude " It will all 
depend on the Leslies. How I wish to-mor- 
row were come !" He said this so often that 
even his sister Emily, although the most in- 
dulgent person in the world, and very fond of 
her brother, grew so tired of hearing him that 
she could not help saying "I wish to-morrow 
were come too !" 

And at last, as generally happens, whether 
we wish for it or not, to-morrow did come, as 
brilliant a to-morrow as ever was anticipated, 
even by a school-boy in the holidays. The 
sun rose without a cloud ; I speak from the 
best authority, for "scorning the scorner sleep" 
Horace was up before him ; and the ball being 



280 



OUR VILLAGE 



twenty times weighed, and the bats fifty times 
examined, he repaired, by half-past nine, to 
Sandleford Common, where the match was to 
be phiyed, and the wickets pitched precisely 
at ten o'clock. 

All parties were sufficiently punctual ; and 
when the whole set had assembled, Horace 
found, that in spite of his calculations, a mis- 
take had arisen in the amount of his forces ; 
tliat reckonintr himself there were ten Aber- 
leigfh boys on the ground, besides the two 
foreign allies, proceeding, perhaps, from the 
over-anxiety to collect recruits, — whilst his 
Sandleford captain, on the contrary, had ne- 
glected to secure another mate as agreed on, 
and could only muster the original ten of his 
own parish, himself included. 

In this dilemma the umpires immediately 
proposed to divide the auxiliaries, a sugges- 
tion to which George assented with his usual 
sang froid, and Charles with his invariable 
good-humour. 

" You had better toss up for me," said the 
former. " For the choice," was Horace's civil 
amendment, and toss they did. "Heads!" 
cried he of Sandleford, and heads it was; and 
partly caught by the young gentleman's happy 
knack of puffing himself, partly by the know- 
ing manner in which he was handling his bat, 
George was instantly claimed by the winner, 
and the game began. 

Sandleford went in, and it was desired that 
the stranger and the best of the home party 
should take the precedence. But our great 
player coquetted. "It mi;iht put their side 
out of spirits if by any accident he were out 
early in the game; he had seen a match lost, 
by Mr. Budd or Saunders having their wickets 
knocked down sooner than was expected. He 
would wait." Accordingly it was not till the 
first four had gone down with only twenty 
notches gained that he at last went in, "to re- 
trieve," as he said, the fortune of the day. 

Nothing could be more imposing than his 
appearance. There he stood at the wicket 
striking his bat against the ground with im- 
patience, pawing the earth as it were, like a 
race-horse at the starting-post, or a greyhound 
in the slips, and friends and foes admired and 
wondered. Even Horace Lucas felt the effect 
of the fine attitude and the brilliant animation, 
and delivered his ball less steadily than usual, 
anticipating that his opponent would get at 
least three runs. His fears were soon rjuieted. 
" By some accident" (to ijse the young gen- 
tleman's own phrase) Mr. George hit up; and 
that exceedingly bad field, his cousin Charles, 
caught him out without a notch. 

This misadventure sadly disconcerted San- 
dleford as well as the unfortunate champion, 
and put Aberleigh in high spirits. Horace 
bowled better than ever; the fielding was ex- 
cellent ; and the whole eleven were out for 
forty-seven notches — a wretched innings. 

Aberleigh then went in; Horace, and at 



Horace's request, his ally Charles: — George 
being- one of the bowlers. But poor George 
(to borrow once more his own words) was 
"out of luck, thoroughly out of luck," for in 
spite of all his efforts the two mates got fifty- 
six before they parted, and the whole score 
was a hundred and nine. 

Eighty-two a-head in the first innings I 
Small hopes for Sandleford, even though 
George went in immediately, "determined," 
as he said, " to conquer fortune." Small 
hopes for Sandleford ! 

" Come, Charles," said Horace Lucas, "let 
us see whether your bowling may not be as 
good as your batting. Just give your cousin 
one ball." And at the very first ball the 
stumps rattled, and the discomfited cricketer 
slunk away, amidst the crowing of his antag- 
onists and the reproaches of his mates, so 
crest-fallen, that even Horace was touched by 
his disconsolate countenance and humbled air. 
His tender-hearted cousin felt a still deeper 
sympathy, and almost lamented his own suc- 
cess. 

" It is all luck, sir," said he, in answer to 
a compliment from General Lucas, who stood 
talking to him after the match had been tri- 
um])hantly won ; " It is all luck ! Poor George 
is a far better player than I am ; he was so 
yesterday, and will be so to-morrow. This 
is merely the fortune of a day, a trifle not 
worth a word or a thought!" 

"The object is trifling, I grant you, my 
good young friend," said the General, "and 
luck may have had som.e share in the victory ; 
but I am much mistaken if your success and 
your cousin's mortification be not of essential 
benefit to both. It is one of the most salutary 
parts of the world's discipline, that modesty 
should triumph and that Pride should have a 
Fall." 



ROSEDALE. 

I don't know how it happened when we 
were hous/5-hunting the other day, that no- 
body ever thought of Rosedale. I should 
have objected to if, both as out of distance — 
it's a good six miles off; and as being utterly 
unrecommendable by one rational person to 
another. Rosedale ! the very name smacks 
of the Minerva Press, and gives token of the 
nonsense and trumpery thereunto belonging. 
Rosedale Cottage! the man who, under that 
portentous title takes that house, cannot com- 
plain of lack of warning. 

Nevertheless is Rosedale one of the pretti- 
est cottages that ever sprung into existence in 
brick or on paper. All strangcTS go to see it, 
and few " cots of spruce gentility" are so well 
worth seeing. Fancj^ a low irrt^gular white 
rough-cast building thatched with reeds, co- 



ROSEDALE. 



281 



vered with roses, clematis, and p;ission-flow- 
ers, standing on a knoll of fin? turf, amidst 
flower-beds and shrubberies and magnificent 
elms, backed by an abrupt hill, and looking 
over lawny fields to a green common, which 
is intersected by a gay high road, dabbled 
with ponds of water, and terminated by a 
pretty village edging off into rich woodlands : 
imagine this picture of a place tricked out 
with ornaments of all sorts, conservatories, 
roseries, rustic seats, American borders, Gothic 
dairies, Spanish hermitages, and flowers stuck 
as close as pins in a pincushion, with every 
thing, in short, that might best become the 
walls of an exhibition room, or the back scene 
of a play : conceive the interior adorned in a 
style of elegance still more fanciful, and it 
will hardly appear surprising that this " unique 
bijou," as the advertisement calls it, should 
seldom want a tenant. The rapid succession 
of these occupiers is the more extraordinary 
matter. Every body is willing to come to 
Rosedale, but nobody stays. 

For this, however, it is not difficult to as- 
sign very sufficient cause. In the first place, 
the house lias the original sin of most orna- 
mented cottages, that of being built on the 
foundation of a real labourer's dwelling; by 
which notable piece of economy the owner 
saved some thirty pounds, at the expense of 
making half his rooms mere nut-shells, and 
the house incurably damp, — to saj' nothing of 
the inconvenience of the many apartments 
which were erected as after-thoughts, the ad- 
denda of the work, and are only to be come at 
by out-side passages and French window- 
doors. Secondly,, that necessary part of a 
two-story mansion, the staircase, was utterly 
forgotten by architect, proprietor, and builder, 
and never missed by any person, till the lad- 
der being one day taken away at the dinner 
hour, an Irish labourer, accidentally left be- 
hind, was discovered by the workmen on their 
return, perched like a bird on the top of the 
roof, he having taken the method of going up 
the chimney as the quickest way of getting 
down. This adventure occasioned a call for 
the staircase, which was at length inserted by 
the by, and is as much like a step-ladder in a 
dark corner as any thing well can be.* Third- 
ly and lastly, this beautiful abode is in every 
way most thoroughly inconvenient and un- 
comfortable. In the winter one might find as 
much protection in the hollow of a tree — cold, 
gusty, sleety, wet; snow threatening from 
above like an avalanche; water gushing up 
from below like a fountain ; a house of card- 
paper would be the solider refuge, a gipsy's 
tent by far the more snug. In summer it is 
proportionably close and hot, giving little 
shade and no shelter; and all theyear round 

* This instance of fortfetfulness is not unexampled. 
A similar accident is said to have happened to Ma- 
dame d'Arblay in the erection of a cottage built from 
the profits of her admirable Camilla. 



it is overdone with frippery and finery, a toy- 
shop in action, a Brobdignagian baby-house. 

Every room is in masquerade: the saloon 
Chinese, full of jars and mandarins and pago- 
das ; the library Egyptian, all covered with 
hieroglyphics, and swarming with furniture 
crocodiles and sphynxes. Only think of a 
crocodile couch, and a sphynx sofa ! They 
sleep in Turkish tents, and dine in a Gothic 
chapel. f Now English ladies and gentlemen 
in their every-day apparel look exceedingly 
out of place amongst such mummery. The 
costume wont do. It is not in keeping. Be- 
sides, the properties themselves are apt to get 
shifted from one scene to another, and all 
manner of anomalies are the consequence. 
The mitred chairs and screens of the cliapel, 
for instance, so very upright, and tall, and 
carved, and priestly, were mixed up oddly 
enough with the squat Chinese bonzes ; whilst 
by some strange transposition a pair of nod- 
ding mandarins figured amongst the Egyptian 
monsters, and by the aid of their supernatural 
ugliness really looked human. 

Then the room taken up by the various 
knicknackery, the unnamed and unnameable 
generation of gew-gaws ! It always seemed 
to me to require more house-maids than the 
house would hold. And the saine with the 
garden. You are so begirt with garlands and 
festoons, flowers above and flowers below, 
that you walk about under a perpetual sense 
of trespass, of taking care, of doing mischief, 
now bobbing against a sweet-briar, in which 
rencontre you have the worst; now flapped in 
the face by a woodbine to the discomfiture of 
both parties, now revenging these vegetable 
wrongs by tripping up an unfortunate balsam ; 
bonnets, coatskirts and flounces in equal peril ! 
The very gardeners step gingerly, and tuck 
their aprons tightly round them before they 
venture into that fair demesne of theirs, which 
is, so to say, over-peopled. In short, Rose- 
dale is a place to look at, rather than live in ; 
a fact which will be received without dispute 
by some score of tenants, by the proprietor of 
the county newspaper who keeps the adver- 
tisement of this matchless villa constantly 
set, to his no small emolument, and by the 
neighbourhood at large, to whom the succes- 
sion of new faces, new liveries, and new 
equipages driving about our rustic lanes, and 
sometimes occupying a very tasty pew in the 
parish church, has long supplied a source of 
conversation as unfailing and as various as the 
weather. 

The first person who ascertained, by pain- 



tSomeof the pleasantest daysof my life have been 
spent in a house so furnished. But then it was of 
fittine; dimensions, and the delightful persons to whom 
it belonged had a house in London, and a m.insion in 
the country, and used their fancy villa much as one 
would use a marquee or a pleasure-boai, for gay par- 
ties in fine weather. Rosedale, unlucky place, was 
built to be lived in. 



2i 



2L 



282 



OUR VILLAGE. 



ful experience, that Rosedale was uninhabit- 
able, was the proprietor, a simple young man 
from the next town, who unluckily took it into 
his head that he had a taste for architecture 
and landscape gardening-, and so forth ; and 
falling into the hands of a London upholsterer 
and a country nurseryman, produced the effort 
of genius that I have endeavoured to describe. 
At the end of a month he found that nobody 
could live there; and with the advice of the 
nurseryman and the upholsterer began to talk 
of re-building and new-modelling; nay, he 
actually went so far as to send for the brick- 
layer ; but fortunately for our man of taste he 
had a wife of more sense than himself, who 
seized the moment of disappointment to dis- 
gust him with improvements and improvers, 
in which feat she was greatly aided by the 
bills of his late associates ; put a stop at once 
to his projects and his complaints : removed 
with all speed to their old residence, an ugly, 
roomy, comfortable red brick house in the 

market-place at B ; drew up a flaming 

advertisement, and turned the grumbling oc- 
cupant into a thriving landlord. Lucky for 
him was the day in which William Walker, 
Esquire, married Miss Bridget Tomkins, se- 
cond daughter of Mr. Samuel Tomkins, attor- 
ney at law ! And lucky for Mr. Samuel 
Tomkins was the hour in which he acquired 
a son-in-law more profitable in the article of 
leases than the two l.ords to whom he acted 
as steward both put together ! 

First on the list of tenants was a bride and 
bridegroom come to spend the early months 
of their nuptial life in this sweet retirement. 
They arrived towards the end of August with 
a great retinue of servants, horses, dogs, and 
carriages, well bedecked with bridal favours. 
The very pointers had white ribbons round 
their necks, so splendid was their rejoicing, 
and had each, as we were credibly informed, 
eaten a huge slice of wedding-cake when the 
happy couple returned from church. The 
bride, whom every body except myself called 
plain, and whom I thought pretty, had been a 
great heiress, and had married for love the day 
she came of age. She was slight of form 
and pale of complexion, with a profusion of 
brown hair, mild hazel eyes, a sweet smile, a 
soft voice, and an air of modesty that clung 
about her like a veil. I never saw a more 
loveable creature. He was dark and tall and 
stout and bold, with an assured yet gentle- 
manly air, a loud voice, a confident manner, 
and a real passion for shooting. They stayed 
just a fortnight, during which time he con- 
trived to get warned off half the manors in 
the neighbourhood, and cut down the finest 
elm in the lawn one wet morning to open a 
view of the high road. I hope the marriage 
has turned out a happy one, for she was a 
sweet gentle creature. I used to see her lean- 
ing over the gate watching his return from 
shooting with such a fond patience ! And her 



bound to meet him when he did appear ! And 
the pretty coaxing playfulness with which she 
patted and chided her rivals the dogs ! Oh I 
hope she is happy ! but I fear, I fear. 

Next succeeded a couple from India, before 
whom floated reports golden and gorgeous as 
the clouds at sunset. Inexhaustible riches; 
profuse expenditure ; tremendous ostentation ; 
unheard-of luxury ; ortolans ; beccaficos ; 
French-beans at Christmas; green-peas at 
Easter; strawberries always; a chariot and 
six ; twelve black footmen ; and parrots and 
monkeys beyond all count. These were 
amongst the most moderate of the rumours 
that preceded them ; and every idle person in 
the country was preparing to be a hanger-on ; 
and every shop-keeper in B. on the watch for 
a customer; when up drove a quiet-looking 
old gentleman in a pony-chaise, with a quiet- 
looking old lady at his side, and took posses- 
sion, their retinue following in a hack post- 
chaise. Whether the habits of this Eastern 
Crcesus corresponded with his modest debut, 
or his magnificent reputation, we had not 
time to discover, although from certain indica- 
tions, I conceive that much might be said on 
both sides. They arrived in the middle of a 
fine October, while the China roses covered 
the walls, and the China-asters, and dahlias, 
and fuchsias, and geraniums in full blow, gave 
a summer brilliancy to the lawn ; but scarcely 
had a pair of superb Common-prayer-books, 
bound in velvet, and a bible with gold clasps 
entered in possession of the pew at church, 
before " there came a frost, a nipping frost," 
which turned the China-asters, and tiie China- 
roses brown, and the dahlias and geraniums 
black, and the nabob and the nabobess blue. 
They disappeared the next day, and have 
never been seen or heard of since. 

Then arrived a fox-hunting Baronet, with a 
splendid stud and a splendid fortune. A 
young man, a single man, a handsome man ! 
Every speculating mamma in the country 
fixed her eyes on Sir Robert for a son-in-law ; 
papas were sent to call ; brothers were en- 
joined to go out hunting, and get acquainted ; 
nay, even certain of the young ladies them- 
selves (I grieve to say it!) showed symptoms 
of condescension which might almost have 
made their grandmothers start from their 
graves. But what could they do 1 How 
could they help it, poor pretty things'? The 
Baronet, with the instinct of a determined 
bachelor, avoided a young lady as a sparrow 
does a hawk, and discovering this sliyness, 
they followed their instinct as the hawk would 
do in a similar case, and pursued the coy bird. 
It was what sportsmen call a fine open season, 
which being translated, means every variety 
of wintry weather except frost — dirty, foggy, 
sleety, wet; so such of our belles as looked 
well on horse-back, took the opportunity to 
ride, to cover and see the hounds throw off; 
and such as shone more as pedestrians would 



ROSEDALE, 



283 



take an early walk, exquisitely dressed, for 
tlieir health's sake, towards the general ren- 
dezvous. Still Sir Robert was immovable. 
He made no morning calls, accepted no invi- 
tations, spoke to no mortal till he had ascer- 
tained that there was neither sister, daughter, 
aunt, nor cousin in the case. He kept from 
every petticoat as if it contained the contagion 
of the plague, shunned ball-rooms and draw- 
ing-rooms, as if they were pest-houses, and 
finally, had the comfort of leaving Rosedale 
without having even bowed to a female during 
his stay. The final cause of his departure 
has been differently reported ; some hold that 
he was frightened away by Miss Amelia Sin- 
gleton, who had nearly caused him to commit 
involuntary homicide, (is that the word for 
killing a woman ?) by crossing and recrossing 
before his hunter in Sallow-field-lane, thereby 
putting him in danger of a coroner's inquest; 
whilst others assert that his landlord, Mr. 
Walker, happening to call one day, found his 
tenant in dirty boots on the sphynx sofa, and 
a Newfoundland dog, dripping with mud, on 
the crocodile couch, and gave him notice to 
quit on the spot. For my part I regard this 
legend as altogether apocryphal, invented to 
save the credit of the house by assuming that 
one of its many inhabitants was turned out, 
contrary to his own wish. My faith goes en- 
tirely with the Miss Amelia version of the 
history ; the more so, as that gentle damsel 
was so inconsolable as to marry a former 
bean, a small Squire of the neighbourhood, 
rather weather-beaten, and not quite so young 
as he had been, within a month after she had 
the ill luck not to be run over by Sir Robert. 
However that may have been, " thence en- 
sued a vacancy" in Rosedale, which was sup- 
plied the same week by a musical family, a 
travelling band, drums, trumpets, harps, pia- 
nos, violins, violincellos, trombones, and Ger- 
man flutes — noise personified ! an incarnation 
of din ! The family consisted of three young 
ladies who practised regularly six hours a 
day ; a governess who played on some instru- 
ment or other from morning till night ; one 
flutiuff brother; one fiddling ditto; a violin- 
celloing music-master; and a singing papa. 
The only quiet person among them, the " one 
poor half-penny-worth of bread to this mon- 
strous quantity of sack," was the unfortunate 
mamma, sole listener, as it seemed, of her 
innumerous choir. Oh, how we pitied her ! 
She was a sweet placid-looking woman, and 
j'ounger in appearance than either of her 
daughters, with a fair open forehead, full dark 
eyes, lips that seemed waiting to smile, a deep 
yet cool colour, and a heavenly composure of 
countenance, resembling in features, expres- 
sion, and complexion, the small Madonnas of 
Raphael. We never ceased to wonder at her 
happy serenity until we found out that the 
good lady was deaf, a discovery which some- 
what diminished the ardour of our admiration. 



How this enviable calamity befell her, I did 
not hear, — but of course that din ! The very 
jars and mandarins cracked under the inces- 
sant vibration ; I only wonder that the poor 
house did not break the drum of its ears; did 
not burst from its own report, and explode like 
an overloaded gun. One could not see that 
unlucky habitation half a mile off, without 
such a feeling of noise as comes over one in 
looking at Hogarth's enraged musician. To 
pass it was really dangerous. One stage- 
coach was overturned, and two post-chaises 
ran away in consequence of their uproarious 
doings ; and a sturdy old-fashioned country 
gentleman, who rode a particularly anti-musi- 
cal, startlish, blood-horse, began to talk of in- 
dicting Rosedale as a nuisance, when just at 
the critical moment, its tenants had the good 
fortune to discover, that although the hermit- 
age with its vaulted roof made a capital con- 
cert-room, yet that there was not space enough 
within doors for their several practisings, that 
the apartments were too small, and the parti- 
tions too thin, so that concord was turned into 
discord, and harmonies went crossing each 
other all over the house — Mozart jostled by 
Rossini, and Handel put down by Weber. 
And away they went also. 

Our next neighbours were two ladies, not 
sisters, except as one of them said in soul ; 
kindred spirits determined to retire from the 
world, and emulate in this sweet retreat the 
immortal friendship of the ladies of Llangol- 
len.* The names of our pair of friends were 
Jackson and Jennings, Miss Laura Jackson (1 
wonder whether Laura really was her name ! 
She signed herself so in prose and in verse, 
and would certainly for more reasons than one 
have disliked an appeal to the Register ! be- 
sides, she ought to know ; so Laura it shall 
be !) Miss Laura Jackson and Miss Barbara 
Jennings, commonly called Bab. Both were 
of that unfortunate class of young ladies, 
whom the malicious world is apt to call old 
maids; both rich, both independent, and both 
in the fullest sense of the word cockneys. 
Laura was tall and lean, and scraggy and yel- 
low, dressing in an Arcadian sort of way, 
pretty much like an opera shepherdess with- 
out a crook, singing pastoral songs prodigi- 
ously out of tune, and talking in a deep voice, 
with much emphasis and astounding fluency 
all sorts of sentimentalities all the day long. 

* I need not, I trust, disclaim any intention of cast- 
ing the lightest shade of rifliciile on the remarkable 
instance of female friendship to which I have alluded 
in the text. An union enduring as ttiat has done, 
from youth to age, adomed by raiii\, talent, and beau- 
ty, cemented by chee,Ailness and good-iiumonr, and 
consecrated by benevolence and virtue, can fear no 
one's censure, and soars far beyond mv feeble praise. 
Such a friendship is the very poetry of life. But the 
heartless imitation, tue absurd parody of the noble 
and elevating rnmanct. is surely fair game, the more 
so, as it tends like all jarodies lo brmg the original 
into undeserved disrepute. 



284 



OUR VILLAGE. 



Miss Barbara on the other hand was short and 
plump and round-faced and ruddy, inclining 
to vulparity as Laura to afTectation, with a 
great love of dancing, a pleasant chuckling 
laugh, and a most agreeable habit of assenta- 
tion. Altogether Bab was a likeable person 
in spite of some nonsense, which is more than 
could honestly be said for her companion. 

Juxtaposition laid the corner-stone of this 
immortal friendship, which had already lasted 
four months and a half, and cemented by re- 
semblance of situation, and dissimilarity of 
character, really bade fair to continue some 
months longer. Both had been heartily weary 
of their previous situations: Laura keeping 
house for a brother in Aldersgate-street, where 
as she said she was overwhelmed by odious 
vulgar business; Barbara living with an aunt 
on Fish-street Hill, where she was tired to 
death of having nothing to do. Both had a 
passion for the country. Laura, who, except 
one jaunt to Margate, had never been out of 
the sound of Bow-b.;il, that she might ruralize 
after the fashion of the poets, sit under trees 
and gather roses all day long; Bab, who in 
spite of yearly trips to Paris and Brussels and 
Amsterdam and Brighton, had hardly seen a 
green field except through a coach-window, 
was on her side possessed with a mania for 
notability and management; she yearned to 
keep coti\'i, fatten pigs, breed poultry, grow 
cabbages, make hay, brew and bake, and 
wash and churn. Visions of killing her own 
mutton flitted over her delighted fancy ; and 
when one evening at a ball in the Borough 
her favourite partner had deserted her to dance 
with her niece, and Miss Laura, who had been 
reading Miss Seward's letters, proposed to her 
to retire from the world and its vanities in 
imitation of the illustrious recluses of Llan- 
gollen, Miss Barbara, caught above all things 
with the prospect of making her own butter 
every morning for breakfast,* acceded to the 
proposal most joyfully. 

The vow of friendship was taken, and no- 
thing remained but to look out for a house. 
Barbara wanted a farm, Laura a cottage ; Bar- 
bara talked of cows and clover, Laura of night- 
ingales and violets; Barbara siffhed for York- 
shire pastures, Laura for Welsh mountains; 
and the scheme seemed likely to go off for 
want of an habitation, when Rosedale in all 
the glory of advertisement shone on Miss 
Laura in the Morning Post, and was immedi- 
ately engaged by the delighted friends on a 
lease of seven, fourteen, or one-and-twenty 
years. 

It was a raw blowy March evening, when 
the fair partners arrived at the cottage. Miss 
Laura made a speech in her usual style on 
taking possession, an invocation to friendship 
and rural nature, and a deprecation of cities, 
society and men ; at the conclusion of which 



Vide Anna Seward's Correspondence. 



Miss Barbara underwent an embrassade; and 
having sufficiently admired the wonders with- 
in they sallied forth with a candle and Ian- 
thorn to view their ruralities without. Miss 
Laura was better satisfied with this ramble 
than her companion. She found at least trees 
and primroses, whilst the country felicities of 
ducks and chickens were entirely wanting, 
Bab, however, reconciled the matter by sup- 
posing they were gone to roost, and a little 
worn out by the journey wisely followed their 
example. 

The next day saw Miss Laura obliged to 
infringe her own most sacred and inviolable 
rule, and admit a man — the apothecary — into 
this maiden abode. She had sate under a tree 
the night before listening not to, but for a 
nightingale, and was laid up by a most un- 
pastoral fit of the rheumatism. Barbara in 
the meanwhile was examining her territory 
by day-light, and discovering fresh cause of 
vexation at every step. Here she was in the 
country, in a cottage "comprising," as the 
advertisement set forth, " all manner of con- 
venience and accommodation," without grass 
or corn, or cow or sheep, or pig or chicken, or 
turkey or goose ; — no laundry, no brew-house, 
no pig-stye, no poultry-yard ! not a cabbage in 
the garden ! not a useful thing about the house ! 
Imagine her consternation ! 

But Barbara was a person of activity and 
resource. She sallied out forthwith to the 
neighbouring village, bought utensils and live 
stock ; turned the coach-house into a cow- 
stall ; projected a pig-sty in the rosery; in- 
stalled her ducks and geese in the orangery; 
introduced the novelty of real milk-pans, 
churns and butter-prints amongst the old 
china, Dutch-tiles and stained glass of that 
make-believe toy the Gothic dairy ; placed her 
brewing vessels in 'the housekeeper's room,' 
which to accord with the genius of the place 
had been fitted up to represent a robber's 
cave; deposited her washing-tubs in the but- 
ler's pantry, which with a similar regard to 
congruity had been decorated with spars and 
shells like a Nereid's grotto ; and finally, in 
spite of all warning and remonstrance, drove 
her sheep into the shrubbery, and tethered her 
cows upon the lawn. 

This last stroke was too much for the gar- 
dener's patience. He betook hitmself in all 
haste to B. to apprise Mr. Walker; and Mr. 
Walker armed with Mr. Samuel Tompkins 
and a copy of the lease made his appearance 
with breathless speed at Rosedale. Barbara, 
in spite of her usual placidity, made good bat- 
tle on this occasion. She cried and scolded 
and reasoned and implored ; it was as much 
as Mr. Walker, and Mr. Samuel Tomkins, 
aided by their mute witness the lease, and 
that very clamorous auxiliary the gardener, 
could do to, out-talk her. At last, however, 
they were victorious. Poor Miss Bab's live 
stock were forced to make a rapid retreat, and 



WALKS IN THE COUNTRY, 



285 



she would probably have marched off at the 
same time, had not an incident occurred which 
brought her visions of rural felicity much 
nearer to reality than could have been antici- 
pated by the liveliest imagination. 

The farmer's wife of whom she had made 
her purchases, and to whom she unwillingly 
addressed herself to resume them, seeing to 
use her own words, " how much Madam 
seemed to take on at parting with the poor 
dumb things," kindly offered to accommodate 
them as boarders at a moderate stipend, vol- 
unteering also lessons in the chicken-rearing 
and pig-feeding department, of which the lady 
did to be sure stand rather in need. 

Of course Barbara closed with this proposal 
at a word. She never was so happy in her 
life; her cows, pigs, and poultry, en pension, 
close by, where she might see them every 
hour if siie liked, and she herself with both 
hands full, learning at the farm, and ordering 
at the cottage, and displaying all that can be 
imagined of ignorance and good-humour at 
both. 

Her mistakes were innumerable. Once for 
instance, she carried away by main force from 
a turkey, whose nest s'he had the ill-luck to 
discover, thirteen eggs, just ready to hatch, 
and after a severe combat with the furious and 
injured hen, brought them home to Rosedale 
as fresh-laid — under a notion rather new In 
natural history, that turkeys lay all their eggs 
in one day. Another time she discovered a 
hoard of choice double-dahlia roots in a tool- 
house belonging to her old enemy the garden- 
er, and delivered them to the cook for Jerusa- 
lem artichokes, who dressed them as such ac- 
cordingly. No end to Barbara's blunders ! 
but her good-humour, her cheerfulness, her 
liberality, and the happy frankness with which 
she laughed at her own mistakes, carried her 
triumphantly through. Every body liked her, 
especially a smug little curate who lodged at 
the very farm-house where her pigs and cattle 
were boarded, and said twenty times a day 
that Miss Barbara Jennings was the pleasant- 
est woman in England. Barbara was never 
so happy in her life. 

Miss Laura, on her part, continued rheu- 
matic and poorly, and kept closely to her bed- 
chamber, the Turkish tent, with no other con- 
solations than novels from the next town and 
the daily visits of the apothecary. She was 
shocked at Miss Barbara's intimacy with the 
farm people, and took every opportunity of 
telling her so. Barbara, never very fond of 
her fair companion's harangues, and not the 
more reconciled to them from their being di- 
rected against her own particular favourites, 
ran away as often as she could. So that the 
two friends had nearly arrived at the point of 
not speaking, when they met one afternoon by 
mutual appointment in the Chinese saloon. 
Miss Barbara blushed and looked silly, and 
seemed trying to say something which she 



could not bring out. Miss Laura tried to blush 
rather unsuccessfully. She however conld 
talk at all times, her powers of speech were 
never known to fail ; and at the end of an ora- 
tion in which she proved, as was pretty evi- 
dent, that they had been mistaken in suppos- 
ing the company of each all-sufficient to the 
other as well as in their plan of seclusion from 
the world, she invited Miss Barbara, after ah 
other vain attempt at a blush, to pay the last 
honours to their friendship by attending her to 
the hymeneal altar, whither she had promised 
to accompany Mr. Opodeldoc on the morning 
after the next. 

" I can't," replied Miss Barbara. 

"And why not?" resumed Miss Laura. 
" Surely Mr. Opodel " 

" Now, don't be angry !" interrupted our 
friend Bab. " I can't be your bridemaid the 
day after to-morrow, because I am going to 
be married to-morrow myself." 

And so they left Rosedale, and I shall leave 
them. 



WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. 

THE FALL OP THE LEAF. 

Nov. 6. — The weather is as peaceful to-day, 
as calm, and as mild, as in early April ; and, 
perhaps, an autumn afternoon and a spring 
morning do resemble each other more in feel- 
ing, and even in appearance, than any two 
periods of the year. There is in both the 
same freshness and dewiness of the herbage ; 
the same balmy softness in the air ; and the 
same pure and lovely blue sky, with white 
fleecy clouds floating across it. The chief 
difference lies in the absence of flowers, and 
the presence of leaves. But then the foliage 
of November is so rich, and glowing, and 
varied, that it may well supply the place of 
the gay blossoms of the spring; whilst all 
the flowers of the field or the garden could 
never make amends for the want of leaves — 
that beautiful and graceful attire in which 
nature has clothed the rugged forms of trees — 
the verdant drapery to which the landscape 
owes its loveliness, and the forests their glory. 

If choice must be between two seasons, 
each so full of charm, it is at least no bad 
philosophy to prefer the present good, even 
whilst looking gratefully back, and hopefully 
forward to the past and the future. And, of a 
surety, no fairer specimen of a November day 
could well be found than this, — a day made 
to wander 

" By yellow commons and birch-shaded hollows, 
And hedgerows bordering unfrequented lanes ;" 

nor could a prettier country be found for ouj 
walk than this shady and yet sunny Berkshire, 



286 



OUR VILLAGE, 



where the scenery, without rising into gran- 
deur or hreaking into wildness, is so peaceful, 
so cheerful, so varied, and so thoroughly Eng- 
lish. 

We must bend our steps towards the water 
side, for I have a message to leave at Farmer 
Ri*iey's : and sooth to say, it is no unpleasant 
necessity ; for the road thither is smooth and 
dry, retired, as one likes a country walk to 
be, but not too lonely, which women never 
like; leading past the Loddon — the bright, 
brimming, transparent Loddon — a fitting mir- 
ror for the bright blue sky, and terminating at 
one of the prettiest and most comfortable farm- 
houses in the neighbourhood. 

How beautiful the lane is to-day, decorated 
with a thousand colours ! The brown road, 
and the rich verdure that borders it, strewed 
with the pale yellow leaves of the elm, just 
beginning to fall ; hedge-rows glowing with 
long wreaths of the bramble in every variety 
of purplish red ; and overhead the unchanged 
green of the fir, contrasting with the spotted 
sycamore, the tawny beech, and the dry sere 
leaves of the oak, which rustle as the light 
wind passes through them : a few common 
hardy yellow flowers (for yellow is the com- 
mon colour of flowers, whether wild or culti- 
vated, as blue is the rare one,) flowers of many 
sorts, but almost of one tint, still blowing in 
spite of the season, and ruddy berries glowing 
through all. How very beautiful is the lane ! 

And how pleasant is this hill where the 
road widens, with the group of cattle by the 
way side, and George Hearn, the little post- 
boy, trundling his hoop at fui! speed, making 
all the better haste in his work, because he 
cheats himself into thinking it play ! And 
how beautiful again, is this patch of common 
at the hill top with the clear pool, where 
Martha Pither's children, — elves of three, and 
four, and five years old, — without any dis- 
tinction of sex in their sunburnt faces and 
tattered drapery, are dipping up water in their 
little homely cups shining with cleanliness, 
and a small brown pitcher with the lip broken, 
to fill that great kettle, which, when it is 
filled, their united strength will never be able 
to lift ! They are quite a group for a painter, 
with their rosy cheeks, and chubby hands, and 
round merry faces ; and the low cottage in the 
back-ground, peeping out of its vine-leaves 
and China-roses, with Martha at the door, 
tidy, and comely, and smiling, preparing the 
potatoes for the pot, and watching the pro- 
gress of dipping and filling that useful uten- 
sil, completes the picture. 

But we must get on. No time for more 
sketches in these short days. It is getting 
cold too. We must proceed in our walk. 
Dash is showing us the way and beating the 
thick double hedge-row that runs along the 
side of the meadows, at a rate that indicates 
game astir, and causes the leaves to fly as fast 
as an east wind after a hard frost. Ah I a 



pheasant! a superb cock-pheasant ! Nothing 
is more certain than Dash's questing, whether 
in a hedge-row or a covert, for a better spaniel 
never went into the field ; but I fancied that 
it was a hare afoot, and was almost as much 
startled to hear the whirring of those splendid 
wings, as the princely bird himself would 
have been at the report of a gun. Indeed, I 
believe, that the way in which a pheasant 
goes off, does sometimes make young sports- 
men a little nervous (they don't own it very 
readily, but the observation may be relied on 
nevertheless,) until they get as it were broken 
into the sound ; and then that grand and sud- 
den burst of wing becomes as pleasant to 
them as it seerns to be to Dash, who is beat- 
ing the hedge-row with might nnd main, and 
giving tongue louder, and sending the leaves 
about faster than ever — very proud of finding 
the pheasant, and perhaps a little angry with 
me for not shooting it ; at least looking as if 
he would be angry if I were a man ; for Dash 
is a dog of great sagacity, and has doubtless 
not lived four years in the sporting world 
without making the discovery, that although 
gentlemen do shoot, ladies do not. 

The Loddon at last! the beautiful Loddon ! 
and the bridge where every one stops, as by 
instinct, to lean over the rails, and gaze a 
moment on a landscape of surpassing love- 
liness, — the fine grounds of the Great House 
with their magnificent groups of limes, and 
firs, and poplars grander than ever poplars 
were; the green meadows opposite, studded 
with oaks and elms ; the clear winding river ; 
the mill with its picturesque old buildings 
bounding the scene; all glowing with the 
rich colouring of autumn, and harmonized by 
the soft beauty of the clear blue sky, and the 
delicious calmness of the hour. The very 
peasant whose daily path it is, cannot cross 
that bridge without a pause. 

But the day is wearing fast, and it grows 
colder and colder. I really think it will be a 
frost. After all, spring is the pleasantest 
season, beautiful as this scenery is. We must 
get on. Down that broad yet shadowy lane, 
between the park, dark with evergreens and 
dappled with deer, and the meadows, where 
sheep, and cows, and horses, are grazing 
under the tall elms ; that lane, where the 
wild bank clothed with fern, and tufted with 
furze, and crowned by rich-berried thorn, and 
thick shining holly on the one side, seems to 
vie in beauty with the picturesque old paling, 
the bright laurels, and the plumy cedars, on 
the other; — down that shady lane, until the 
sudden turn brings us to an opening where 
four roads meet, where a noble avenue turns 
down to the Great House ; where the village 
church rears its modest spire from amidst its 
venerable yew-trees ; and where, embosomed 
in orchards and gardens, and backed by barns 
and ricks, and all the wealth of the farm-yard, 
i stands the spacious and comfortable abode of 



CHILDREN OF THE VILLAGE, 



287 



good Farmer Riley, — the end and object of 
our walk. 

And in happy time the messag^e is said, and 
the answer s^iven, for tliis beautiful mild day 
is edginor off into a dense frosty evening ; the 
leaves of the elm and the linden in the old 
avenue are quivering and vibrating and flut- 
tering in the air, and at length falling crisply 
on the earth, as if Dash were beating for phea- 
sants in the tree tops; the sun gleams dimly 
through the fog, giving little more of light or 
heat than his fair sister the lady moon; — I 
don't know a more disappointing person than 
a cold sun ; and I am beginning to wrap my 
cloak closely round me, and to calculate the 
distance to my own fire-side, recanting all the 
way my praises of November, and longing for 
the showery flowery April as much as if I 
were a half-chilled butterfly, or a dahlia 
knocked down by the frost. 

Ah dear me ! what a climate this is, that 
one cannot keep in the same mind about it for 
half an hour together ! I wonder by the way 
whether the fault is in the weather, which 
Dash does not seem to care for, or in me 1 If 
I should happen to be wet through in a shower 
next spring, and should catch myself longing 
for autumn, that would settle the question. 



CHILDREN OF THE VILLAGE. 

THE TWO DOLLS. 

A LUCKY day it was for little Fanny El- 
vington when her good aunt Delmont con- 
sented to receive her into her family, and sent 
for her from a fine old place, six miles from 
hence, Burdon Park, where she had been liv- 
ing with her maternal grandfather, to her own 
comfortable house in Brunswick Square. • Poor 
Fanny had no natural home, her father. Gene- 
ral Elvington, being in India with his lady; 
and a worse residence than the Park could 
hardly be devised for a little girl, since Lady 
Burdon was dead, Sir Richard too sickly to 
be troubled with children, and the care of his 
grand-daughter left entirely to a vulgar old 
nurse and a superfine housekeeper. A lucky 
day for Fanny was that in which she ex- 
changed their misrule for the wise and gentle 
government of her good aunt Delmont. 

Fanny Elvington was a nice little girl, who 
had a great many good qualities, and, like 
other little girls, ? few faults ; which had 
grown up like weeds under the neglect and 
mismanagement of the people at the Park, 
and threatened to require both time and pains 
to eradicate. For instance, she had a great 
many foolish antipathies and troublesome 
fears, some caught from the affectation of the 
housekeeper, some from the ignorance of the 
nurse : she shrieked at the sight of a mouse, 
squalled at a frog, was well-nigh ready to 



faint at an earwig, and quite as much afraid 
of a spider as if she had been a fly ; she ran 
away from a quiet ox, as if he had been a mad 
bull, and had such a horror of chimney-sweep- 
ers that she shrank her head under the bed- 
clothes whenever she heard the deep cry of 
" sweep ! sw^eep !" forerunning the old clothes- 
man and the milkman on a frosty morning, 
and could hardly be persuaded to look at them, 
poor creatures, dressed in their tawdry tinsel 
and dancing round Jack of the Green on May- 
day. But her favourite fear, her pet aversion, 
was a negro ; especially a little black footboy 
who lived next door, and whom she never 
saw without shrinking, and shuddering, and 
turning pale. 

It was a most unlucky aversion for Fanny, 
and gave her and her aunt more trouble than 
all her other mislikings put together, inas- 
much as Pompey came oftener in view than 
mouse or frog, spider or earwig, ox or chim- 
ney-sweep. How it happened nobody could 
tell, but Pompey was always in Fanny El- 
vington's way. She saw him twice as often 
as any one else in the house. If she went to 
the window, he was sure to be standing on 
the steps : if she walked in the Square gar- 
den, she met him crossing the pavement; she 
could not water her geraniums in the little 
court behind the house, but she heard his 
merry voice singing in broken English as he 
cleaned the knives and shoes on the other side 
of the wall ; nay, she could not even hang out 
her Canary-bird's cage at the back door, but 
he was sure to be feeding his parrot at theirs. 
Go where she would, Pompey's shining black 
face and broad white teeth followed her: he 
haunted her very dreams; and the oftener she 
saw him, whether sleeping or waking, the 
more her unreasonable antipathy grew upon 
her. Her cousins laughed at her without ef- 
fect, and her aunt's serious remonstrances were 
equally useless. 

The person who, next to Fanny herself, 
suffered the most from this foolish and wicked 
prejudice, was poor Pompey, whose intelli- 
gence, activity, and good-humour, had made 
him a constant favourite in his master's house, 
and who had sufficient sensibility to feel deep- 
ly the horror and disgust which he had in- 
spired in his young neighbour. At first he 
tried to propitiate her by bringing groundsel 
and chickweed for her Canary-bird, running 
to meet her with an umbrella when she hap- 
pened to be caught in the rain, and other small 
attentions, which were repelled with absolute 
loathing. 

" Me same flesh and blood with you, missy, 
though skin be black," cried poor Pompey 
one day when pushed to extremity by Fanny's 
disdain, "same flesh and blood, missy I" a 
fiict which the young lady denied with more 
than usual indignation ; she looked at her own 
white skin, and she thought of his black one ; 
and all the reasoning of-her aunt failed to con- 



288 



OUR VILLAGE. 



vince her, that where the outside was so dif- 
ferent, the inside could by possibility be alike. 
At last Mrs. Delinont was fain to leave the 
matter to the great curer of all prejudices, 
called Time, who in this case seemed even 
slower in his operations than usual. 

In the meanwhile, Fanny's birthday ap- 
proached, and as it was within a few days of 
that of her cousin Emma Delmont, it was 
agreed to celebrate the two festivals together. 
Double feasting! double holiday ! double pre- 
sents ! never was a gayer anniversary. Mrs. 
Delmont's own gifts had been reserved to the 
conclusion of the jollity, and after the fruit 
was put on the table, two huge dolls, almost 
as big as real babies, were introduced to the 
little company. They excited and deserved 
universal admiration. The first was a young 
iady of the most delicate construction and the 
most elaborate ornament; a doll of the high- 
est fashion, with sleeves like a bishop, a waist 
like a wasp, a magnificent bustle, and petti- 
coats so full and so puffed out round the bot- 
tom, that the question of hoop or no hoop was 
stoutly debated between two of the elder girls. 
Her cheeks were very red, and her neck very 
white, and her ringlets in the newest possible 
taste. In short, she was so completely a la 
mode that a Parisian milliner might have sent 
her as a pattern to her fellow-tradeswoman in 
London, or the London milliner might have 
returned the compliment to her sister artist 
over the water. Her glories, however, were 
fated to be eclipsed. The moment that the 
second doll made its appearance, the lady of 
fashion was looked at no longer. 

The second doll was a young gentleman, 
habited in the striped and braided costume 
which is the ordinary transition dress of boys 
between leaving off petticoats and assuming 
the doublet and hose. It was so exactly like 
Willy Delmont's own attire, that the aston- 
ished boy looked at himself, to be sure that 
the doll had not stolen the clothes off his 
back. The apparel, however, was not the 
charm that fixed the attention of the young 
people ; the attraction was the complexion, 
which was of as deep and shining a black, as 
perfect an imitation of a negro, in tint and 
feature, as female ingenuity could accomplish. 
The face, neck, arms, and legs were all cover- 
ed with black silk ; and much skill was shown 
in shaping and sewing on the broad flat nose, 
large ears and pouting lips, whilst the great 
white teeth and bright round eyes relieved the 
monotony of the colour. The wig was of 
black worsted, knitted and then unravelled, as 
natural as if it had actually grown on the 
head. Perhaps the novelty (for none of the 
party had seen a black doll before) might in- 
crease the effect, but they all declared that 
they had never seen so accurate an imitation, 



so perfect an illusion. Even Fanny, who at 
first sight had almost taken the doll for her 
old enemy Pompey in little, and had shrunk 
back accordingly, began at last to catch some 
of the curiosity (for curiosity is a catching 
passion) that characterized her companions. 
She drew near — she gazed — at last she even 
touched the doll, and listened with some in- 
terest to Mrs. Delmont's detail of the trouble 
she found in constructing the young lady and 
gentleman. 

" What are they made of, aunt ]" 
"Rags, my dear!" was the reply: "no- 
thing but rags," continued Mrs. Delmont, un- 
ripping a little of the black gentleman's foot 
and the white lady's arm, and showing the 
linen of which they were composed ; — " both 
alike, Fanny," pursued her good aunt, " both 
the same colour underneath the skin, and both 
the work of the same hand — like Pompey and 
you," added she more solemnly; "and now 
choose which doll you will." 

And Fanny, blushing and hesitating, chose 
the black one ; and the next day her aunt had 
the pleasure to see her show it to Pompey 
over the wall, to his infinite delight ; and, in 
a very few days, Mrs. Delmont had the still 
greater pleasure to find that Fanny Elvington 
had not only overcome and acknowledged her 
prejudice, but had given Pompey a new half- 
crown, and had accepted groundsel for her 
Canary-bird from the poor negro boy. 



Note. — About a month after sitting to me 
for his portrait, the young black gentleman 
whom I have endeavoured to describe (I do 
not mean Pompey but the doll,) set out upon 
his travels. He had been constructed in this 
little Berkshire of ours for some children in 
the great county of York, and a friend of mine 
travelling northward had the goodness to offer 
him a })lace in her carriage for the journey. 
My friend was a married woman accompanied 
by her husband and another lady, and finding 
the doll cumbersome to pack, wrapped it in a 
large shawl and carried it in her lap baby 
fashion. At the first inn where they stopped 
to dine, she handed it carelessly out of the 
carriage before alighting, and was much 
amused to see it received with the grave offi- 
cious tenderness usually shown to a real infant 
by the nicely-dressed hostess, whose conster- 
nation, when, still taking it for a living child, 
she caught a glimpse of the complexion, is 
said to have been irresistibly ludicrous. Of 
course my friend did not undeceive her. In- 
deed I believe she humoured the mistake 
wherever it occurred all along the north road, 
to the unspeakable astonishment and mystifi- 
cation of chamber-maids and waiters. 



HOPPING BOB. 



289 



HOPPING BOB. 

It was on a rainy day, late in last Novem- 
ber, that Mrs. Villars came to take possession 
of her new residence, called the Lodore, a 
pretty house about ten miles off, situated 
within the boundaries of Oakhampstead Park, 
the pleasant demesne of her brother-in-law, 
Sir Arthur Villars, and generally appropriated 
to the use of some dowager of that ancient 
and wealthy race. 

Mrs. Villars v,-as an elderly lady of mode- 
rate fortune and excellent character. She was 
the widow of a dionified and richly-beneficed 
clergyman, who had been dead some years, 
and had left her with three promising sons 
and two pretty daughters, all of whom were 
now making their way in the world to her 
perfect satisfaction ; — -the daughters happily 
and respectably married ; the sons thriving in 
different professions ; and all of them as 
widely scattered as the limits of our little isl- 
and could well permit; — so that their mother, 
disencumbered of the cares of her offspring, 
had nothing now to prevent her accepting Sir 
Arthur's kind offer of leaving the great town 
in which she had hitherto resided, and coming 
to occupy the family jointure-honse at Oak- 
hampstead. To inhabit a mansion in which 
so many stately matrons of the house of Vil- 
lars had lived and died, was a point of dignity 
no less than of economy ; and besides, there 
was no resisting so excellent an opportunity 
of gratifying, amidst the good Archdeacon's 
native shades, the taste for retirement and 
solitude of which she had all her life been ac- 
customed to talk. Talk indeed she did so 
very much of this taste, that shrewd observers 
somewhat questioned its existence, and were 
not a little astonished when, after dallying 
away the summer over take-leave visits, she 
and her whole establishment (two maids, a 
pony-chaise, a tabby-cat, and her scrub, Jo- 
seph,) left C, with its society and amusements, 
its morning calls and evening parties, for sol- 
itude and the Lodge. 

Never was place or season better calculated 
to bring a lover of retirement to the test. 
Oakhampstead, separated from our populous 
neighbourhood by a barrier of wild heath, 
was situated in the most beautiful and least 
inhabited part of a thinly-inhabited and beau- 
tiful county ; the roads were execrable ; the 
nearest post-town was seven miles off; the 
vicar was a bachelor of eighty ; and the great 
house was shut up. There was not even one 
neiohbour of decent station to whom she might 
complain of the want of a neighbourhood. 
Poor Mrs Villars ! the last stroke too — the de- 
sertion of the park — was an unexpected calam- 
ity ; for although she knew that Sir Arthur 
had never resided there since the death of a 
most beloved daughter, after which event it 
had been entirely abandoned, except for a few 



weeks in the autumn, when his only son, 
Harry Villars, had been accustomed to visit 
it for the purpose of shooting, yet she had 
understood that this her favourite nephew was 
on the point of marriage with the beautiful 
heiress of General Egerton, and that this fine 
old seat was to form the future residence of 
the young couple. Something she learned 
had now occurred to prevent an union which, 
a few months ago, had seemed so desirable to 
all parties. Some dispute between the fathers, 
originally trifling, but worked up into bitter- 
ness by the influence of temper ; and all pre- 
parations were stopped, Harry Villars gone 
abroad, and the great house as much shut up 
as ever. Poor Mrs. Villars, who, after all 
her praises of retirement and her declared 
love of solitude, could not with any consist- 
ency run away from this " Deserted Village," 
was really as deserving of pity as any one 
guilty of harmless affectation well could be. 

The good lady, however, was not wanting 
to herself in this emergency. She took cold, 
that she might summon an apothecary from 
the next town ; and she caused her pigs to 
commit a trespass on the garden of a litigious 
farmer, that she might have an excuse for 
consulting the nearest attorney. Both re- 
sources failed. The medical man was one of 
eminent skill and high practice, whom nothing 
but real illness could allure into constant at- 
tendance; and the lawyer was honest, and 
settled the affair of the pigs at a single visit. 
All that either could do for her was to enume- 
rate two or three empty houses that might 
possibly be filled in the course of the next 
summer, and two or three people who would 
probably call when the roads became passable ; 
so that poor Mrs. Villars, after vainly trying 
to fill up her vacant hours — Alas! all her 
hours ! — by superintending her own poultry- 
yard, overlooking the village-school, giving 
away flannel petticoats, and relieving half the 
old women in the parish, had very nearly 
made up her mind to find the Lodge disagree 
with her, and to return to her old quarters at 
C, when the arrival of a fresh inmate at the 
next farm-house gave an unexpected interest 
to her own situation. 

Oakhampstead was, as I have said, a very 
beautiful spot. Its chief beauty consisted in 
a small lake or mere without the park, sur- 
rounded partly by pastoral meadow-grounds, 
and partly by very wild and romantic wood- 
land scenery, amongst which grew some of 
the noblest oaks in the kingdom. The water 
did not, perhaps, cover more than thirty acres ; 
although a length disproportioned to its breadth, 
abend in the middle, and above all, the infinite 
variety of its shores, indented with tiny bays 
and jutting out into mimic promontories, gave 
it an appearance of much greater extent. 
Rides and walks had formerly been cut around 
it; but these were now rude and overgrown, 
the rustic seats decayed and fallen, and the 



25 



2M 



290 



OUR VILLAGE. 



summer-houses covered with ivy and creeping 
plants. Since the absence of Sir Arthur ne- 
glect had succeeded to care ; but a poet or a 
painter would have felt that the scene had 
gained in picturesqueness what it had lost in 
ornament. A green boat, however, and a 
thatched boat-house still remained in excel- 
lent preservation under the shadow of some 
magnificent elms ; and the chimney of the 
boatman's cottage might just be seen peeping 
between the trees, over the high embankment 
which formed the head of the lake. The only 
other habitation visible from the water was 
an old farm-house, the abode of Farmer Ash- 
ton, whose wife, formerly the personal attend- 
ant of the late Lady Villars, had soon been 
found by her surviving relative to be by far 
the most conversible person in the place : and 
if the many demands on her attention, the 
care of men, maids, cows, calves, pigs, tur- 
keys, geese, ducks, chickens, and children, 
would have allowed her to devote much time 
to the unfortunate lady, her society would 
doubtless have proved a great solace and re- 
source. But Mrs. Ashton, with all her desire 
to oblige Mrs. Villars, was enviably busy, 
and could only at short and distant intervals 
listen to, and, by listening, relieve the intol- 
erable ennui of her seclusion. 

Now, however, a fresh inmate had made 
her appearance at the farm : a young woman, 
whom Mrs. Ashton called Anne, and intro- 
duced as her niece ; who, having much leisure 
(for apparently she did nothing in the family 
but assist in the lighter reedle-work,) and 
evincing, as far as great modesty and diffidence 
would permit, her respectful sympathy with 
the involuntary recluse, became her favourite 
auditress during her frequent visits to Farmer 
Ashton's ; and was soon sent for as a visiter 
(an humble visiter, for neither Mrs, Villars 
nor her youngest guest ever forgot the differ- 
ence of their stations) at the Lodge. Seldom 
a day passed without Joseph and the pony- 
chaise being sent to fetch Anne from the farm. 
Nothing went well without her. 

Partly, of course, the charm might be re- 
solvable into the bare fact of getting a listener ; 
any good listener would have been a welcome 
acquisition in this emergency ; that is to say, 
any one who felt and showed a genuine sym- 
pathy with the " Fair afflicted ;" but few 
would have been so welcome as Anne, who 
soon became, on the score of her own merits, 
a first-rate favourite with Mrs. Villars. 

Whether Anne was pretty or not was a 
standing question in the village of Oakhamp- 
stead. Her zealous patroness answered with- 
out the slightest hesitation in the affirmative. 
Other people doubted. For the poorer sort 
her face and figure wanted showiness ; whilst 
the young farmers and persons of that class 
complained that she was not, according to 
their notions, sufficiently genteel. Mrs.^Vil- 
lars's man-of-all-work, Joseph, combined both 



objections by declaring that Anne would be 
well enough if she were smarter. My readers 
must judge for themselves, as well at least as 
a pen-and-ink drawing will enable them. 

Her figure was round and short, and piqu- 
ante and youthful. Her face was round also, 
with delicate features and a most delicate 
complexion, as white and smooth as ivory, 
and just coloured enough for health. She had 
finely cut grey eyes, with dark eye-brows and 
eye-lashes, a profusion of dark hair, and a 
countenance so beaming with gaiety and 
sweetness, that the expression was always 
like that of other faces when they smile. 
Then her voice and accent were enchanting. 
She sang little snatches of old airs in gushes 
like a nightingale — freely, spontaneously, as 
if she could no more help singing as she went 
about than that " angel of the air ;" and her 
spoken words were as musical and graceful as 
her songs ; what she said being always sweet, 
gentle and intelligent ; sometimes very lively 
and sometimes a little sad. 

Her dress was neat and quiet, — plain dark 
gowns, fitting with great exactness, such as 
were equally becoming to her station and her 
figure; delicately white caps and habit-shirts, 
and the simplest of all simple straw bonnets. 
The only touch of finery about her was in her 
chaussure; the silk stockings and kid slippers 
in which her beautiful little feet were always 
clad, and in her scrupulously clean and new- 
looking French gloves, of the prettiest pale 
colours; — a piece of quaker-like and elegant 
extravagance, which, as well as the purity of 
her accent and diction, somewhat astonished 
Mrs. Villars, until she found from Mrs. Ash- 
ton, that Anne also had been a lady's maid, 
admitted early into the family, and treated al- 
most as a companion by her young mistress. 

" Where had she lived V was the next 
question. 

"In General PJgerton's family," was the 
reply ; and a new source of interest and curi- 
osity was opened to the good lady, who had 
never seen her niece, that was to have been, 
and was delighted with the opportunity of 
making a variety of inquiries respecting her- 
self and her connexions. Anne's answers to 
these questions were given with great brevity 
and some reluctance; she looked down and 
blushed, and fidgeted with a sprig of myrtle 
which she held in her hand, in a manner 
widely different from her usual lady-like com- 
posure. 

" Was Miss Egerton so very handsome*!" 

"Oh, no!" 

" So very accomplished 1" 

" No." 

" Did Harry love her very much V 

" Yes." 

"Did she love himl" 

"Oh, yes!" 

" Was she worthy of him ?" 

"No." 



HOPPING BOB. 



291 



"Ah!" said Mrs. Villars, "I thoiicrht she 
was too fine a lady, too full of airs and 
graces ! I have had my doubts of her ever 
since a note that she sent me, written on blue 
embossed paper, and smellino^ most atrociously 
of ottar of roses. I dare say Harry has had a 
narrow escape. Sir Arthur, even before the 
quarrel, said she was quite a petite maitresse. 
Then you think, Anne, that my nephew is 
better without her]" 

This query caused a good deal of blushing 
hesitation, and nearly demolished the sprig of 
myrtle. On its being repeated, she said, " She 
did not know ! she could not tell! She did 
not wish to speak ill of Miss Egerton; but 
few ladies appeared to her worthy of Mr. Vil- 
lars — he was so amiable." 

" Was Miss Egerton kind to her?" 

" Pretty well," answered Anne quietly. 

" And the General ?" 

"Oh, very! very!" rejoined Anne sighing 
deeply. 

" Why did she leave the family 1" 

At this question poor Anne burst into tears, 
and the conversation ended. ■ Mrs. Villars, un- 
willing to distress her favourite, did not re- 
sume it. She was already prepossessed against 
the Egertons by the disappointment and vexa- 
tion which they had occasioned to her nephew, 
and had little doubt but that either the Gene- 
ral or his daughter had behaved unjustly or 
unkindly to Anne. 

Winter had now worn away ; even those 
remains of winter which linger so long amidst 
the buds and blossoms of spring ; spring itself 
had passed into summer, the country was 
every day assuming fresh charms, the roads 
were becoming passable, and distant neigh- 
bours were beginning to discover and to value 
the lady of the Lodge, who became more re- 
conciled to her residence, varied as it now 
was by occasional visits to the county fami- 
lies, and frequent excursions with Anne upon 
the lake. 

On these occasions they were constantly 
attended by the boatman, a handy, good-hu- 
moured, shock-pated fellow, of extraordinary 
ugliness, commonly called Bob Green, but 
also known by the name of " Hopping Bob ;" 
not on account of his proiiciency in that one- 
legged accomplishment, as the cognomen 
would seem to imply, but because an incura- 
ble lameness in the hip had produced a jerking 
sort of motion in walking, much resembling 
that mode of progress ; and had also given a 
peculiar one-sided look to his short muscular 
figure. The hop, it must be confessed, stood 
much in his way on land, although he was 
excellent in the management of a boat ; in 
rowing, or steering, or fishing, or any thing 
that had relation to the water. 

A clever fellow was Bob, and a civil, and 
paid much attention to his lady and her young 
companion ; and as the summer advanced, they 
passed more and more time on the beautiful 



lake, of which they continued the sole visit- 
ers ; the great house being still deserted, ar^d 
little known either of Sir Arthur or his son. 

One afternoon, Mrs. Villars, returning un- 
expectedly from a distant visit, drove down to 
the farm, intending to spend the evening with 
Anne in the pleasure-boat. It was a bright 
sunny day towards the middle of .Tuly. The 
blue sky, dappled with fleecy clouds, was re- 
flected on the calm clear water, and mingled 
with the shadows of the trees upon the banks, 
to which the sun, shining through the tall 
oaks, gave occasionally a transparent glitter, 
as of emeralds or beryls ; swallows skimmed 
over the lake, flitting around and about, after 
the myriads of insects that buzzed in the sum- 
mer air; the white water-lily lay in its pure 
beauty in the midst of its deep green leaves; 
the foxglove and the wild veitch were glow- 
ing in the woods ; the meadow-sweet, the 
willow-herb, and the golden flag fringed the 
banks; cows stood cooling their limbs in the 
shallow indented bays, and a flock of sheep 
was lying at rest in the distant meadows. 

Altogether it was a scene of sweet and 
soothing beauty ; and Mrs. Villars was look- 
ing for Anne to partake in her enjoyment (for 
Anne, Mrs. Ashton had told her, was gone 
down to the mere,) when in a small cove at 
the other side of the lake, she beheld in a fine 
effect of sunny light, the boat, their own iden- 
tical green boat, resting quietly on the water, 
with two persons sitting in it, seemingly in 
earnest conversation. One of the figures was 
undoubtedly Anne. Her astonished friend re- 
cognised at a glance her lead-coloured gown, 
her straw bonnet, and that peculiar air and at- 
titude which gave grace and beauty to her 
simple dress. The other was a man, tall as 
it seemed, and elegant — most certainly a gen- 
tleman. Mrs. Villars even fancied that the 
height and bearing had a strong resemblance 
to her own dear nephew, Harry ; and immedi- 
ately a painful suspicion of the possible cause 
of Anne's leaving Miss Egerton forced itself 
upon her mind. Harry had perhaps found the 
lady's maid no less charming than her mis- 
tress ! 

A thousand trifling circumstances in favour 
of this opinion rushed on her recollection : 
Anne's blushes when Harry was accidentally 
named : her constant avoidance of all mention 
of the family in which she had resided : the 
great inequality of her spirits : her shrinking 
from the very sight of chance visiters ; the 
emotion amounting to pain, which any re- 
markable instance of kindness or confidence 
never failed to occasion her; and above all, 
the many times in which, after seeming on 
the point of making some avowal to her kind 
patroness, she had drawn suddenly back : all 
these corroborating circumstances pressed at 
once with startling distinctness on Mrs. Vil- 
lars's memory ; and, full of care, she returned 
to the farm to cross-question Mrs. Ashton. 



292 



OUR VILLAGE. 



Never was examination more thoroughly 
unsatisfactory. Mrs. Ashton was that pro- 
voking and refractory thing, a reluctant wit- 
ness. First, she disputed the facts of the 
case : "had Mrs. Villars seen the boat? Was 
she sure that she had seen it? Was it ac- 
tually their own green boat] Did it really 
contain two persons ] And was the female 
certainly Anne]" 

All these questions being answered in the 
affirmative, Mrs. Ashton shifted her ground, 
and asserted that " If the female in question 
were certainly Anne, her companion must with 
equal certainty be the boatman, Bob Green, 
' Hopping Bob,' as he was called !" and the 
farmer coming in at the moment, she called 
on him to support her assertion, which, with- 
out hearing a word of the story, he did most 
positively, as a dutiful and obedient husband 
ought to do — "Yes, for certain it must be 
Hopping Bob ! It could be no other." 

" Hopping Bob !" ejaculated Mrs. Villars, 
whose patience was by this time well-nigh 
exhausted : " Hopping Bob ! when I have told 
you that the person in the boat was a young 
man, a tall man, a slim man, a gentleman ! 
Hopping Bob, indeed !" and before the words 
were fairly uttered, in hopped Bob himself. 

To Mrs. Villars this apparition gave un- 
qualified satisfaction, by affording, as she de- 
clared, the most triumphant evidence of an 
alibi ever produced in or out of a court of jus- 
tice. Her opponent, however, was by no 
means disposed to yield the point. She had 
perfect confidence in Bob's quickness of ap- 
prehension, and no very strong fear of his ab- 
stract love of truth, and determined to try the 
effect of a leading question. She immediate- 
ly, therefore, asked him, with much signifi- 
cance of manner, "whether he had not just 
landed from the lake, and reached the farm 
by the short cut across the coppice]" adding 
" that her niece had probably walked towards 
the boat-house to meet Mrs. Villars, and that 
Bob had better go and fetch her." 

This question produced no other answer than 
a long whistle from the sagacious boatman. 
Whether Mrs. Ashton over-rated his ability, 
or under-rated his veracity, or whether his 
shrewdness foresaw that detection was inevi- 
table, and that it would " hurt his conscience 
to be found out," whichever were the state of 
the case he positively declined giving ar-iy 
evidence on the question ; and after standing 
for a few moments eyeing his hostess with a 
look of peculiar knowingness, vented another 
lono- whistle, and hopped off again. 

Mrs. Villars, all her fears confirmed, much 
disgrusted with the farmer, and still more so 
with the farmer's wife, was also departing, 
when just as she reached the porch, she saw 
two persons advancing from the lake, to the 
house — her nephew Harry Villars, and Anne 
leaning on his arm ! 

With a countenance full of grieved displea- 



sure, she walked slowly towards them. Harry 
sprang forward to meet her : " Hear me but 
for one moment, my dearest aunt ! Listen but 
to four words, and then say what you will. 
This is my wife." 

" Your wife ! why I thought you loved 
Miss Egertonl" 

" Well and this is, or rather happily for me 
this was Miss Egerton;" replied Henry, smil- 
ing. 

"Miss Egerton!" exclaimed the amazed 
and half-incredulous Mrs. Villars. " Miss 
Egerton I Anne, that was not smart enough 
for Joseph, the fine lady that sent me the rose- 
scented note ! Anne at the farm, the great 
heiress ! My own good little Anne !" 

" Ay, my dear aunt, your own Anne and 
my own Anne — blessings on the word ! When 
we were parted on a foolish political quarrel 
between our fathers, she was sent under the 
care of her cousin Lady Lemingham to Flo- 
rence. Lady Lemingham was much my 
friend. She not only persuaded Anne into 
marrying me privately, but managed to make 
the General believe that his daughter con- 
tinued her inmate abroad ; whilst Mrs. Ash- 
ton, another good friend of mine, contrived to 
receive her at home. We have been sad de- 
ceivers," continued Harry, " and at last Anne, 
fettered by a promise of secresy, which your 
kindness tempted her every moment to break, 
could bear the deceit no longer. She wrote 
to her father, and I spoke to mine ; and they 
are reconciled, and all is forgiven. I see that 
you forgive us," added he, as his sweet wife 
lay sobbing on Mrs. Villars's bosom — " I see 
that you forgive her ; and you must forgive me 
too, for her dear sake. Your pardon is essen- 
tial to our happiness ; for we are really to live 
at the park, and one of our first wishes must 
always be, that you may continue at the Great 
House the kindness that you have shown to 
Anne at the Farm." 



A VISIT TO RICHMOND. 

The Macadamised roads, and the light open 
carriages lately introduced, have so abridged, 
I had well-nigh said annihilated, distance in 
this fair island, that what used to be a journey, 
is now a drive; our neighbourhood has be- 
come, from a reverse reason to theirs, as ex- 
tensive as that of the good people in the back 
settlements of America ; we think nothing of 
thirty miles for a morning call, or firty for a 
dinner party ; Richmond is quite within visit- 
ing distance, and London will shortly be our 
market-town. 

This pleasant change was never so strongly 
impressed on my mind as by a hasty and most 
agreeable jaunt which I made to ihe former of 
these places during one of the few fine days 



A VISIT TO RICHMOND, 



293 



last summer. The invitation, written one day, 
arrived in course of post by breakfast-time the 
next, and vi'itiiout any uncomfortal)!e hurry in 
packing or setting off, we were quietly dining 
with our kind inviters, rather before than after 
our usual hour, and might have returned very 
conveniently the same evening, had we been 
so minded. 

There was some temptation to this exploit 
besides the very great one of whisking to and 
fro like a jack-o'lantern, and making all the 
village stare at our rapidity. Our road lay 
through the Forest, and we might have passed 
again by moonlight the old romantic royal 
town of Windsor, with its stately ])alace and 
its vShaksperian associations — I never catch a 
glimpse of those antique buildings, but those 
" Merry Wives" and all their company start 
up before my eyes; might have heard the 
night-wind rustle amongst the venerable oaks 
and beeches of its beautiful park ; might have 
seen the 'deer couciung in the fern, and the 
hare scudding across the glades ; and as we 
paused to contemplate the magical effects of 
light and shadow which forest scenery dis- 
plays at such an hour, might have seen the 
castle in the distance, throwing its dark masses 
against the sky, and looking like some stu- 
pendous work of nature, or some grand dream 
of Gothic architecture, rather than an actual 
erection of man. Every body that has seen 
Windsor by moonlight will understand how 
much one wishes to see that most striking 
sight again ; — but our friends were not people 
to run away from, besides I wanted to get 
better acquainted with the celebrated spot 
where they resided : — so we staid. . 

" God made the Country and man made the 
Town !" I wonder in which of the two di- 
visions Cowper would have placed Richmond. 
Every Londoner would laugh at the rustic 
who should call it town, and with foreigners 
it passes pretty generally for a sample (the 
oidy one they see) of the rural villages of 
England ; and yet it is no more like the coun- 
try, the real untriramed genuine country, as 
we see it hereabouts for instance, than a gar- 
den is like a field. I do not say this in dis- 
paragement. Richmond is nature in a court- 
dress, but still nature, — ay, and very lovely 
nature too, gay and happy and elegant as one 
of Charles the Second's beauties, and with as 
little to remind one of the original penalty of 
labour, or poverty, or grief, or crime. I sup- 
pose that since no place on the globe is wholly 
exempt from their influence, care and vice may 
exist even there. They are, however, well 
hidden. The inhabitants may find them, or 
they may find tlie inhabitants, but to the casual 
visiter, Richmond ap])ears as a sort of fairy 
land, a ])iece of the old Arcadia, -a holiday- 
spot for ladies and gentlemen, where they 
lead a happy out-of-door life, like the gay 
folks in Watteau's pictures, and have nothing 
to do with the work-a-day world. 

25* 



The principal charm of this smiling land- 
scape is the river, the beautiful river ; for the 
hill seems to me over-rated. That celebrated 
prospect is, to my eye, too woody, too leafy, 
too green. There is a monotony of vegeta- 
tion, a heaviness. The view was finer, as I 
first saw it in February, when the bare branches 
admitted frequent glimpses of houses and vil- 
lages, and the colouring was left to the fancy, 
than when arrayed in the pomp and garniture 
of " the leafy month of .Inne." Canova said 
it only wanted crags. I rather incline to the 
old American criticism, and think that it wants 
clearing. 

But the river ! the beautiful river ! there is 
no over-rating tbat. Brimming to its very 
banks of meadow or of garden ; clear, pure and 
calm, as the bright summer sky, whicli is re- 
flected in clearer brightness from its bosom ; 
no praise can be too enthusiastic for that glo- 
rious stream. How gracefully it glides through 
the graceful bridge ! And how the boats be- 
come it ! And how pretty those boats are, 
from the small skiff of the market-woman 
laden with fruit and flowers, or the light-green 
pleasure-vessel with its white awning and its 
gay freight of beaux and belles, to the heavy 
stearn-boat which comes walloping along with 
a regular mechanical comi)ination of noise and 
motion, rumpling the quiet waters, and leaving 
a track of waves which vary most agreeably 
the level lake-like surface of the tranquil river. 
Certainly the Thames is the pleasantest high- 
v/ay in his majesty's dominions. 

Some of the happiest hours I ever passed 
in my life were spent on its bosom in one of 
those sweet and shady June mornings, when 
the light clouds seemed as it were following 
the sun, and enfolding him in a thousand veils 
of whiter alabaster, and the soft air came 
loaded with fragrance from gardens which 
were one flush of roses and honeysuckles. I 
shall not easily forget that morning. Gliding 
along through those beautiful scenes with 
companions worthy of their beauty ; sunk in 
that silence of deep enjoyment, that delicious 
dreaminess which looks so like thought, al- 
though in reality a much wiser and happier 
thing; listening half unconsciously to Emily 
I.'s sweet Venetian ballads, the singer and her 
song so suited to the scene and the hour; re- 
peating almost unconsciously as we met the 
Queen-birds, 

"The swans on fair St. Mary's lake 
Float double, swan and shadow !" 

just roused as we passed Pope's grotto, or the 
arch over ^Strawberry Hill ; and then landing 
at Hampton Court, the palace of the Cartoons 
and of the Rape of the Lock, and coming 
home with my inind full of the divine Raphael 
and of that glorious portrait of Titian by him- 
self, which next to the Cartoons forms the 
chief ornament of that regal mansion; — 
strangely checkered and intersected as those 



294 



OUR VILLAGE 



strange thin^rs fancy and memory are apt to 
be, by vivid images of the fair Belinda, and 
of that inimitable game at Ombre which will 
live longer tiian any painting, and can only 
die with the language. There is no forgetting 
that morning. 

Another almost as pleasant was passed in 
going down the river towards Kew, amongst 
all sorts of royal recollections, from the re- 
mains of the house of Anne of Cleves, to the 
lime-trees fragrant with blossom and musical 
with bees, under which the late king and 
queen used to sit of a summer evening, whilst 
their children were playing round them on the 
grass. Kew Palace is in fine harmony with 
this pretty family scene. One likes to think 
of royalty so comfortable and homely and un- 
constrained as it must have been in that small 
ugly old-fashioned house. Princes are the 
born thralls of splendour, and to see them 
eased of their cumbrous magnificence pro- 
duces much such a sensation of pleasure as 
that which one feels in reading the fine pas- 
sage of Ivanhoe, where the collar is taken 
from the neck of Gurth, and he leaps up a free 
man. At Kew, too, in those confined and ill- 
furnished rooms, the royal inhabitants were 
not without better luxuries ; books accessible 
and readable, and looking as if they had been 
read, and a fine collection of cabinet pictures: 
superb Canaletti's ; the famous Dropsical 
Woman on which the queen is said during 
her last illness to have fixed her eyes so fre- 
quently and with such an intense expression 
of self-pity ; and a portrait of Vandyke, 
which rivals the Titian, the elegant Vandyke 
with his head over the shoulder, which has 
been so often engraved. What a noble race 
of men those great painters were ! There is 
nothing in all their works grander or fuller of 
intellectual beauty than some of their own 
heads as we find them recorded in their por- 
traits of themselves, or in the interesting col- 
lection of Vasari. 

This remark will hardly apply to one great 
Painter, whose residence forms one of the 
many delightful associations of Richmond. 
Sir Joshua, who flattered all other persons, 
did himself so little justice, that in his own 
portraits he might pass for a dancing-master. 
His Villa is here ; rich in reuiembrances of 
Johnson and Boswell and Goldsmith and 
Burke ; here the spot where the poet Thom- 
son used to write ; here the elegant house of 
Owen Cambridge; close by the celebrated 
villa of Pope, where one seems to see again. 
Swift and Gay, St. John and Arbuthnot; a 
stone's throw off the still more celebrated 
gothic toy-shop Strawberry Hill, which we 
all know so well from the minute and vivid 
descriptions of its master, the most amusing 
of letter-writers, the most fasliionai)le of anti- 
quaries, the most learned of i)etit-mnitres, the 
cynical finical delightful Horace VValpole; 
here too is Richmond Park, where Jeanie 



L- 



Deans and the Duke of Argyle met Queen 
Caroline: it has been improved unluckily, and 
the walk where the interview took place no 
longer exists. To make some amends, how- 
ever, — for every thing belonging to those de- 
licious books assumes the form of historical 
interest, becomes an actual reality — to com- 
pensate for this disappointment, in removing 
some furniture from an old house in the Town, 
three portraits were discovered in the wainscot, 
George the second, a staring likeness, between 
Lady Suffolk and Queen Caroline. The paint- 
ings were the worst of that bad era, but the 
position of the three, and the recollection of 
Jeanie Deans was irresistible ; those pictures 
ought never to be separated. 

But of all the celebrated villas round Rich- 
mond, none pleased me better than one which 
seemed so unsuited to that gay scene, that one 
cannot look at it without wondering how it 
came there. 1 speak of Ham House, a stately 
old place retired from the river, which is con- 
cealed and divided from it by rows of huge 
trees. 

Ham House is a perfect model of tbe man- 
sion of the last century, with its dark shadowy 
front, its steps and terraces, its marble basins, 
and its deep silent court, whose iron gate, as 
Horace Walpole used to complain, Avas never 
opened. Every thing about it belongs to the 
time of hoops and periwigs. Harlow Place 
must have been just such an abode of stateli- 
ness and seclusion. Those iron gates seem 
to have been erected for no otSt^r purpose than 
to divide Lovelace from Claiissa; they look 
so stern and so unrelenting. We almost ex- 
pect to see her tlirough them sweeping slowly 
along the terrace-waik in the pure dignity of 
her swan-like beauty, with her jealous sister 
watching her from a window; and we look for 
him, loo, at the corner of the wall waiting to 
deposite a letter and listening with a speaking 
eagerness to the rustle of her silk gown. If 
there were any Clarissas now-a-days, they 
would certainly be found at Ham House. 
And the keeping is so perfect. The very 
flowers are old-fashioned. No American bor- 
ders, no kalmias or azaleas or magnolias, or 
such heathen shrubs ! No flimsy Ciiina roses ! 
Nothing new-fangled! None but flowers of 
the olden time, arranged in gay formal knots, 
staid and prim and regular, and without a leaf 
awry. Add but round Dutch honeysuckles, 
and I dare say that Fletcher's beautiful song, 
which I shall borrov/ to conclude my descrip- 
tion, might comprise the whole catalogue. 

" Roses their sharp spines being gone, 
Not royal in iheir smell alone, 

But in their hue ; 
Virgin pinks of odours faint, 
Daisies smell-less but most quaint. 
And sweet Thyme true. 

Primrose first-born child of Ver, 
Merry spruigtime's harbinger, 



GHOST STORIES. 



295 



With her bells dim, 
Oxslips in their cradles growing, 
Marigolds on death-beds blowing, 

* Lark-heels trim." 



GHOST STORIES. 

Superstition has fallen woefully into decay 
in our enlightened country. Sunday-schools 
and spinninor-jennies, steam-eno-jnes, and Mac- 
Adam roads, to say nothing of that mightiest 
and most diffusive of all powers, the Press, 
have chased away the spirit of credulity, as 
ghosts are said to be scared by the dawn, so 
that if a second Sir Thomas Browne were to 
appear amongst us, we should be forced to 
send him to Germany for that class of "Vul- 
gar Errors," the old saws and nursery legends, 
which once formed a sort of supplement to the 
national faith, an apocrypha as ancient and as 
general as our language. Not only have we 
discarded the more gross and gloomy creations 
of an ignorant fear, the wizards, witches and 
demons of the middle ages, but we have also 
divested ourselves of the more genial and 
every-day phantasies, the venerable and con- 
ventional errors — pleasant mistakes at least if 
mistakes they were — which succeeded to 
them. Who now hails his good fortune if he 
meet two magpies, or bewails his evil destiny 
if he see but one "? Who is in or out of spirits 
according as the concave cinder which does 
him the honour to jump from the fire on his 
foot be long or round — a coiRn or a purse? 
Who looks in the candles for expected letters, 
or searches the tea-cups for coming visiters'? 
Who shrinks from being helped to salt as if 
one were otfering him arsenic, or is wretched 
if a knife and fork be laid across his plate] 
Who if his neighbour chance to sneeze, thinks 
it a bounden duty to cry God bless him 1 Who 
tells his dreams o'mornings, and observes that 
they come true by contraries ] Who, now that 
Sir Walter disclaims it, hath faith in the stars 1 
Nobody. 

It was not so sixty or seventy years ago. 
Then the nation was a believing nation, and 
the world was a believing world. Even Fre- 
derick and his philosophical court (I mean 
him of Prussia called the Great) held, if we 
may trust M. Thiebault's very amusing book 
" Mas Souvenirs," as coinfortable a share of 
these minor articles of faith as their more or- 
thodox neighbours. M. de Klest, for instance, 
and a whole band of young spendthrifts ruined 
themselves by alchemy, which they pursued 
with the assistance of an adept, with sacrifices 
to the devil and as many sulTuinigations as 



*0f course the flower that we now call larkspur. 
I have attributed this charming song (the bridal song 
from the Two Aohle Kinsmen) to Fletcher; — but it 
may belong to a still greater poet, for certainly Shak- 
speare was art and part in that beautiful tragedy. 



Dousterswivel ; the Marquis d'Argens had the 
infirmity of not enduring to be one of thirteen 
at table ; M. Lamethrie, a professed atheist, 
crossed himself like a good catholic whenever 
it thundered or was likely to thunder; the 
princess Amelia, as stanch a philosopher as 
the best of them, believed tout de bon, in for- 
tune-telling and astrology ; the queen Ulrica 
of Sweden, another of Frederick's sisters, lent 
herself to the miracles of Emmanuel Sweden- 
borg ; j- and the great king himself is violently 
suspected of sharing the fortune-telling faith 
of his sister Amelia, and even of suffering the 
predictions with which she furnished him to 
influence the conduct of his warlike opera- 
tions. 

Now without pretending to compete with 
this right royal superstition, inasmuch as 1 
neither regulate my actions by fortune-tellers, 
nor believe that dead men are in the habit of 
holding conversations with the living — except 
perhaps sometimes in books, I must yet plead 
guilty to a few old-fashioned irrationalities, 
half of theory, and half of practice. There is 
no analyzing a folly of this sort, it runs away 
when one attempts to clutch it like a drop of 
quicksilver; but it is easily defined by in- 
stances. I had rather not spill the salt for 
example, unless I can slily throw a pinch over 
my left shoulder; and I had rather not see the 
new moon through a window ; and I have 
gone all day with a stocking the wrong side 
without, rather than forfeit the good fortune 
attributed to that lucky accident by turning 
my hose; and although not generally addicted 
to the consulting of small oracles, such as the 
Virgilian lots and cards and so forth, yet I 
can so far sympathize with the feeling as to 
understand why, during his exile in Siberia, 
poor Kotzebue (those Germans are pretty be- 
lievers) used to play by himself every night 
at la grande patience, and go to bed hopeful 
or despairing according as he had won or lost 
at his solitary game. Not that I have any 
real faith in such nonsense either — be sure to 
remember that, courteous reader — nothing like 
a real genuine honest faith — only a sort of 
sneaking kindness for the old foolery — be- 
sides one likes to meet with it now and then 
as a rarity, to sympathize with or laugh at 
accordinsf to circumstances. 



t Mes Souvenirs de vingt ans de sejour a Berlin. 
Tome II. pages 111, et 285. M. Thiebault, talkm^ of 
Swedenborg, relates a curious story of a conversation 
which that visionary held, or pretended to hold with 
a certain dead Baron, whose wife being much pester- 
ed by a creditor whom she knew to be paid, commis- , 
sioned .Swedenborg to inquire of the defunct what he 
had done with the receipt. The deceased Baron re- 
plied that being engaged in reading Bayle at the mo- i 
ment the paper was delivered to him, he had placed ! 
it between the leaves of such a volume at such a I 
page, and the receipt was found there accordingly. | 
This slory much resembles Wandering Willy's tale j 
in Redgauntlet, and was perhajjs the origin of that | 
fine legend. I 



296 



OUR VILLAGE. 



This is a pleasure that seldom falls in my 
way. We have the ill luck to live in a very 
polished neighbourhood near a large manu- 
facturing town, not far from London, and with 
a great road running through the village. We 
have a Free School of our own ; and a Na- 
tional School, and a Lancasterian School close 
at hand ; a public house where they take in 
two newspapers, and a parish clork who reads 
Cobbett. In a word, we are a civilized peo- 
ple, I grieve to^ay it, a generation of wise- 
acres. At present we have not credulity 
enough amongst us to maintain a gipsy for- 
tune-teller. My observations of this sort are 
all retrospective; — nothing better than recol- 
lections, dating at least twenty years back, 
before the lightning of universal education 
(for really it did burst upon us like a storm) 
had astonished and illuminated the world. 

The last true believer of my acquaintance 
was a young farmer called Peter Hodges, who 
having luckily had a father before him, was 
well to do in the world, and was at the par- 
ticular period of which I speak, (somewhere 
about Candlemas-tide in the year nine.) pay- 
ing suit and service to the fair Kate Butler, 
daughter of old Simon Butler the bricklayer 
of Aberleigh, and one of the prettiest girls in 
the parish. 

Now Peter was of that order of suitors with 
whom fathers are generally better pleased than 
their daughters, especially when those fathers 
are, as was the case with our good mason, 
thrifty and cautious, and mindful of the main 
chance, and the daughters like Kate, thought- 
less and open-hearted. He, Peter Hodges, 
was a tall lathy awkward figure, with a boy- 
ish — I had almost said a girlish — countenance, 
fair, pale and freckled, and an expression so 
remarkably vacant and simple, that nobody 
could see him without being tempted to ask 
Macbeth's uncivil question, " Where got'st 
thou that goose look ]" His motion was weak 
and shambling; as if his long thin limbs were 
unable to support his long thin body. Even 
his straight light hair stuck up and stuck out 
and waved abroad with a flickering motion, 
like flax upon a distaff, adding tenfold to the 
helpless silliness of his aspect. Silly he 
looked, and silly he was; so silly that in con- 
versation, as his fair mistress was wont to 
assert, the very magpie had the advantage of 
him, inasmuch as she, when a stranger said 
"How d'ye do, Mag"?" would answer" What's 
that to you, sir!" whereas Peter when thus 
addressed only opened his mouth and stared, 
and said nothing. 

No such accusation could be brought against 
Kate, a lively spirited girl, whose beauty 
owed half its reputation to the quickness of 
mind and the light and joyous temperament, 
which danced in her eyes, played in her 
smiles, and gave a singular charm to the min- 
gled archness and innocence of her rustic mer- 
riment. Kate had plenty to say for herself at 



all times, and was in truth almost equa.ly 
agreeable to look at or to listen to. 

So unluckily thought Peter Hodges. Every 
evening through the winter, from Michaelmas 
to New-year's day, and from New-year's day 
to Candlemas, did that indefatigable suitor 
present himself at the mason's cottage, until 
Dame Butler, whose domestic economy had 
at first been a good deal discomposed by the 
honour of the young farmer's visits, began 
from mere habit to mind him no more than a 
joint stool, and till poor Kate grew so weary 
of the sight of him, that she used to lock 
herself into her own little room, and go to bed i 
without her supper, purely to get out of his 
way. 

Now this was an affront which our imper- 
turbable suitor bore with exemplary patience; 
but for which the contumacious damsel re- 
ceived sundry serious reproofs from her good 
father, the little mason ; who reminded her 
that not only did farmer Hodges take the 
trouble to walk two miles every night to look 
at her baby-face, but that it was not many 
persons who would like to pass the Nursery 
corner of a dark winter's night. " I never 
saw any thing there myself," continued mas- 
ter Butler, "but all the parish knows it's 
haunted, and my grandmother, rest her soul ! 
got strangely scared there, in her younger 
days, by a ghost all in white, and of surpris- 
ing stature. The farmer thought he saw it 
last night," added the man of mortar ; " he 
came in quite flustrated like, with his hair 
right on end upon his head, and making as 
much noise with his breath as you are doing 
with those bellows, — as if coals did not burn 
out fast enough, without such wastefulness," 
added the angry father, passing with great 
rapidity from one subject of objurgation to 
another ; " the fire 's a good fire, and nobody 
but an extravagant hussy would think of blow- 
ing it after that fashion," 

" Mother ordered me to heat the irons," re- 
plied the culprit meekly; "but did Farmer 
Hodges really see the ghost, father 1 Do you 
think it was the ghost ] Did you see any 
signs of it 1" 

" Why no," responded the little mason : 
" I can't say that I did. I took my hat down 
from the nail, and set out to see, but just at 
our gate I met young Joe Appleton of the 
Mill — I wonder what he was doing about here 
so late," muttered the knight of the hod, 
again flying from his subject and casting a 
keen glance at liis daughter, who blushed and 
fidgeted, and busied herself in laying down 
the irons before the fire, and at last spoke 
timidly. 

" But the ghost, father T Had he seen the 
ghost !" 

" He? no! lie said, if there's any truth 
in the chap, that the only thing to be seen at 
the Nursery corner, when he came by, was 
Hester Hewitt's white cow looking over a 



GHOST STORIES. 



297 



gate. What's the silly baCTgaare laughing at 
now 1" added the provoked father still more 
testily. " If Farmer Hodges gets another 
such fright, I should not wonder at his flying 
the country altogether, or taking up with that 
bouncing gawky wench, Madge Jenkins — 
She'd be glad enouofh to marry him. — There's 
not a man in Aberleigh better to pass in the 
world ; and he to slip through our fingers 
from a silly jade's perverseness ! It 's enough 
to drive one beside oneself," — and off walked 
the little mason, muttering as he went, " I 
can't think what business Joe Appleton had 
about my place last night ; if I catch him there 
again, I'll trounce him." 

Kate watched her father out with eyes 
dancing, cheeks dimpling, and her whole 
countenance lighted up with merriment and 
pleasure. "So! he's afraid of the Nursery 
corner !" thought the saucy damsel to herself; 
and then with a transition almost as rapid as 
those which rushed through the mind of the 
man of bricks, — " Poor Joe Appleton !" 
thought she, "he's not of a sort to be 
trounced or frightened by ghost or mortal ! 
To think of his coming into father's way, 
though ! Well !" sighed the ])retty maiden ; 
" well !" and with that philosophical exclama- 
tion, and a shake of the head as comprehen- 
sive as Lord Burleigh's, she proceeded in her 
preparation for the ironing. 

The Nursery corner was, to say truth, as 
suitable a spot for a ghost to abide in as heart 
could desire. It was an old three-cornered, 
straggling plantation of dark dismal Scotch 
firs ; and was surrounded on the sides next 
the road by decayed park-paling, through the 
gaps in which were seen patches of wild un- 
derwood, and half-dead furze-bushes, inter- 
secting the withered grass which grew at the 
foot of the trees. This irregular and melan- 
choly collection of rugged and dingy ever- 
greens occupied the corner where a narrow, 
winding gloomy lane, which led to the more 
populous part of the village, turned somewhat 
suddenly into a small wild common, on the 
skirts of which stood the mason's neat dwell- 
ing, a cottage of his own erection, with an 
am|)le garnishing of out-houses, and pigstyes, 
and a tolerable garden cribbed from the waste. 

Every old woman had a legend upon the 
subject, of which there were as many different 
versions as there were speakers, and every 
child shrank from passing the haunted corner; 
but neither Kate nor her father or mother had 
ever seen the spectre, although such near 
neighbours to his ghostship. None of them 
had ever seen the apparition ; and such is the 
force of habit, that, sooth to say, they thought 
little of the matter. Master Butler, indeed, 
occasionally mentioned the story with some 
respect; partly out of veneration to his de- 
ceased grandmother, of blessed memory, of 
whom the ghost might in some sort be ac- 
counted the personal, or rather the impersonal 

2N 



acquaintance ; partly because the fear of the 
apparition served every now and then as an 
affectionate and plausible pretext to keep his 
womankind at home after sunset ; though I 
cannot discover that his awe of the super- 
natural was ever allowed to interfere with his 
own hebdomadal visits to the Saturday night's 
club at the Rose. 

The night following the adventure of the 
white cow, a small party were assembled in 
the tap-room of that respectable hostelry, en- 
joying the warmth and brightness of a clear 
wood fire, all the more for its contrast with 
the frosty air without, for the spring was 
backward, and the evening cold. It was not 
a club night, and after two or three labourers 
had had their pint, and departed, the company 
consisted of an old Chelsea Pensioner, a re- 
liqueof the American war, and a man of im- 
portance in the village, being as battered and 
as good-humoured a veteran as ever smoked a 
pipe; of Jem the keeper ; and Will the black- 
smith ; and lastly, of the jolly host and his 
comely wife. 

The well-thumbed county paper had been 
honestly gone through by this select party ; 
who had discussed past debates, and coming 
assizes, lists of births, deaths, and marriages; 
two murders, a battle, and a great chancery 
suit, with a good deal of local intelligence by 
way of interlude, — all seasoned by certain 
piquant remarks of the pensioner, a joker by 
])rofession, and a privileged man amongst 
high and low, who liked the old red coat, 
some-deal the worse for wear, the empty 
sleeve, the long venerable white locks, the 
weather-beaten cheek, and the expression, 
"civil but sly," of his bright blue eyes, and 
merry but withered countenance. A pause 
had ensued in their " country cracks," when 
Jem the keeper, a coxcomb in his way, pulled 
out his handsome watch and seals with the 
self-satisfied air that betokens a new acquisi- 
tion, and starting as he proclaimed the hour, 
declared " that he could not stay another 
minute for that wild chap, Joe Appleton. He 
must be going home ; and if the mad Miller 
called at the Rose, they must tell him that he 
had waited till he could wait no longer, and 
was gone. He could not tell what was come 
to Joe Appleton. He had not seen him he did 
not know when, till the morning before, and 
then he made the appointment which he had 
broken now. He could not imagine what was 
come to him !" 

" Pray were you ever in love, Jem 1" asked 
the veteran, laying his hand on the keeper's 
shoulder as he passed him. 

"In love? Oh yes! — No! — I believe not 
— I can't tell," replied the keeper, repenting 
the frankness of his first avowal, and trying 
to retract his confession. 

" Stick to your first answer, my boy," said 
the old soldier, " that's the true one. You 
have been in love yourself, and therefore can 



298 



OUR VILLAGE. 



givfe a shrewd guess at what ails Joe Apple- 
ton. The poor lad 's in love too." 

" Ay, with pretty Kate of the Nursery cor- 
ner," quoth mine hostess. 

" Her father says she 's to marry long Peter 
Hodges," replied mine host. " But in heaven's 
name what's that?" added he, interrupting 
himself, and going towards the door, at which 
some one was knocking with a most prodigious 
din. " Who 's that beating at the good oak 
panels as if he would beat them out?" con- 
tinued the astonished landlord, undoing the 
lock, and admitting the clamorous applicant, 
who staggrered faintly towards the group at 
the fire-place. 

"Why, Farmer Hodges! was it you that 
made this clatter 1 I thought you had been a 
quieter body," said the Pensioner r " What's 
the matter, man ? I did not think it had been 
in him to make so much noise. He looks 
quite scared," added the veteran. 

And Peter, his hair on end, and his face 
whiter than his shirt, sank into a low wicker 
chair by the fire, and began rocking himself 
to and fro, as if he were nursing a baby. 

" He looks for all the world as if he had 
seen a ghost," pursued the old man. 

And Peter started and looked round him, as 
if he saw it then. 

" Where was it, lad 1 At the Nursery cor- 
ner?" 

And Peter's teeth chattered at. the sound. 

" Ah, they are sad things, those ghosts," 
continued the veteran, as Peter, rejecting the 
ale offered to him by the host, and the brandy 
tendered by the hostess, sank back in his 
wicker chair, looking very likely to faint away. 
"They are sad things, those ghosts," said 
the old man in a sympathising tone. " Better 
not cross them ! I had my own troubles in 
that way, when I was a youngster. Did you 
never hear me tell of it, Master Hodges?* 
If it had not been for that ghost which came 
across us when I was upon guard in America, 
I should have saved General Prescott from 
being taken, and have been made a corporal 
upon the spot, A corporal ! by Jove I should 
have been a general myself by this time, if 
that confounded ghost story had not come over 
me and stopped my preferment. Ghosts are 
plaguy things any how, especially if you cross 
them." 

" What I did you ever see a ghost in Amer- 
ica ? a real ghost ?" said a voice from behind, 
and Joe Appleton, who had entered unper- 
ceived in the bustle, ad^^anced towards the 
veteran ; "a real, actual, bona fide ghost?" 

" Why should not I as well as he !" replied 
our scarlet friend. Then looking at Joe more 
closely, " Ah ! Ah ! man ! I see how it is 
now ! you have been playing the ghost yon- 
der yourself, for the sake of your pretty sweet- 
heart;" added he in a whisper, regarding the 



* Vide note at the end of the story. 



miller's hat, jacket, and trousers, all white 
with the flour of the mill, and catching hold 
of a bundle which he held under his arm. "I 
see how it is ! And I '11 take care of Kate's 
sheet — it is her's, I suppose?" Joe nodded. 
" And do you wipe the flour from your face, 
and go your way with Jem the keeper, for 
thoug-h yon body's well-nigh stupefied with 
the fright, it's better to run no risk. And 
now they're getting him to drink the brandy, 
what sense he has will come back again. 
Did I see a ghost, boy?" pursued the old 
man, as he was letting Joe Appleton out of 
the house-door; " Did I see a ghost in Amer- 
ica? Ay, just such an one as Master Hodges 
has seen to-night ! Just such an one as thyself, 
my lad ! Get along with ye, and leave me to 
frighten long Peter out of passing the Nursery 
corner ; Kate 's too good and too pretty for 
him, if he were as rich again," continued the 
old man to himself, as he joined the luckless 
farmer (who sat still half unconscious by the 
fire-side) and applied himself seriously to the 
business of consolation and mystification, 
taking upon him to compound two tumblers 
of stiff toddy, and so ordering his discourse 
whilst discussing them, that Peter left the 
Rose more certain that he had s^en a ghost 
than he was when he entered it, and declared 
that he would never pass the Nursery corner 
again for love or money. 

In about a twelvemonth, young Joe Apple- 
ton of the mill married the mason's pretty 
daughter with the consent of all parties ; and 
in spite of the ups and downs of life, which 
they have shared with their neighbours, nei- 
ther of them has, I believe, ever found cause 
torepent their union. The good old Pensioner 
is dead ; long Peter is gone away; and the 
world is grown so wise, that the very children 
laugh at the terrors of the Nursery corner; 
and it would be impossible for a village 
maiden to frighten away a disagreeable lover 
by a ghost story now — even if she had Mrs, 
Radcliffe's genius for the romantic and the 
horrible. 



Note. — The following characteristic and national 
narrative conlains the American version of the Ghost 
story in question. The remarkable facts attending 
the capture of (leneral Prescott are certainly true, 
being attested not only by my friend the veteran, but 
corroborated by some near relations of that brave 
officer, who remember the story as current in the 
femily. It appears to have been one of those daring 
exploits whi(^h succeeded by their own exceeding 
boldness, and are practicable only because thev appear 
impossible. Certaiidy if me notion of a ghost had 
not come across the English sentinel, the American 
adventurers would have had the worst of the fray. 

Narrative of the Surprise and Capture of Mnj. Gen. 
liic.hatd Prescott, of the British Army, loi^elher with 
his Aid-de-camp, Major Barrington, by a party of 
American soldiers, under Major \Vm. Barton, July 
9, 1777. 
In the month of November, 1776, Major General 

Lee was surprised and taken prisoner by a detach- 



GHOST STORIES. 



299 



ment of British troops. — With a view to procure the 
exchange of that valuable officer, William Barton, 
then a Major in the Rhode-Island line, in the service 
of the continental Congress, and one of ihe most dar- 
ing and patriotic soldiers of the revolution, projected 
the bold and adventurous expedition, which is the 
subject of the following narrative. 

Some months elapsed, after the capture of General 
Lee, before an opportunity offered of effecting the 
object which Major Barton had in view. In the 
month following that of the capture of General Lee, 
the enemy took possession of the islands of Rhode- 
Island, Canonicut, and Prudence. Major Barton was 
then stationed at Tiverton; and for some months an- 
xiously watched the motions of the enemy, with but 
feeble prospect of obtaining the opportunity he desired. 
At lensiih, on the 20th June, 1777, a man of the name 
of Coffin, who made his escape from the British, was 
seized by some of the American troops, and carried to 
Major Barton's quarters. Major Barton availed him- 
self of the opportunity to inquire respecting the dis- 
position of the British forces. Coffin, on examination, 
stated that General Prescott had established his head- 
quarters on the west side of Rhode-Island, and de- 
scribed minutely the situation of the house in which 
he resided, which he said was owned by a Mr. Pering. 
His account was a few days afterwards corroborated 
by a deserter from the ranks of the enemy. — Major 
Barton was now confirmed in his belief of the prac- 
ticability of effecting his favourite object — but serious 
obstacles were first to be encountered and removed. 
— Neither his troops nor their commander had been 
long inured to service; and the intended enterprise 
was of a nature as novel as it was hazardous. Be- 
sides, Major Barton was aware that the undertaking, 
should it prove unsuccessful, would be pronounced 
rash and unadvised, and in its consequences, though 
his life should be preserved, would be followed by 
degradation and disgrace. Moreover, to involve in 
the consequences of an enterprise, devised and under- 
taken without previous consultation with his superiors 
in rank, Ihe interest and perhaps the lives of a portion 
of his brave countrymen, was a subject that excited 
reflections calculated to damp the ardour and appal 
the courage of the bravest minds. Still, however, 
un')n mature reflection, aided by a consciousness that 
his onlv motive was the interest of his country, he 
resolved to hazard his reputation and life in the at- 
tempt. 

The regiment to which Major Barton was attached 
was commanded by Colonel Stanton, a respectable 
and wealthy farmer in Rhode-Island, who in the spirit 
of the times, had abandoned the culture of his farm, 
and the care of his family, and put at hazard his pro- 
perty and his life, in defence of his country. To this 
gentleman Major Barton communicated his plan, and 
sr)licited permission to carry it into execution. Colonel 
Stanton readily authorised him " to attack the enemy 
when and where he pleased." Several officers in the 
confidence of Major Barton were then selected from 
the regiment for the intended expedition, on whose 
abilities and bravery he could rely: these were Cap- 
tain Samuel Philips, Lieutenant James Porter, Lieu- 
tenant Joshua Babcock, Ensign Andrew Stanton, and 
John Wilcox, (Capt. — Adams subsequently volun- 
teered his services, and took an active part in the en- 
terprise.) These gentlemen were informed by Major 
Barton that he had in contemplation an enterprise 
which would be attended with great personal hazard 
to himself and his associates ; but which, if success 
attended it, would be productive of much advantage 
to the country. Its particular object, he stated, would 
be seasonably disclosed to them. It was at their op- 
tion to accept or decline his invitation to share with 
hun in the dangers, and, as he trusted, in the glory 
that would attend the undertaking. The personal 
bravery of Major Barton had been previously tested ; 
and such was the esteem and confidence which he 
had acquired amongst the officers under his command, 



that without insisting upon a previous developement 
of his plans, his proposal was immediately accepted. 
— Major Barton experienced more difficulty in obtain- 
ing the necessary number of boats, as there were but 
two in the vicinity. But this difficulty, though it 
caused a few days' delay, was at length oDviated, and 
five whale-boats were procured and equipped for ser- 
vice. Major Barton had purposely postponed procur- 
ing the necessary number of men until Ihe last mo- 
ment, from an apprehension that their earlier selection 
might excite suspicion, and defeat the object of their 
enterprise. Desirous that his little band might be 
composed entirely of volunteers, the whole regiment 
was now ordered upon parade. In a short but ani- 
mated address. Major Barton informed the soldiers 
that he had projected an expedition against the enemy, 
which could be effected only by the heroism and 
bravery of tho.se who should attend him; that he de- 
sired the voluntary assistance of about forty of their 
number, and directed those "who would hazard their 
lives in the enterprise to advance two paces in front." 
Without o?)e exception or a momenfs hesitation the 
luhole regiment advanced. — Major Barton, after be- 
stowing upon the troops the applause they merited, 
and stating that he required the aid of but a small 
portion of their number, commenced u|X)n the right, 
and, passing along the lines, selected from the regi- 
ment to the number of thirty-six, tho.se who united to 
bravery and discipline a competent knowledge of sea- 
manship for the management of the boats. Having 
thus obtained an adequate number of officers and 
men, and every thing being ready, the party on the 
4th of July, 1777, embarked from Tiverton for Bristol. 
While crossing Mount Hope Bay, there arose a severe 
storm of thunder and rain, which separated three 
boats from that of their commander. The boat con- 
taining Major Barton, and one other, arrived at Bristol 
soon after midnight. Major Barton proceeded to the 
quarters of the commanding officer, where he found 
a deserter who had just made hi.s escape from the 
enemy at Rhode-Island. From this man he learned 
that there had been no alteration for the last few days 
in the ]X)sition of the British. On the morning of the 
5lh, the remaining boats having arrived. Major Carton 
and his officers went to Hog Island, not far distant 
from Bristol, and within view of the British encamp- 
ment and shipping. It was at this place that he dis- 
closed to his officers the particular object of the en- 
terprise, his reasons for attempting it, and the part 
each was to perform. Upon reconnoitring the posi- 
tion of the enemy, it was thought impracticable, with- 
out great hazard of capture, to proceed directly from 
Bristol to the head-quarters of the British general. It 
was determined, therefore, to make Warwick- A'eck, a 
place opposite to the British encampment, but at a 
greater distance than Bristol, the point from which 
they should depart immediately lor Rhode-Island. 
The most inviolable secrecy was enjoined upon his 
ofiicers by Major Barton, and the party returned to 
Bristol. 

On the evening of the 6th, about nine o'clock the 
little squadron again sailed, and, crossing Naraganset 
Bay, landed on Warwick JVeck. On the 7th, the wind 
changing to E. N. E. brought on a storm, and retarded 
their plan. On the 9lh, the weather beins; pleasant, 
it was determined to embark for the Island. The 
boats were now numbered, and the place of every 
officer and soldier assigned. At nine o'clock in the 
evening Major Barton assembled his party around 
him, and in an address, in which were mingled the 
feelings of the soldier and the man, he di.-rclosed to 
them the objectof the enterprise. He did not attempt 
to conceal the danger and difficulties that would in- 
evitably attend the undertaking : nor did he forget to 
remind them, that should their efR)rts be followe<i by 
success, they would be entitled to, and would receive, 
the grateful acknowledgments of their country. — "It 
is probable," said he, " that some of us may not sur- 
vive the daring attempt ; but I ask you to hazard no 



3()0 



OUR VILLAGE 



(lancers which will not be shared with you by your 
commander; and I jiiedge you my honour, that in 
every dilfinulty and danger I will talte the lead." He 
received the immediate and unanimous assurance of" 
the whole party, that they would follow, wherever 
their beloved comtnander should lead them. Major 
Barton then reminding them how much the success 
of the enterprise depended upon their slrict attention 
to orders, directed that each individual should confme 
himself to his particular seat in the boat assigned him, 
and that not a syllable should be uttered by any one. 
lie instructed them, as they regarded their character 
as patriots and soldiers, that in the hour of danger 
they should be firm, collected, and resolved fearlessly 
to encounter the dangers and difficulties that might 
assail them. He concluded by offering his fervent 
petition to the Great King of Armies, that he would 
smile n\yon their intended enterprise, and crown it 
with success. The wliole party now proceeded to 
the shore. — Major Barton had reason to apprehend 
that he must be discovered in his pa-ssage from the 
main to Rhode-Island, by some of the ships of war 
that lay at a small distance from the shore. He there- 
fore directed the commanding officer of the port at 
Warwick Neck, that if he heard the report of three 
di.slinct muskets, to send the boats to the north end of 
Prudence Island to his aid. The whole party now 
took po.ssession of the boats in the manner directed. 
That which contained Major Barton was posted in 
front, with a pole about ten feet long in her stern, to 
the end of which was attached a handkerchief, in 
order that his boat might be distinguished from the 
others, that none might go before it. In this manner 
they proceeded between the islands of Prudence and 
Patience, in order that they might not he seen by the 
shipping of the enemy that lay off against Hope Isl- 
and. — While passing the north end of Prudence Isl- 
and, they heard from the sentinels on bfjard the ship- 
ping of the enemy the cry of " all 's well." As they 
approached the shore of Rhode Island, a noise like 
the running of horses was heard, which threw a mo- 
mentary consternation over the minds of the whole 
party; but in slrict conformity to the orders issued, 
not a word wels spoken by any ont . A moment's re- 
flection satisfied Major Barton of the utter impossibil- 
ity that his de-signs could be kiiov^n by the enemy, 
and he pushed boldly for the share. Apprehensive 
that if discovered the enemy iinight attempt to cut off 
his retreat. Major Barton ordered one man to remain 
in each boat and be prepared for departure at a mo- 
ment's warning. The remainder of the parly landed 
without delay. The reflections of Major Barton at 
this interesting moment were of a nature the most 
painful. The lapse of a few hours would place him 
in a situation in the highest degree gratifying to his 
ambition, or overwhelm him in the ruin in which his 
rashness would involve him. In the solemn silence 
of the night, and on the shores of the enemy, he 
paused a moment to consider a (ilan which had been 
projected and matured amidst the bustle of a camp, 
and in a place of safety. The night was excessively 
dark; and a stranger to the cotnitry, his sole reliance 
upon a direct and expeditious movement to the head- 
quarters of the British Genera!, so essential to success, 
rested upon the imperfect information he had acquired 
from deserters from the enemy ! Should he surprise 
and secure General Prescott, he was aware of the 
difficulties that would attend his conveyance to the 
boat; the probability of an early and fiital discovery 
of his design by the troops on the island ; and even 
should he succeed in reaching the boats, it was by no 
means improbable that the alarm might be seasonably 
given to the shipping, to prevent iiis retreat to the 
main. But regardless of circumstances, which even 
then would have aflijrded an apology fiir a hasty re- 
treat, he resolved at all hazards to attemj)! the accom- 
plishment of his design. 

To the head-cpmrtcrs of General Prescott, about a 
mile from the shore, the party, in five divisions, now 



proceeded in silence. There was a door on the south, 
the east, and west sides of the house in w hich he re- 
sided. The first division was ordered to advance 
upon the south door, the second on the west, and the 
third on the east, the fourth to guard the rimd, and the 
filth to act on emergencies. In their march they 
passed the guard-house of the enemy, on their left, 
and on their right a house occupied by a company of 
cavalry, for the purpose of carrying with expedition 
the orders of the general to remote parts of the island. 
On arriving at the head-quarters of the enemy, as the 
gate of the front yard was opened they were chal- 
lenged by the sentinel on guard. The party was at 
the distance of about twenty-five yards from the sen- 
tinel, but a row of trees partially concealed them from 
his view, and prevented him from determining their 
number. No reply was made to the challenge of the 
sentinel, and the party proceeded on in silence. The 
sentinel again demanded, " Who comes there V 
" Friends," replied Barton. " Friends," said the sen- 
tinel, "advatice and give the countersign." 

Major Barton, affecting to be angry, said to the sen- 
tinel, who was now near him, " D — you, we have no 
countersign — have you seen any rascals to-night?" 
and before the sentinel could determine the character 
of those who approached him. Major Barton had 
seized his musket, told him he was a prisoner, and 
threatened in case of noise or resistance to put him to 
instant death. The poor fellow was so terrified, that 
upon being demanded if his general was in the house, 
he was, for some time, unable to give any answer. 
At length, in a fiiltering voice, he replied that he was. 
By this time each division having taken its station, 
the south door was burst open by the direction of 
Major Barton, and the division there stationed, with 
their commander at their head, rushed into the head- 
quarters of the general. At this critical moment, one 
of the British soldiers effected his escape and fled to 
the quarters of the main guard. This man had no 
article of clothing u|xin him but a shirt, and having 
given the alarm to the sentinel on duty, pa.ssed on to 
the quarters of the cavalry, which was more remote 
from the head-quarters of the general. The sentinel 
roused the main guard, who were instantly in arms 
and demanded the cause of the alarm. He stated the 
information which had been given him by 'he soldier, 
which appeared so incredible to the serjcant of the 
guard, that he insisted he had seen a ghost. The sen- 
tinel, (o whom the account of his general's capture 
appeared quite as incredible as to his commanding 
officer, admitted that the messenger was clothed in 
while; and after submitting to the jokes of his com- 
panions as a punishment for his credulity, was ordered 
to resume his station, while the remainder of the 
guard retired to their quarters. It was fortunate for 
Major Barton and his brave fijilowers, thai the alarm 
given by the soldier was considered groundless. Had 
the main guard proceeded without delay to the relief 
of their commanding general, his rescue certainly, and 
probably the destruction of the party, would have 
been the consequence. 

The first room Miijor Barton entered was occupied 
by Mr. Perimj, who positively denied that (Jetieral 
Prescott was in his house. He next entered the room 
of his son, who was equally obstinate with his father 
in denying that the General was there. Major Bar- 
ton then proceeded to other apartments, but was still 
disappointed in the object of his search. Anare that 
longer delay might defeat the object of his enterprise, 
Major Barton resorted to stratfigem lo facilitate his 
search. Placing himself at the head of (he slair-v\ay, 
and declaring his resolution to secure the General 
dead or alive, he ordered his soldiers to set fire to the 
house. The soldiers were preparing to execute his 
orders, when a voice which IVIajor Barton al once 
suspected to he the General's, demanded what's the 
matter. Major Barton rushed lo the apartment from 
whence the voice proceeded, and discovered an el- 
derly man just rising from his bed, and clapjiing liio 



MATTHEW SHORE 



301 



hands upon his shoulder, demanded of him if he was 
General Prescott. He answered, " Yes, sir." "You 
are my prisoner, then," said Major Barton. " I ac- 
knowledge that I am,", said the General. In a mo- 
ment General Prescott found himself half-dressed, in 
the arms of the soldiers, who hurried him from the 
house. In the mean time Major Barrington, the aid 
to General Prescott, discovering that the house was 
attacked by the rebels, as the enemy termed them, 
leaped the window of his bed-chamber, and was im- 
mediately secured a prisoner. General Prescott, sup- 
ported by Major Barton and one of his officers, and 
attended by Major Barrington and the sentinel, pro- 
ceeded, surrounded by the soldiery, to the shore. 
Upon seeing the five little boats. General Prescott, 
who knew the position of the British shipping, ap- 
peared much confused, and turning to Major Barton 
inquired if he commanded the party. On being in- 
formed that he did, he expressed a hope that no per- 
sonal injury was intended him, and Major Barton 
assured the General of his protection while he re- 
mained under his control. 

The General had travelled from head-quarters to 
the shore in his waistcoat, small-clothes, and slippers. 
A moment was now allowed him to complete his 
dress, while the party were taking possession of the 
boats. The General was placed in the boat with 
Major Barton, as they proceeded for the main. 

They had not got far from the island, when the dis- 
charge of cannon, and three sky-rockets gave the sig- 
nal ibr alarm. It was fortunate for the party that the 
enemy on board the shipping were ignorant of the 
caiiseof it, who might easily have cut off their retreat. 
The signal of alarm excited the apprehensions of Ma- 
jor Barton and his brave associates, and redoubled 
their exertions to reach the point of their destination 
before they could be discovered. They succeeded, 
and soon after day-break landed at Warwick Neck, 
near the point of their departure, after an absence of 
six hours and a half. 

General Prescott turned towards the island, and 
observing the ships of war, remarked to Major Barton, 
" Sir, you have made a bold push to-night." — "We 
have been fortunate," replied the hero. An express 
was immediately sent forward to Major General 
Spencer, to Providence, communicating the success 
which had attended the enterprise. Not long after- 
wards, a coach arrived, which had been despatched 
by General Spencer to convey General Prescott and 
his aid-de-camp prisoners for Providence. They were 
accompanied by Major Barton, who related to Gene- 
ral Spencer, on their arrival, the particulars of the 
enterprise, and received froin that officer the most 
grateful acknowledgments for the signal services he 
had rendered his country. 



MATTHEW SHORE. 

Next in beauty to the view over the Lod- 
don at Aberleijjh, is that fronn Lanton Bridcje 
up and down the clear and winding- Kennet, 
and this present season (the latter end of 
April) is perhaps the time of year which dis- 
plays to the o^reatest advantage that fine piece 
of pastoral scenery. And yet it is a species of 
beauty difficult to convey to the reader. There 
is little to describe but much to feel ; the sweet 
and genial repose of the landscape harmonizes 
so completely with the noontide sunshine and 
the soft balmy air. The river, bright and 
glassy, glides in beautiful curves through a 
rich valley of meadow land, the view on one 



side of the bridge terminating at the distance 
of a couple of miles by the picturesque town 
of B. with its old towers and spires, whilst on 
the other the stream seems gradually to lose 
itself amongst the richly wooded and finely 
undulating grounds of Lanton Park. 

But it is in the meadows themselves that 
the real charm is to be found : the fresh sprout- 
ing grass, bordered with hedge-rows just put- 
ting on their tenderest green, dotted with wild 
patches of willow trees, and clumps of noble 
elms, gay with the golden marsh marigold 
and ihe elegant fritillary ; * alive with bees 
and buttertlies, and the shining tribe of water 
insects ; and musical with the notes of a count- 
less variety of birds, who cease singing or 
whom we cease to listen to (it comes exactly 
to the same thing) the moment the nightingale 
begins her matchless song. Here and there 
too, farm-houses and cottages, half-hidden by 
cherry orchards just in their fullest bloom, 
come cranking into the meadows; and farther 
in the distance chimney tops with curling 
wreaths of blue smoke, or groups of poplar, 
never seen but near dwellings, give a fresh 
interest to the picture by the unequivocal signs 
of human habitation and sympathy. 

In one of the nearest of these poplar clumps 
— not above half a mile off, if it were possible 
for any creature except a bird to pass the wide 
deep ditches which intersect these water mea- 
dows, but which, by thndding the narrow and 
intricate lanes that form the only practicable 
route, we contrive to make nearly six times as 
long ; in that island of spiral poplars and 
gigantic fruit trees, with one corner of the 
roof just peeping amongst the blossomy cherry 
boughs, stands the comfortable abode of my 
good friend Matthew Shore, to whose ample 
farm a large portion of these rich meadows 
forms an appendage of no trifling value. 

Matthew is of an old yeomanry family, who 
have a pedigree of their own, and are as proud 
of having been for many generations the he- 
reditary tenants of the owners of Lanton Park, 
as they themselves may be of having been for 
more centuries than I choose to mention, the 
honoured possessors of that fair estate. Ex- 
cellent landlords, and excellent tenants, both 
parties are, I believe, equally pleased with the 
connection, and would no more think of dis- 
solving the union, which time and mutual ser- 
vice have cemented so closely, than of breaking 
through the ties of near relationship ; although 
my friend Matthew, having no taste for agri- 
cultural pursuits, his genius for the cultivation 
of land having broken out in a different line, 
has devolved on his younger brother Andrew 
the entire management and superintendence of 
the farm. 

* The country people call this beautiful plant the 
Turkey-egg flower, and indeed the chequered pend- 
ent blossoms do, both in their shape and in their mot- 
tled tinting, bear some resemblance to the dappled 
eggs of that stately bird. 



26 



302 



OUR VILLAGE, 



Matthew and Andrew Shore are as unlike 
as two brothers well can be in all but their 
strong manly affection for each other, and go 
on together all the better for their dissimilarity 
of taste and character. Andrew is a bluff 
frank merry Benedict, blest in a comely bus- 
tling wife, and five rosy children ; somewhat 
too loud and boisterous in his welcomings, 
which come upon one like a storm, but de- 
lightful in his old-fashioned hospitality and 
his hearty good-humour ; for the rest, a good 
master, a steady friend, a jovial neighbour, 
and the best farmer and most sagacious dealer 
to be found in the country side. He must be 
a knowing hand who takes in Andrew Shore. 
He is a bold rider too, when the fox-hounds 
happen to come irresistibly near ; and is 
famous for his breed of cocking spaniels, and 
for constantly winning the yeomanry cup at 
the B. coursing meeting. Such is our good 
neighbour Farmer Shore. 

His wife is not a little like her husband ; 
a laughing, bustling, good-humoured woman, 
famous for the rearing of turkeys and fatten- 
ing of calves, ruling the servants and children 
within doors, with as absolute a discretion as 
that with which he sways the out-door sceptre, 
and complaining occasionally of the power 
she likes so well, and which, with an ingrati- 
tude not uncommon in such cases, she is 
pleased to call trouble. In spite of these 
complaints, however, she is one of the hap- 
piest women in the parish, being amongst the 
very few who are neither troubled by poverty 
or finery — the twin pests of the age and coun- 
try. Her expenses are those of her grand- 
mother's days ; she has fourteen-shilling hy- 
son, and double-refined sugar for any friend 
who may drop in to tea, and a handsome silk 
gown to wear to Church on Sundays. An 
annual jaunt to Ascot is all her dissipation, 
and a taxed cart her sole equipage. Well 
may Mrs. Shore be a happy woman. 

The only spot about the place sacred from 
her authority, is that which I am come to 
visit, — the garden ; my friend Matthew's ter- 
ritory, in which he spends all his days, and 
half his nights, and which, in spite of his 
strong fraternal affection, he certainly loves 
better than brother or sister, nephevi^ or niece, 
friend or comrade ; better in short than he 
loves any thing else under the sun. 

Matthew is an old bachelor of fifty-five, or 
thereaway, with a quick eye, a ruddy cheek, 
a delightful benevolence of countenance, a 
soft voice and a gentle manner. He is just 
what he seems, the kindest, the most generous, 
and the best-natured creature under the sun, 
the universal friend and refuge of servants, 
children, paupers, and delinquents of all de- 
scriptions, who fly to him for assistance and 
protection in every emergency, and would 
certainly stun him with their clamorous im- 
portunity, if he were not already as deaf as a 
post. 



Matthew is one of the very few deaf people 
worth talking to. He is what is becoming 
scarcer every day, a florist of the first order, 
and of the old school, — not exactly of Mr. 
Evelyn's time,* for in the gardening of that 
period, although greens were, flowers were 
not, — but of thirty or forty years back, the 
reign of pinks, tuli])s, auriculas, and ranun- 
culuses, when the time and skill of the gar- 
dener were devoted to produce, in the highest 
imaginable perfection, a variety of two or 
three favoured tribes. The whole of this 
large garden, for the potatoes and cabbages 
have been forced to retreat to a nook in the 
orchard, dug up in their behoof; — the whole 
ample garden is laid out in long beds, like 
those in a nursery ground, filled with these 
precious flowers, of the rarest sorts and in 
the highest culture ; and as I have arrived in 
the midst of the hyacinth, auricula, and ane- 
mone season, with the tulips just opening, I 
may consider myself in great luck to see what 
is called in gardening language, " so grand a 
show." It is worth something too, to see 
Matthew's delight, half compounded of vanity 
and kindness, as he shows them, mixed with 
courteous offers of seedlings and offsets, and 
biographical notices of the more curious flow- 
ers ; " How the stock of this plant came from 
that noted florist, Tom Bonham, the B. taylor, 
commonly called tippling Tom, who once re- 
fused fifty guineas for three auriculas ! and 
how this tulip was filched " (Matthew tells 
this in a particularly low and confidential 
tone) " from a worthy merchant of Rotterdam, 
by an honest skipper of his acquaintance, who 
abstracted the root, but left five pounds in the 
place of it, and afterwards made over the bar- 
gain for a couple of pounds more, just to pay 
him for the grievous bodily fear which he had 
undergone between the time of this adve:.ture, 
for there was no telling how the Burgomaster 
might relish the bargain, and his embarkation 
in the good schooner, the Race-horse of Liver- 
pool." 

Perhaps the tulips, especially this pet root, 
are on the whole Matthew's favourites ; but 
he is a great man at pink snows and melon 
feasts; and his carnations, particularly those 
of a sort called "the Mount Etna," which 
seldom comes to good in other hands, as re- 
gularly win the plate as Andrew's greyhounds. 
It is quite edifying to hear him run oyer the 
bead-roll of pink names, from Cleopatra to 
the Glory of New York. The last-mention- 
ed flowers are precisely my object to-day ; 
for I am come to bog some of his old plants, 
to the great endangerment of my character 
as a woman of taste, I having, sooth to say, 
no judgment in pinks, except preferring those 
which are full of bloom, in which quality 
these old roots, which he was about to fling 



♦ See note at the end of the sketch for a most curi- 
ous account of the gardens round London in 1691. 



MATTHEW SHORE 



303 



away, and which he is o^iving me with a civil 
reluctance to put any thing' so worthless into 
my fjarden, greatly excel the young plants of 
which he is so proud. 

Notwithstanding his love for his own names, 
some of which are fantastical enough, Matthew 
wages fierce war against the cramp appella- 
tions, whether of geraniums or of other plants, 
introduced latterly, and indeed against all new 
flowers of every sort whatsoever, comprehend- 
ing them all under the general denomination 
of trash. He contrives to get the best and 
the rarest, notwithstanding, and to make them 
blow better than any body, and I would lay a 
wager — Ay, I am right ! the rogue ! the rogue ! 
What is that in the window but the cactus 
speciosissimus, most splendid of flowers, with 
its large ruby cup and its ivory tassels'? It is 
not in bloom yet, but it is showing strong and 
coming fast. And is not that fellow the scar- 
let potentilla'? And that the last fuchsia? 
And is there such a plant in the county as 
that newest of all the new camelias 1 Ah 
the rogue ! the rogue ! He to abuse my ge- 
raniums, and call me new-fangled, with four 
plants in his windows that might challenge 
the horticultural ! And when I laugh at him 
about it, he'll pretend not to hear, and follow 
the example of that other great deaf artist 

"Who shifted his trumpet and only took snuff" 

Ah the rogue ! the rogue ! To think that 
fickleness should be so engrafted in man's 
nature, that even Matthew Shore is not able 
to resist the contagion, but must fall a flirting 
with cactusses and camelias — let the pinks 
and tulips look to it ! The rogue ! the rogue ! 

If the fickleness of man were my first 
thought, the desire to see the cameiia nearer 
was the second ; and Mrs. Shore appearing in 
the porch with her clean white apron and her 
pleasant smile, I followed her through a large, 
lightsome, brick apartment, the common room 
of the family, where the ample hearth, the 
great chairs in the chimney-corner, defended 
from draughts by green stuff curtains, the 
massive oak tables, the tall japanned clock, 
and the huge dresser laden with pewter dishes 
as bright as silver, gave token of rustic com- 
fort and opulence. Ornaments were not want- 
ing. The dresser was also adorned with the 
remains of a long-preserved set of tea-china, 
of a light rambling pattern, consisting of five 
cups and seven saucers, a tea-pot, neatly 
mended, a pitcher-like cream jug, cracked 
down the middle, and a sugar bason wanting 
a handle; with sundrj' odd plates, delf, blue, 
and white, brown-edged, and green-edged, 
scalloped and plain ; and last and choicest 
with a grand collection of mugs — always the 
favourite object of housewifely vanity in every 
rank of rural life, from Mrs. Shore of Lanton- 
Farm, down to her maid Debby. This col- 
lection was of a particularly ambitious nature. 
It filled a row and a half of the long dresser, 



graduated according to size, like books in a 
library, the gallons ranking as folios, the half- 
pints ranging as duodecimos. Their number 
made me involuntarily repeat to myself two 
lines fromAnstey's inimitable Pleader's Guide, 
meant to ridicule the fictions of the law, but 
here turned into a literal truth : 

" First count's for that with divers jn^s, 
To wit, twelve pots, twelve cups, twelve mugs ;" 

but these jugs were evidently not meant to be 
profaned by the "certain vulgar drink called 
toddy," or any other drink. Half a dozen 
plain white ones, rather out of condition, 
which stood on a side-table, were clearly the 
drudges, the working mugs of the family. 
The ornamental species, the drone mugs hung 
on nails by their handles, and were of every 
variety of shape, colour, and pattern. Some 
of the larger ones were adorned with portraits 
in medallion — Mr. Wilberforce, Lord Nelson, 
the Duke of Wellington, and Charles Fox. 
Some were gay with flowers not very like 
nature. Some had landscapes in red, and one 
a group of figures in yellow. Others again, 
and tnese were chiefly the blues, had patterns 
of all sorts of intricacy and involution without 
any visible meaning. Some had borders of 
many colours; and some, which looked too 
genteel for their company, had white cameos 
relieved on a brown ground. Those drinking 
vessels were full of the antique elegance and 
grace. I stood admiring them when Mrs. 
Shore called me into the parlour, where the 
plant I wished to see was placed. 

The parlour — Oh, how incomparably in- 
ferior to the kitchen I — was a little low, square, 
dark box, into which we were shut by a door, 
painted black, dimly lighted by a casement 
window, quite filled by the superb cameiia, 
and rendered even more gloomy by a dark 
paper of reds and greens, with an orange bor- 
der. A piece of furniture called a beaufette, 
open and displaying a collection of glass- 
ware, almost equal to the pewter for age and 
brightness, to the mugs for variety, and to the 
china for joinery, a shining round mahogany 
table, and six hair-bottomed chairs, really 
seemed to crowd the little apartment; but it 
was impossible to look at any thing except the 
splendid plant, with its dark shining leaves, 
and the pure, yet majestic blossoms reposing 
on the deep verdure, as a pearly coronet on 
the glossy locks of some young beauty. Ah! 
no wonder that the pinks are a little out of 
favour, or that Matthew stands smiling there 
in utter oblivion of striped tulip or streaked 
carnation ! such a plant as this would be an 
excuse for forgetting the whole vegetable 
creation, and my good friend Matthew (who 
always contrives to hear the civil things one 
says of his flowers, however low one may 
speak, and who is perfectly satisfied by my 
admiration on the present occasion) has just 
made me almost as happy as himself, by pro- 



304 



OUR VILLAGE. 



mising to rear me one of the same sort, after 
a method of his own discovering-, which he 
assures me brings them to perfection twice as 
fast as the dawdling modes of the new school. 
Nothing like an old gardener after all ! above 
all if he be as kind, as enthusiastic, and as 
clever, as Matthew Shore. 



Note. — The exceedingly rude state of horticultural 
science in Knsland at a time when the sister art of 
rJoinestic Architecture was perhaps more flourishing 
than at any period of our history, cannot be better 
illustrated than by the following curious and authen- 
tic paper, read in 1794 to the Antiquarian Society, and 
subsequently printed, one can hardly call it published, 
in the twelfth volume of the " Archreologia," wher3 
it has lain most honourably buried amongst " Essays 
on the Venta Icenonnn," and " Letters on the Pusey 
Horn," fcir these thirty years. (N. B. The copy of that 
venerable quarto in which I discovered it was still un- 
cut.) I insert it here because I think my readers will 
be as much amused as I have been at the odd notions 
of gardening enlert.iined by our ancestors, especially 
by the green-houses built in the shade, and the rabbit 
warren in the midst of the flower gardens. What 
would the Horticultural Society say to such doings? 
" A short account of several gardens near London, 
with remarks on some particulars wherein they excel 
or are deficient, upon a view of them in December, 
ln9L Communicated to the Society by the Rev. Dr. 
Hamilton, Vice President, from an original MS. in his 
possession. 

"1. Hampton Court Garden is a large plot, envi- 
roned with an iron palisade round about next the 
Park, laid all in walks, grass-plots and borders. Next 
to the house, some flat and broad beds are set with 
narrow rows of dwHrf box, in figures like lace pat- 
terns. In one of the lesser gardens is a large green- 
house divided into several rooms, and allof tbem with 
stoves under them, and fire to kesp a perpetual heat. 
In these there are no orange, or lemon trees, or myr- 
tles, or any greens, but such tender foreign ones as 
need continual warmth. 

" 2. Kensington gardens are not great nor abound- 
ing with fine plants. The orange, lemon, myrtles, and 
what other trees they had there in summer, were all 
removed to Mr. Loudon's and Mr. Wise's green-house 
at Brompton Park, a little mile from them. Rut the 
walks and grass laid very fine, and they were digging 
up a plot of four or five acres to enlarge their garden. 
"3. The Queen Dowager's garden at Hammersmith 
has a good green-house, with a high erected front to 
the south whence the roof fjills b.ackward. The 
house is well stored with greens of common kinds; 
but the queen not being for curious plants or flowers, 
they want of the most curious sorts of greens, and in 
the garden there is little of value but wall trees; 
though the gardener there. Monsieur Hermon Van 
Guine. is a man of great skill and industry, having 
raised great numbers of orange and lemon trees l)y 
inoculation, with myrtles, Roman baycs, and other 
greens of pretty shajies, which he has to dispose of 

"4. Beddington garden, at present in the hands of 
the Duke of Norfolk, but belonging to the family of 
Carew, has in it the best orangery in England. The 
orange and lemon trees there grow in the ground, and 
have done so near one hundred years, as the garden- 
er, an aged man, said he believed. There are a great 
number of them, the house wherein they are being 
above two hundred feet long; they are most of them 
thirteen feet high and very full of fruit, the gar- 
dener not having taken off .so many flowers this last 
summer as usually others do. He said he gathered 
oflT them at least ten thousand oranges this last year. 
The heir of the family being but about five years of 
age, the trustees take care of the orangery, and this 



year they built a new house over them. There ore 
some myrtles growing among them, but they look not 
well for want of trimming. The rest of the garden 
is all out of order, the orangery being the gardener's 
chief care; but it is capable of being made one of the 
best gardens in England, the soil being very agree- 
able, and a clear silver stream running through it. 

"5. Chelsea Physic Garden has great variety of 
plants both in and out of greenhouses. Their peren- 
nial green hedges and rows of different coloured herbs 
are very pretty, and so are their banks set with shades 
of herbs in llie Irish-stitch way, but many plants of 
the garden were not in so good order as might be ex- 
pected, and as would have been answerable to other 
things in it. After I had been there t beard that Mr. 
Watts the keeper of it was blamed for his neglect, 
and that he would be removed. 

" 6. My Lord Ranelagh's garden being hut lately 
made, the plants are but small, but the plats, borders, 
and walks, are curiously kept and elegantly designed, 
having the advantage of opening into Chelsea College 
walks. The kitchen garden there lies very fine, with | 
walks and seats, one of which being large and co- | 
vered was then under the hands of a curious painter, t 
The house is very fine within, all the rooms being i 
wainscoted with Norway oak, and all the chimneys 
adorned with carving, as in the council chamber in | 
Chelsea College. | 

"7. Arlington Garden being now in the hands of j 
my Lord of Devonshire, is a fair plat, with good walks 1 
both airy and shady. There are six of the greatest ] 
earthern pots that are any where else, being at least 
two feet over within the edge, but they stand abroad, 
and have nothing in them but the tree holy-oke, an j 
indifferent plant which grows well enough in the 
ground. Their green-house is very well and their i 
green-yard excels; but their greens were not so bright 
and clean as farther off in the country, as if they suf- I 
fered something from the smutty air of the town. 

"8. My Lord Fauconberg's Garden at Sutton Court 
has several pleasant walks and apartments in it; but j 
the upper garden next the house is too irregular and 
the bowling-green too little to be commended. The j 
green-house is very well made, but ill set. It is di- 1 
vided into three rooms, and very well furnished with ! 
good greens; but it is so placed that the sun shines 
not on the plants in winter when they most need its | 
beams, the dwelling-house standing betwixt the sun j 
and it. The maze or vvilderne.ss there, is very pretty, 
being set all with greens, with a cypress ar^jour in I 
the middle supported with a well-wrought timber | 
frame ; of late it grows thin at the bottom by their let- 
ting the fir-trees grow without their reach undipped. 
The enclosure, wired in for white pheasants and par- 
tridges, is a fine apartment, especially in summer 
when the bones of Italian bayes are set out, and the 
timber walk with vines on the side is very fine when 
the blew pots are on the pedestals on the top of it, 
and so is the first pond with the greens at the head 
of it. 

"9. Sir William Temple being lately gone to live 
at his house in Farnham, his garden and green-house 
at West Sheen, where he has lived of late years, are 
not so well kept as they have been ; many of his 
orange-trees and other greens being given to. Sir John 
Temple bis brother at East Sheen, and other gentle- 
men; but his greens that are remaining (being as good 
a stock as most green-houses have) are very fresh and 
thriving, the room they stand in suiting well with 
them, and being well contrived, if it be no defect in 
it that the floor is a foot at least within the ground, as 
is also the floor of the dwelling-house. Ho had at- 
tempted to have orange-trees to grow in the groimd 
(as at Beddington), and for that purpose had enclosed 
a square of ten feet wide, with a low brick wall, and 
sheltered them with wood, but they would not do. 
His orange-trees, in summer, stand not in any particu- 
lar square or enclosure, under some shelter, as most 
others do, but are disposed on pedestals of Portland 



MATTHEW SHORE, 



805 



stone at equal distance, on a board over against a 
south wnil, where are his t)est fruit and fairest walk. 

"10. Sir Henry Capell's Garden at Kevv, has as 
curious greens, syid is as well kept as any about Lon- 
don. His two Lentisrus trees (lor which he paid 
forty pounds to Versprit) are said to be the best in 
England, not only of their sort but of greens. He has 
four white striped hollies, about four feet above their 
cases, kept round and regular, which cost him five 
pounds a tree this last year, and six laurustinuses he 
has, with large round equal heads, which are very 
flowery, and make a (ine show. His orange trees and 
other choice greens stand out in summer in two walks, 
about fourteen feet wide, enclosed with a timber 
frame about seven-feet hieb, and set, with silver firs 
hedge-wise, which are as high as the frame, and this 
to secure them from wind and tempest, and sometimes 
from the scorching sun. His terrace-walk, bare in 
the middle, and grass on either side, with a hedge of 
rue on one side next a low wall, and a row of dwarf 
trees on the other, shows very fine, and so do from 
thence his yew-hedges with trees of the same, at 
equal distance, kept in pretty shapes wiih tonsure. 
His flowers and fruits are of the best, fi)r the advan- 
tage of which two parallel walls, about fiinrteen feet 
high, were now raised and almost finished. If the 
ground were not a little irregular, it would excel in 
other pouits as well as in furniture. 

" 11. Sir Stephen Fox's Garden at Chiswick, being 
but of five years' statiding, is brought to great perfec- 
tion for the time. It excels fitr a fair gravel-walk be- 
twixt two yew-hedges with rounds and spines of the 
samejall under smooth tonsure. At the far end of 
this garden, are two myrtle hedges that cross the gar- 
den; they are about three feet high, and covered in 
winter with painted board cases. The other gardens 
are full of flowers and salleting, and the wails well 
clad. The green-house is welt built, well set, and 
well furnished. 

" 12. Sir Thomas Cook's Garden at Hackney is very 
large, and not so fine at present, because of his intend- 
ing to be at three thousand pounds charge with it this 
next summer, as his gardener said. There are two 
green-ho\ises in it, but the greens are not extraordi- 
nary, for one of the roofs being made a rece'ptacle for 
water, overcharged wiih weight, fell down last year 
upon the greens, and made a great destruction among 
the trees and pots. In one part of it is a warren con- 
taining about two acres, very full of conevs, tliough 
there w"as but a couple put in a few years since. 
There is a pond or mote round about them, and on 
the outside of that a brick wall (bur feet high, both 
which I think will not keep them within (heir com- 
pass. There is a large fish-pond lying on the south to 
a brick wall, which is finely clad with philarea. 
Water brought from far in pipes furnishes his several 
ponds as they want it. 

" 13. Sir Josiah Childs's plantations of walnut and 
other trees, at Wanstead, are much more worth seeing 
than his gardens, which are but indifferent. Besides 
the great number of fruit trees, he has planted his en- 
closures with great regularity: he has vast numbers of 
elms, ashes, limes, &c., planted in rows on Epping 
Forest. Before his oufgate, which is above twelve- 
score distance from his house, are two large fish-ponds 
on the forest in the way from his house, with trees on 
either side lying betwixt them; in the middle of either 
pond is an island betwixt twenty and thirty yards 
over, and in the middle of each a house, the one like 
the other. They are said to be well slocked with fish, 
and so they had need to be if they cost him five thou- 
sand pounds, as it is .said they did ; as also that his 
plantations cost tvvice as much. 

" 14. Sir Robert Clayton has great plantations at 
Marden in Surrey, in a soil not very benign to plants, 
but with great charge he forces nature to obey him. 
His gardens are big enough, but strangely irregular, 
his chief walk not being level, but rising in the mid- 
dle and falling rnuch more atone end than the other; 



neither is the wall carried by a line either on the top 
or sides, but runs like an ordinary park vvall, built as 
the ground goes. He built a good green-house, but 
set it so that the hills in winter keep the sun from it, 
so that they place their greens in a house on higher 
ground, not built for that purpose. His dwelling- 
house stands very low, surrounded with great hills; 
and yet they have no waier but what is forced from 
a deep well into a watcrhouse, where they are fur- 
nished by pipes at pleasure. 

" 15. The Archbishop of Canterbury's Garden at 
Lambeth, has little in it but walks, the late Archbi- 
shop not delighting in one, but they are now making 
them better, and they have already a green-house, 
one of the finest and costliest about the town. It is 
of three rooms, the middle having a siove under it, 
the foresides of the rooms are almost all glass, the roof 
covered with lead, the whole part (to adorn ihe build- 
ing) rising gavel-wise higher than the rest; but it is 
placed so near Lambeth Church that the sun shines 
most on it in winter after eleven o'clock; a fault 
owned by the gardener but not thought on by the 
contrivers. Most of the greens are oranges and lem- 
ons, which have very large ripe fruit on them. 

" 16. Dr. Uvedale, of Enfield, is a great lover of 
plants, and having an extraordinary art in managing 
them, is become master of the greatest and choicest 
collection of exotic greens that is, perhaps, any where 
in this land; His greens take up six or seven houses 
or roomsleads. His orange trees and largest myrtles 
fill up his biggest house, and another house is filled 
with myrtles of a less size, and these more nice and 
curious plants that need closer keeping are in warmer 
rooms, and some of them stoved when he tliinks fit. 
His flowers are choice, his stock numerous, and his 
culture of them very methodical and curious; but to 
speak of the garden, in the whole it does not lie fine, 
to please the eye, his delight and care lying more in 
the ordering particular plants, than in the pleasing 
view and form of his garden. 

" 17. Dr. Tillotson's Garden near Enfield, is a plea- 
surable place for walks, and some good walls there 
are too; but the tall aspen trees, and the many ponds 
in the heart of it are not so agreeable. He has two 
houses for greens, but had few in them, all the best 
being removed to Lambeth. The house is moated- 
about. 

"18. Mr. Evelin has a pleasant villa at Deptford, 
a fine garden for walks and hedges (especially his 
holly, one which he writes of in his Sylva.) and a 
pretty little green-house wiih an indifl'erent slock in 
it. in his garden he has lour large round Philaneas 
smooth-clipt, raised on a single stalk from the ground, 
a fijshion now much used. Part of his garden is very 
woody and shaded for walking; but his garden, not 
being walled, has little of the best fruits 

" 19. Mr. Walls's house and garden made near En- 
field are new; but the garden, for the lime, is very 
fine, and large and regularly laid out, with a fair fish- 
pond in the middle! He built a green-house this 
summer, with three rooms, (somewhat like the Arch- 
bishop of Canterbury's) Ihe middle with a stove under 
it, and a sky-light above, and both of them of glass on 
the foreside, with shutlers within, and the roof finely 
covered with Irish slate. But this fine house is under 
Ihe same fault with three before, (numbers 8, 14, 15): 
they built it in summer and thought not of winter; 
the dwelling-house on the south side interposing be- 
twixt the sun and it, now when its beams should re- 
fresh plants. 

" 20. Brompton Park Garden, belonging to Mr. Lou- 
don and Mr. Wise, has a large long green-house, the 
front all glass and board, the norih side brick. Here 
the king's greens, which were in summer at Kensing- 
ton, are placed, but they take but Utile room in com- 
parison of iheir own. Their garden is chiefly a nur- 
sery for all sorts of plants, of which they are very 
full. 

" 21. Mr Rayntan's Gardeir at Endfield, is observa- 



2G* 



20 



306 



OUR VILLAGE. 



ble for nothing but his green-house, which he has had 
for many years. }Iis orange, lemon, and myrtle trees, 
are as full and furnished as any in cases, lie has a 
myrtle cut m shape of a chain, that is at least six leet 
high from the case, but the lower part is thin of 
leaves. The rest of the garden is very ordinary, and 
on the outside of his garden he has a warren, which 
makes the ground about his seat lie rudely, and some- 
times the coneys work under the wall into the garden. 

"22. Mr. Richardson at East Barnet has a pretty 
garden with line walks and good flowers; but the 
garden not being walled about, they have less sum- 
mer fruit, yet are therefore the more industrious in 
managing the peach and apricot dwarf standards, 
which, they say, supply them plentifully with very 
good fruit. There is a good fish-pond in the middle 
of it, from which a broad gravel-walk leads to the 
highway, where a fair pair of broad gates, with a 
narrower on either side, open at the top to look 
through small bars, well wrought and well painted, 
are a great ornament to the garden. They have 
orange and lemon trees, but the wile and son benig 
the managers of the garden (the husband being gouty 
and not minding it) they cannot prevail for a house lor 
them other than a barn end. 

" 23. Captain Foster's Garden at Lambeth has many 
curiosities in it. His green-house is full of fresh and 
flourishing plants, and before it is the finest striped 
holly hedge that perhaps is in England. lie has 
many myrtles, not the greatest but of the most fanci- 
ful sha[)es that are any where else. He has a frame 
walk of timber covered with vines, which with others 
running on most of his walls without prejudice to his 
lower trees, yield him a deal of wine. Of flowers he 
has a good choice, and his Virginia and other birds in 
a great variety, with his glass hive, add much to the 
pleasure of his garden. 

"2-1. Monsieur Anthony Vesprit has a little garden 
of very choice things, llis green-house has no great 
variety of plants, but what he has are of the best sort, 
and very well ordered. His oranges and lemons (fruit 
and tree) are extraordinary ftir, and for lenticuses and 
Roman bayes he has choice above others. 

"25. Ricketis at Jloxton, has a large ground, and 
abimdantly stocked with all manner of flowers, fruit 
trees and other garden plants, with lime trees which 
are now much planted ; and for a sale garden, he has 
a very good green-house and well filled with fresh 



greens, besides which he has another room filled with 
greens in pots. He has a greater stock of Assyrian 
thyme than any body else, lor besides many pots of it, 
he has beds abroad with plenty of roots wliii h they 
cover with mats and straw in winter. He sells his 
things with the dearest, and not taking due care to 
have his plants prove well, he is supposed to have 
lost much custom. 

" 26. Pearson has not near so large a ground as 
Rickefts (on whom lie almost joins.) and therefore has 
not so many trees, but of flowers he has great choice, 
and of anemones he avers that he has the best about 
London, and sells them only to gentlemen. He has 
no green-house, yet has abundance of myrtle and 
striped pliilaneas, with oranges and other greens, 
which he keeps safe enough under sheds, sunk a foot 
within ground, and covered with straw. He has 
abundance of cypresses, which at three fi?et high, he 
sells for Iburpence a piece to those who take any 
number. He is moderate in his prices, and accounted 
very honest in his dealings, which gets him much 
chapman ry. 

"27. Darby at Iloxton has but a little garden, but 
is master of several curious greens, that other sale 
gardeners want, and which he saves from cold and 
winter weather, in green-houses of his own making. 
His fritalaria crassa (a green) had a flower on it, of 
the breadth of a half-crown, like an embroidered star 
of several colours; I saw not the like any where, no, 
not at Dr. Uvedale's, though he has the same plant. 
He raises many striped hollies by inoculation, though 
Captain Foster grafts them as we do apple trees. He 
is very curious in propagating greens, but is dear with 
them. He has a folio paper book in which he has 
pasted the leaves and flowers of almost all manner of 
plants, which make a pretty show, and are more in- 
structive than any cuts in herbals. 

"28. Clements at Mile-Fnd has no bigger a garden 
than Darby, but has more greens, yet not of such 
curious sorts. He keeps them in a green-house made 
with a light charge. He has vines in many places, 
round old trees, which they wind about. He made 
wine this year of his white muscadine and white 
frontiniac, belter I thought than any French white 
wine. He keeps a shop of seeds, and plants in pots 
next the street. 

Jan. 26, 169L J. Gibson." 

/SrcA»ci:^ia, toI, lii. piga 151. 



E«ND OF OUR VILLAGE. 



BELFORD REGIS: 



SKETCHES OF A COUNTRY TOWN, 



PREFACE. 



In an Article on the last Volume of " Our 
Villaofe," the courteous critic recommended, 
since I had taken leave of rural life, that I 
should engage lodgings in the next country 
town, and commence a series of sketches of 
the inhabitants; a class of the community 
which, whilst it forms so large a portion of 
our population, occupies so small a space in 
our literature, and amongst whom, more per- 
haps than amongst any other order of English 
society, may be traced the peculiarities, the 
prejudices, and the excellences of the national 
character. 

" Upon this hint I wrote ;''^ and the present 
work would have been called simply " Our 
INIarket Town," had not an ingenious contem- 
porary, by forestalling my intended title, com- 
pelled me to give to " my airy nothings, a 
local habitation and a name."* It would not 
quite do to have two "Simon Pures" in the 
field, each asserting his identity and jostling 
for precedence; although I am so far from 
accusing Mr. Peregrine Reedpen (as the 
Frenchman did the ancients) of having stolen 
my best thoughts, that I am firmly of opinion, 
that were twenty writers to sit down at once 
to compose a book upon this theme, there 
would not be the slightest danger of their in- 
terfering with each other. Every separate 
work would bear the stamp of the author's 
mind, of his peculiar train of thought, and 
habits of observation. The subject is as in- 
exhaustible as nature herself. 

One favour, the necessity of which has 
been pressed upon me by painful experience, 
I have to entreat most earnestly at the hands 
of my readers, — a favour the very reverse of 
that which story-tellers by profession are wont 
to implore! It is that they will do me the 
justice 710/ to believe one word of these sketches 



*"Oiir Town; or, Rough Sketches of Character, 
Manners, &c. By Peregrine Reedpen." 2 vols. 
London, 1834. 



from beginning to end. General truth of de- 
lineation I hope there is; but of individual 
portrait-painting, I most seriously assert that 
none has been intended, and none, I firmly 
trust, can be found. From this declaration I 
except, of course, the notes which consist 
professedly of illustrative anecdotes, and the 
paper on the Greek plays, which contains a 
feeble attempt to perpetuate one of the hap- 
piest recollections of my youth. Belford 
itself too, may, perhaps, be identified : for I 
do not deny having occasionally stolen some 
touches of local scenery from the beautiful 
town that comes so frequently before my eyes. 
But the inhabitants of Belford, the Stephen 
Lanes, the Peter Jenkinses and the King Har- 
woods, exist only in these pages; and if there 
should be any persons who, after this protest, 
should obstinately persist in mistaking for 
fact what the author declares to be fiction, I 
can only compare them to the sagacious gen- 
tleman mentioned in "7%e Spectator ," who, 
upon reading "The Whole Duty of Man," 
wrote the names of different people in the vil- 
lage where he lived, at the side of every sin 
mentioned by the author, and with half-a- 
dozen strokes of his pen, turned the whole 
of that devout and pious treatise into a libel. 

Be more merciful to these slight sketches, 
gentle reader, and farewell ! 

Three Mile Cross, Feb. 25, 1835. 



BELFORD REGIS. 



THE TOWN. 

About three miles to the north of our vil- 
lage, (if my readers may be supposed to 
have heard of snc-h a place,) stands the good 
town of Belford Regis. The approach to it, 
straight as a dart, runs along a wide and pop- 
ulous turnpike-road, (for, as yet, rail-ways are 
not,) all alive with carls and coaches, wagons 
and phaetons, horse people and foot people, 
sweeping rapidly or creeping lazily up and 
down the gentle undulations with which the 

(307) 



308 



BELFORD REGIS, 



surface of the country is varied ; and the bor- 
ders, checkered by patches of common, rich 
with hedge-row timber, and sprinkled with 
cottages, and, I grieve to say, with that cot- 
tage per^t, the beer-honses, — and here and 
there enlivened by dwellings of more preten- 
sion and gentility — become more thickly in- 
habited as we draw nearer to the metrofjolis 
of the county ; to say nothing of the three 
cottages all in a row, with two small houses 
detached, which a board affixed to one of them 
informs the passers-by is " Two-mile Cross ;" 
or of those opposite neighbours, the wheel- 
wrights and blacksmiths, about half a mile 
farther; or the little farm close to the pound ; 
or the series of buildings called the Long 
R(?w, terminating at the end next the road 
with an old-fashioned and most picturesque 
public-house, with pointed roofs, and benches 
at the door, and round the large elm before it, 
— benches which are generally filled by thirsty 
wayfarers and wagoners, watering their horses, 
and partaking a more generous liquor them- 
selves. 

Leaving these objects undescribed, no soon- 
er do we get within a mile of the town, than 
our aj)proach is indicated by successive mar- 
ket-gardens on either side, crowned, as we 
ascend the long hill on which the turnpike- 
gate stands, by an extensive nursery-ground, 
gay with long beds of flowers, with trellised 
walks covered with creepers, with whole acres 
of flowering shrubs, and ranges of green- 
houses, the glass glittering in the southern 
sun. Then the turnpike-g-ite, with its civil 
keeper — then another public-house — then the 
clear bright pond on the top of the hill, and 
then the rows of small tenements, with here 
and there a more ambitious single cottage 
standing in its own pretty garden, which forms 
the usual gradation from the country to the 
town. 

About this point, where one road, skirting 
the great pond and edged by small houses, 
diverges from the great southern entrance, 
and where two streets meeting or parting lead 
by separate ways down the steep hill to the 
centre of the town, stands a handsome man- 
sion, surrounded by orchards and pleasure- 
grounds; across which is perhaps to be seen 
the very best view of Belford, with its long 
ranges of modern buildings in the outskirts, 
mingled with picturesque old streets; the 
venerable towers of St.. Stephen's and St, 
Nicholas'; the licrht and tapering spire of St. 
.lohn's ; thehuiie monastic ruins of the abbey ; 
the massive walls of the coimty jail ; the 
great river winding along like a thread of sil- 
ver ; trees and gardens minoling amongst all ; 
and the whole landscape enriched and light- 
ened by the dropping elms of the foreground, 
adding an illusive beauty to the picture, by 
breaking the too formal outline, and veiling 
just exactly those parts which most require 
concealment. 



Nobody can look at Belford from this point, 
without feeling that it is a very English and 
very charming scene : and the impression 
does not diminish on farther acquaintance. 
We see at once the history of the place, that 
it is an ancient borough town, which has re- 
cently been extended to nearly double its for- 
mer size ; so that it unites, in no common 
degree, the old romantic irregular structures 
in which our ancestors delighted, with the 
handsome and uniform buildings which are 
the fashion now-a-days. I supj)ose that people 
are right in their taste, and that the modern 
houses are pleasantest to live in ; but, beyond 
all question, those antique streets are the pret- 
tiest to look at. The occasional blending, 
too, is good. Witness the striking piece of 
street scenery, which was once accidentally 
forced upon ray attention as I took shelter from 
a shower of rain in a shop, about ten doors 
up the right-hand side of Friar-street : the 
old vicarage-house of St. Nicholas', embow- 
ered in evergreens ; the lofty town-hall, and 
the handsome modern house of my friend Mr. 
Beauchamp ; the fine church-tower of St. 
Nicholas' ; the picturesque piazza underneath ; 
the jutting corner of Friar-street; the old ir- 
regular shops in the market-place, and the 
trees of the Forbury just peeping between, 
with all their varieties of light and shadow ! 
It is a scene fit for that matchless painter of 
towns, Mr. .Tones. I went to the door to see 
if the shower were over, was caught by its 
beauty, and stood looking at it in the sunshine 
long after the rain had ceased. 

Then, again, for a piece of antiquity what 
can be more picturesque than the high, sol- 
itary bay-window in that old house in Mill- 
lane, garlanded with grapes, and hanging over 
the water, as if to admire its own beauty in 
that clear mirror? The projecting window is 
a picture in itself. 

Or, for a modern scene, what can surpass 
the High Bridge, on a sunshiny-day ? The 
bright river, crowded with bargps and small 
craft; the streets, and wharves, and quays, all 
alive with the busy and stirring population of 
the country and the town ; — a combination of 
light and motion. In looking at a good view 
of the High Bridge at noon, you should seem 
to hear the bustle. I have never seen a more 
cheerful subject. 

Cheerfulness is, perhaps, the \yord that 
best describes the impression conveyed by the 
more frequented streets of Belford. It is not 
a manufacturing town, and its trade is solely 
that dependent on its own considerable popu- 
lation, and the demands of a thickly-inhahited j 
neighbourhotid ; so that, except in the very 
centre of that trade, the streets where the 
principal shops are congregated, or on certain 
public occasions, such as elections, fairs, and 
markets, the stir hardly amounts to bustle. 
Neither is it a ))rofessed place of gaiety, like 
Cheltenham or Brighton; where London peo- 



STEPHEN LANE, THE BUTCHER. 



309 



pie go to find or make a smaller London out 
of town. It is neither more or less than an 
honest English borough, fifty good miles from 
"the deep, deep sea," and happily free from 
the slightest suspicion of any Spa, chalybeate, 
or saline. We have, it is true, " the Kennet 
swift, for silver eels renowned," passing 
through the walls, and the mighty Thames 
for a near neighbour — water in plenty, but, 
luckily, all fresh ! They who sympathise in 
my dislike of the vulgar finery, the dull dis- 
sipation of a watering-place, will feel all the 
felicity of this exemption. 

Clean, airy, orderly, and affluent; well- 
paved, well-lighted, well-watched ; abound- 
ing in w^ide and spacious streets, filled with 
excellent shops and handsome houses ; such 
is the outward appearance, the bodily form of 
our market-town. For the vital spirit, the 
life-blood that glows and circulates through 
the dead mass of mortar and masonry, — in 
other words, for the inhabitants, — I must refer 
my courteous reader to the following pages. 
If they do not appear to at least equal advan- 
tage, it will be the fault of the chronicler, and 
not of the subject ; and one cause, one singu- 
lar cause, which may make the chronicler 
somewhat deficient, as a painter of modern 
manners, may be traced to the fact of her 
having known the place, not too well, but too 
long. 

It is now about forty years ago, since I, a 
damsel scarcely so high as the table on which 
I am writing, and somewhere about four years 
old, first became an inhabitant of Belford ; 
and, really, I remember a great deal not worth 
remembering concerning the place, especially 
our own garden, and a certain dell on the 
Bristol road, to which I used to resort for 
primroses. Then we went away ; and my 
next recollections date some ten years after- 
wards, when my father again resided in the 
outskirts of the town, during the time that he 
was building in the neighbourhood, and I 
used to pass my holidays there, and loved the 
place as a school-girl does love her home. 
And, although we have kept up a visiting ac- 
quaintance, Belford and I, ever since, and I 
have watched its improvements of every kind 
with sincere interest and pleasure,— especially 
that most striking, and yet most gradual, 
change which has taken place amongst the 
great tradesmen, now so universally intelli- 
gent and cultivated, — yet these recollections 
of thirty years back, my personal experience 
of the far narrower and more limited society 
of the gentry of the place — the old ladies and 
their tea visits, the gentlemen and their whist 
club, and the merry Christmas parties, with 
their round games and their social suppers, 
their mirth and their jests ; — recollections such 
as these, with the dear familiar faces and the 
pleasant associations of my girlish days, will 
prevail, do what I can, over the riper but less 
vivid impressions of a maturer age, and the 



more refined, but less picturesque state of 
manners of the present race of inhabitants. 

So far it seemed necessary to premise, lest 
these general sketches of country-town society 
(for of individual portraiture I again assert 
my innocence) should exhibit Belford as a 
quarter of a century behind in the grand march 
of civilization : and I hereby certify, that 
whatever want of modern elegance, or of 
modish luxury, may be observed in these de- 
lineations, is to be ascribed, not to any such 
deficiency in the genteel circles of that " fa- 
mous town," but to the peculiar tastes and 
old-fashioned predilections of the writer. 



STEPHEN LANE, THE BUTCHER. 

The greatest man in these parts, (I use the 
word in the sense of Louis-le-Gros, not Louis- 
le-Grand,) the greatest man hereabout, by, at 
least, a stone, is our worthy neighbour, Ste- 
phen Lane, the grazier, ex-butcher of Belford. 
Nothing so big hath been seen since Lambert 
the jailer, or the Durham ox. 

When he walks, he overfills the pavement, 
and is more difficult to pass than a link of 
full-dressed misses, or a chain of becloaked 
dandies. Indeed, a malicious attorney, in 
drawing up a paving bill for the ancient bo- 
rough of Belford Regis, once inserted a clause 
confining Mr. Lane to the middle of the road, 
together with wagons, vans, stage-coaches, 
and other heavy articles. Chairs crack under 
him, — couches rock, — bolsters groan, — and 
floors tremble. He hath been stuck in a stair- 
case and jammed in a doorway, and has only 
escaped being ejected from an omnibus by its 
being morally and physically impossible that 
he should get in. His passing the window 
has something such an effect as an eclipse, or 
as turning outward the opaque side of that 
ingenious engine of mischief, a dark lantern. 
He puts out the light, like Othello. A small 
wit of our town, by calling, a supervisor, who 
dabbles in riddles, and cuts no inconsiderable 
figure in the poet's corner of a country news- 
paper, once perpetrated a conundrum on his per- 
son, which, as relating to so eminent and well- 
known an individual, (for almost every reader 

of the " H shire Herald" hath, at some 

time or other, been a customer of our butcher,) 
had the honour of puzzling more people at the 
Sunday morning breakfast-table, and of en- 
gaging more general attention than had ever 
before happened to that respectable journal. 
A very horrible murder, (and there was that 
week one of the first water,) two shipwrecks, 
an e/evement, and an execution were all passed 
over as trifles, compared with the interest ex- 
cited by this literary squib and cracker. A 
trifling quirk it was to keep Mr. Stacy, the 
surveyor, a rival bard, fuming over his coffee 



310 



BELFORD REGIS. 



until the said coffee grew cold ; or to hold 
Aliss Anna Maria Watkins, the mantiiamaker, 
in pleasant though painful efforts at divination 
until the bell ranor for church, and she had 
hardly time to undo her curl-papers and ar- 
range her ringlets ; a flimsy quirk of a surety, 
an inconsiderable quiddity ! Yet, since the 

courteous readers of the " H shire Herald " 

were amused with pondering over it, so, per- 
chance, may be the no less courteous and far 
more courtly readers of these slight sketches. 
I insert it, therefore, for tlieir edification, to- 
gether with the answer, which was not pub- 
lished in the "Herald" until the H shire 

public had remained an entire week in sus- 
pense : — " Query — Why is Mr. vStephen Lane 
like Rembrandt ■?" " Aiisiver — Because he is 
famous for the breadth of his shadow." 

The length of his shadow, although by no 
means in proportion to the width, — for that 
would have recalled the days when giants 
walked the land, and Jack, the famous Jack, 
who borrowed his surname from his occupa- 
tion, slew them, — was yet of pretty fair di- 
mensions. He stood six feet two inches 
without his shoes, and would have been ac- 
counted an exceedingly tall man, if his in- 
tolerable fatness had not swallowed up all 
minor distinctions. That magnificent beau 
ideal of a human mountain, " the fat woman 
of Brentford," for whom Sir John Falstaff 
passed not only undetected, but unsuspected, 
never crossed my mind's eye but as the femi- 
nine of Mr. Stephen Lane. Tailors, although 
he was a liberal and pui;ctual paymaster, 
dreaded his custom. They could not, charge 
how they might, contrive to extract any profit 
from his " huge rotundity." It was not only 
the quantity of material that he took, and yet 
that cloth universally called broad was not 
broad enough for him, — it was not only the 
stuff, but the work — the sewing, stitching, 
plaiting, and button-holing without end. The 
very siiears grew weary of their labours. 
Two fashionable suits might have been con- 
structed in the time, and from the materials 
consumed in the fabrication of one for Mr. 
Stephen Lane. Two, did I say % Ay, three 
or four, with a sufficient allowance of cab- 
bage, — a perquisite never to be extracted from 
his coats or waistcoats, — no, not enough to 
cover a pen-wiper. Let the cutter cut his cloth 
ever so largely, it was always found to be too 
little. All their measures put together would 
not go round him; and as to guessing at his 
proportions by the eye, a tailor might as well 
attempt to calculate the dimensions of a 
seventy-four gun ship, — as soon try to fit a 
three-decker. Gloves and stockings were 
made for his especial use. Extras and dou- 
ble extras failed utterly in his case, as the 
dapper shop-man espied at the first glance 
of his huge paw, a fist which might have 
felled an ox, and somewhat resembled the 



dead ox-flesh, commonly called beef, in tex- 
ture and colour. 

To say the truth, his face was pretty much 
of the same complexion — and yet it was no 
uncomely visage either; on the contrary, it 
was a bold, bluff, massive, English counte- 
nance, sucli as Holbein would have liked to 
paint, in which great manliness and di^termi- 
nation were blended with much Pfood-humour, 
and a little humour of another kind; so that 
even when the features were in seeming re 
pose, you could foresee how the face would 
look when a broad smile, and a sly wink, and 
a knowing nod, and a demure smoothing down 
of his straight shining hair on his broad fore- 
head gave his wonted cast of drollery to the 
blunt but merry tradesman, to whom might 
have been filly applied the Chinese compli- 
ment, " Prosperity is painted on your counte- 
nance." 

Stephen Lane, however, had not always 
been so prosperous, or so famous for the 
breadth of his shadow. Originally a found- 
ling in the streets of Belford, he owed his 
very name, like the " Richard Monday," of 
one of Crahbe's finest delineations, to the ac- 
cident of his having been picked up, when 
apparently about a week old, in a by-lane, 
close to St. Stephen's churchyard, and bap- 
tized by order of the vestry after the scene of 
his discovery. Like the hero of the poet, he 
also was sent to the parish work-house; but, 
as unlike to Richard Monday, in character as 
in destiny, he won, by a real or fancied resem- 
blance to a baby whom she had recently lost, 
the affection of the matron, and was by her 
care shielded not only from the physical d-an- 
gers of infancy, in such an abode, but from 
the moral perils of childhood. 

Kindly yet roughly reared, Stephen Lane 
was even as a boy eminent for strength and 
hardihood, and invincible good-humour. At 
ten years old, he had fought with and van- 
quished every lad under fifteen, not only in 
the work-house proper, but in the immediate 
purlieus of that respectable domicile; and 
would have got into a hundred scrapes, had 
he not been shielded, in the first place, by the 
active protection of his original patroness, the 
wife of the superintendent and master of the 
establishment, whose pet he continued to be; 
and, in the second, by his own bold and de- 
cided, yet kindly and affectionate temper. 
Never had a boy of ten years old more friends 
than the poor foundling of St. Stephen's work- 
house. There was hardly an inmate of that 
miscellaneous dwelling, who had not profited, 
at some time or other, by the good-humoured 
lad's delightful alertness in obliging, his ready 
services, his gaiety, his intelligence, and his 
resource. From mending Master Hunt's 
crutch, down to rocking the cradle of Dame 
Green's baby — from fetching the water for the 
general wash, a labour which might have tried 



STEPHEN LANE, THE BUTCHER. 



311 



the strength of Hercules, down to leading out 
for his daily wallc the half-blind, half-idiot, 
half-crazy David Hood, a task which would 
have worn out the patience of Job, nothing 
came amiss to him. All was performed with 
the same cheerful g-ood-will ; and the warm- 
hearted gratitude with which he received kind- 
ness was even more attaching than his readi- 
ness to perform good offices to others. I 
question if ever there were a happier child- 
hood than that of the deserted parish-boy. 
Set aside the pugnaciousness which he pos- 
sessed in common with other brave and gen- 
erous animals, and which his protectress, the 
matron of the house, who had enjoyed in her 
youth the advantage of perusing some of those 
novels — now, alas ! no more — where the he- 
roes, originally foundlings, turn out to be lords 
and dukes in the last volume, used to quote, 
in confirmation of her favourite theory, that 
he too would be found to be nobly born, as 
proofs of his innate high blood ; — set aside 
the foes made by his propensity to single 
combat, which could hardly fail to exasperate 
the defeated champions, and Stephen had not 
an enemy in the world. 

At ten years of age, however, the love of 
independence, and the desire to try his fortunes 
in the world, began to stir in the spirited lad ; 
and his kind friend and confidant, the master's 
wife, readily promised her assistance to set 
him forth in search of adventures, though she 
was not a little scandalized to find his first 
step in life likely to lead him into a butcher's 
shop ; he having formed an acquaintance with 
a journeyman slayer of cattle in the neigh- 
bourhood, who had interceded with his master 
to take him on trial as an errand-bov, with an 
understanding that, if he showed industry and 
steadiness, and liked the craft, he might, on 
easy terms, be accepted as an apprentice. 
This prospect, which Stephen justly thought 
magnificent, shocked the lady of the work- 
house, who had set her heart on choosing a 
different scene of slaughter — killing men, not 
oxen — going forth a soldier, turning the fate 
of a battle, marrying some king's daughter, or 
emperor's niece, and returning in triumph to 
his native town, a generalissimo, at the very 
least. 

Her husband, however, and the parish-over- 
seers were of a different opinion. They were 
much pleased with the proposal, and were 
(for overseers) really liberal in their manner 
of meeting it. So that a very fevv days saw 
Stephen in blue sleeves and a blue apron — the 
dress which he still loves best — parading 
through the streets of Belford, with a tray of 
meat upon his head, and a huge mastiflf called 
Boxer — whose warlike name matched his war- 
like nature — following at his heel-s, as if part 
and parcel of himself. A proud boy was 
Stephen on that first day of his promotion ; 
and a still prouder, when, perched on a pony, 
long the object of his open admiration and 



his secret ambition, he carried out the orders 
to his country customers. His very basket 
danced for joy.* 

Years wore away, and found the errand- 
boy transmuted into the apprentice, and the 
apprentice ripened into the journeyman, with 
no diminution of industry, intelligence, steadi- 
ness, and good-humour. As a young man of 
two or three and twenty, he was so remarka- 
ble for feats of strength and activity, for which 
his tall and athletic person, not, at that period, 
encumbered by flesh, particularly fitted him, 
as to be the champion of the town and neigh- 
bourhood ; and large bets have been laid and 
won on his sparring, and wrestling, and lifting 
weights all but incredible. He has walked 
to London and back, (a distance of above sixty 
miles,) against time, leaping, in his way, all 
the turnpike-gates that he found shut, without 
even laying his hand upon the bars. He has 
driven a flock of sheep against a shepherd by 
profession, and has rowed against a barge- 
man ; and all this without suffering these dan- 
gerous accomplishments to beguile him into 
the slightest deviation from his usual sobriety 
and good conduct. So that, when at six-and- 



* Few things in a country life are more rerrmrkable 
than the wild, triumphant, reckless speed with which 
a butcher's boy sweeps along the streets, and lanes, 
whether mounted, or in a rumbling, jolting cart, no 
accident ever happening, although it seems inevitable 
that the young gentleman must either kill, or be killed 
(perhaps both) every day of his life. How the urchins 
manage, Heaven knows ! — but they do contrive to get 
horses on in a manner that professed jockeys would 
envy, and with an appearance of ease to the animal, 
and an evident enjoyment in the rider, which produce 
sympathy rather than indignation in the lookers on. 
It is seldom that an affair of plain, sober, serious busi- 
ness (and the bringing us our dinner does certainly be- 
long to the most serious business of life.) is transacted 
with such overflowing delight — such gaj^ gallant, in- 
expressible good-humour. 

The following anecdote (communicated by a friend) 
may serve to illustrate their peculiar dexterity in put- 
ting a steed on his mettle: — 

A gentleman of fortune, residing in Berkshire, who 
prides himself very highly on the superiority of his 
horses, was greatly struck by the trotting of a roadster, 
belonging to a butcher in his neighbourhood. The 
owner, however, refused to part with the animal, till 
an offer of seventy guineas proved irresistible, and 
the gentleman mounted his prize in high glee. To 
his utier astonishment, however, the brute could not 
be prevailed upon to exceed an ordinary amble. 
Whip and spur were tried in vain. For weeks, he 
persevered in the hopeless attempt, and, at last, he 
went, in despair, to the butcher, rating him in good 
set terms for having practised an imposition. " Lord 
bless you, sir," said the knight of the cleaver; "he can 
trot as well as ever. Here, Tom," continued he, 
calling to his boy, "get on his back." The youngster 
was scarcely in the saddle, when off the pony shot, 
like an arrow. " How the deuce is this?" inquired 
the astonished purchaser. " Why, he will trot just as 
fast with you," returned the butcher, chuckling, "ojiZy 
yon must carry the basket !" 

1 need hardly add, that the gentleman, not being 
able to comply with this condition, was forced to make 
the best bargain he could with the original proprietor 
of the steed — who, by the way, was not my good 
friend Stephen Lane. 



312 



BELFORD REGIS. 



twenty he became, first, head man to Mr. 
Jackson, the a^reat butcher in the Butts ; then 
married IMr. Jackson's only daughter ; then, 
on his father-in-law's death, succeeded to the 
business and a very considerable property; 
and, finally, became one of the most substan- 
tial, respectable, and influential inhabitants of 
Belford, — every one felt that he most tho- 
roughly deserved his good fortune : and, al- 
though his prosperity has continued to increase 
with his years, and those who envied have 
seldom had the comfort of being called on to 
condole with him on calamities of any kind, 
yet, such is the power of his straight-forward, 
fair dealing, and his enlarged liberality, that 
his political adversaries, on the occasion of a 
contested election, or some such trial of power, 
are driven back to tlie workhouse and St. Ste- 
phen's lane, to his obscure and ignoble origin, 
(for the noble parents whom his poor old 
friend used to prognosticate have never turned 
up.) to find materials for party malignity. 

Prosperous, most prosperous, has Stephen 
Lane been through life; but by far the best 
part of his good fortune (setting pecuniary ad- 
vantages quite out of the question) was his 
gaining the heart and hand of such a woman 
as Marijaret Jackson. In her youth she was 
splendidly beautiful — of the luxuriant and 
gorgeous beauty in which Giorgione revelled ; 
and now, in the autumn of her days, ampli- 
ned, not like her husband, but so as to suit 
her matronly character, she seems to me al- 
most as delightful to look upon as she could 
have been in her earliest spring. I do not 
know a prettier picture than to see her sitting 
at her own door^ on a summer afternoon, sur- 
rounded by her children and her grand-chil- 
dren, — all of them handsome, gay, and cheer- 
ful, — with her knitting on her knee, and her 
sweet face beaming with benevolence and af- 
fection, smiling on all around, and seeming as 
if it were her sole desire to make every one 
about her as good and as happy as herself. 
One cause of the long endurance of her beauty 
is undoubtedly its delightful expression. The 
sunshine and harmony of mind depicted in her 
countenance would have made plain features 
pleasing; and there was an intelligence, an 
enlargement of intellect, in the bright eyes 
and the fair expanded forehead, which min- 
gled vi'ell with the sweetness that dimpled 
round her lips. Butcher's wife and butcher's 
daughter though she were, yet was she a 
graceful and gracious woman, — one of na- 
ture's gentlewomen in look and in thought. 
All her words were candid — all her actions 
liberal — all her pleasures unselfish — though, 
in her great pleasure of giving, I am not quite 
sure that she was so — she took such extreme 
delight in it. All the poor of the parish and 
the town came to her, as a matter of course — 
that is always the case with the eminently 
charitable; but children also applied to her 
for their little indulgences, as if by instinct. 



All the boys in the street used to come to her 
to supply their several desires ; to lend them 
knives and give them string for kites, or pen- 
cils for drawing, or balls for cricket, as the 
matter might be. Those huge pockets of hers 
were a perfect toy-shop, and so the urchins 
knew. And the little damsels, their sisters, 
came to her also for materials for dolls' dresses, 
or odd bits of riband for pincushions, or co- 
loured silks to embroider their needle-cases, 
or any of the thousand-arijl-one knicknacks 
which young girls fancy they want. How- 
ever out of the way the demand might seem, 
there was the article in Mrs. Lane's great 
pocket. She knew the taste of her clients, 
and was never unprovided. And in the same 
ample receptacle, mixed with knives and balls, 
and pencils for the boys, and dolls' dresses, 
and sometimes even a doll itself, for the girls, 
might be found sugar-plums, and cakes, and 
apples, and ginger-bread nuts, for the " tod- 
dling wee things," for whom even dolls have 
no charms. There was no limit to Mrs. Lane's 
bounty, or to the good-humoured alacrity with 
which she would interrupt a serious occupa- 
tion to satisfy the claims of the small people. 
Oh, how they all loved Mrs. Lane! 

Another and a very different class also loved 
the kind and generous inhabitant of the Butts 
— the class who, having seen better days, are 
usually averse to accepting obligations from 
those whom they have been accustomed to 
regard as their inferiors. With them, Mrs. 
Lane's delicacy was remarkable. Mrs. Lu- 
cas, the curate's widow, often found some un- 
bespoken luxury, a sweetbread, or so forth, 
added to her slender order ; and Mr. Hughes, 
the consumptive young artist, could never 
manage to get his bill. Our good friend the 
butcher had his full share in the benevolence 
of these acts,l3ut the manner of them belonged 
wholly to his wife. 

Her delicacy, however, did not, fortunately 
for herself and for her husband, extend to her 
domestic habits. She was well content to 
live in the coarse plenty in which her father 
lived, and in which Stephen revelled ; and by 
this assimilation of taste, she not only ensured 
her own comfort, but preserved, unimpaired, 
her influence over his coarser but kindly and 
excellent disposition. It was, probably, to 
this influence that her children owed an edu- 
cation which, without raising them in the 
slightest degree above their station or their 
home, yet followed the spirit of the age, and 
added considerable cultivation, and plain but 
useful knowledge, to the strong manly sense 
of their father, and her own sweet and sunny 
temperament. They are just what the chil- 
dren of such parents ought to be. The daugh- 
ters, happily married in their own rank of life; 
the sons, each in his different line, following 
the footsteps of their father and amassing 
large fortunes, not by paltry savings or daring 
speculations, but by well-grounded and jndi- 



STEPHEN LANE, THE BUTCHER. 



313 



cious calculation — by sound and liberal views 
— by sterlincr sense and downright honesty. 

Universally as Mrs. Lane was beloved, Ste- 
phen had his enemies. He was a politician 
— a Reformer — a Radical, in those days in 
which reform was not so popular as it has 
been lately : he loved to descant on liberty, 
and economy, and retrenchment, and reform, 
and carried his theory into practice, in a way 
exceedingly inconvenient to the Tory member, 
whom he helped to oust; to the mayor and 
corporation, whom he watched as a cat watches 
a mouse, or as Mr. Hume watches the cabinet 
ministers; and to all gas companies, and pav- 
ing companies, and water companies, and con- 
tractors of every sort, whom he attacks as 
monopolizers and peculators, and twenty more 
long words with bad meanings, and torments 
out of their lives ; — for he is a terrible man in 
a public meeting, hath a loud, sonorous voice, 
excellent lungs, cares for nobody, and is quite 
entirely inaccessible to conviction, the finest 
of all qualities for your thorough-going parti- 
san. All the Tories hated Mr. Lane.* 

But the Tories latterly have formed but a 
small minority in Belford ; and amongst the 
Whigs and Radicals, or, to gather the two 
parties into one word, the Reformers, he was 
decidedly popular — the leader of the opulent 
tradespeople both socially and politically. He 
it was — this denouncer of mayor's feasts and 
parish festivals — who, after the great contest, 
which his candidate gained by three, gave to 
the new member a dinner more magnificent, 
as he declared, than any he had ever seen or 
ever imagined — a dinner like the realization 
of an epicure's dream, or an embodying of 
some of the visions of the old dramatic poets, 
accompanied by wines so aristocratic, that 
they blushed to find themselves on a butcher's 
table. He was president of a smoking-club, 
and vice-president of half-a-dozen societies 
where utility and charity come in the shape 
of a good dinner ; was a great man at a Smith- 
field cattle-show; an eminent looker-on at the 
bowling-green, which salutary exercise he pa- 
tronised and promoted by sitting at an open 
window in a commodious smoking-room com- 
manding the scene of action ; and a capital 
performer of catches and glees. 

He was musical, very — did 1 not say so when 
talking of his youthful accomplishments'! — 
playing by ear " with fingers like toes" (as 



* All women hate elections, and politics, and party 
collision of all sorts; and so, especially at an election 
time, do I. But, after all, I believe we are wrong. 
The storm clears the air, and stirs the water, and 
keeps the lakes and pools from growing stagnant. 
Hatreds and enmities pass away, and people learn 
one of the great arts of life, one of the great secrets of 
happiness — to differ without bitterness, and to admit 
that two persons, both equally honest and independ- 
ent, may conscientiously take directly opposite views 
of the same question. I am not sure that this was 
exactly Stephen Lane's notion ; but I think the world 
in coming gradually to such a conclusion. 



somebody said of Handel) both on the piano 
and the flute, and singing, in a fine bass voice, 
many of the old songs which are so eminently 
popular and national. His voice was loudest 
at church, giving body, as it were, to the voices 
of the rest of the congregation, and " God save 
the King" at the theatre would not have been 
worth hearing without Mr. Lane — he put his 
whole heart into it; for, with all his theoreti- 
cal radicalism, the King — any of the three 
kings in whose reign he hath flourished, for 
he did not reserve his loyalty for our present 
popular monarch, but bestowed it in full am- 
plitude on his predecessors, the two last of the 
Georges — the King hath not a more loyal 
subject. He is a great patron of the drama, 
especially the comic drama, and likes no place 
better than the stage-box at the Belford thea- 
tre, a niche meant for six, which exactly fits 
him. All-fours is his favourite game, and Joe 
Miller his favourite author. 

His retirement froin business and from Bel- 
ford occasioned a general astonishment and 
consternation. It was perfectly understood 
that he could afford to retire from business as 
well as any tradesman who ever gave up a 
flourishing shop in that independent borough ; 
but the busy-bodies, who take so unaccount- 
able a pleasure in meddling with every body's 
concerns, had long ago decided that he never 
would do so; and that he should abandon the 
good town at the very moment when the pro- 
gress of the Reform Bill had completed his 
political triumphs — when the few adversaries 
who remained to the cause, as he was wont 
emphatically to term it, had not a foot to stand 
upon — did appear the most wonderful wonder 
of wonders that had occurred since the days 
of Katterfelto. Stephen Lane without Bel- 
ford ! — Belford, especially in its reformed 
state, without Stephen Lane, appeared as in- 
credible as the announcements of the bottle- 
conjurer. Stephen Lane to abandon the great 
shop in the Butts ! What other place would 
ever hold hiin *? And to quit the scene of his 
triumphs too ! to fly from the very field of vic- 
tory I — the thing seemed impossible ! 

It was, however, amongst the impossibilities 
that turn out true. Stephen Lane did leave 
the reformed borough, all the sooner because it 
was reformed, and his work was over — his oc- 
cupation was gone. It is certain that, without 
perhaps exactly knowing his own feelings, 
our good butcher did feel the vacuum, the 
want of an exciting object, which often at- 
tends upon the fulfilment of a great hope. He 
also felt and understood better the entire ces- 
sation of opposition amongst his old enemies, 
the corporation party. " Dang it, they might 
ha' shown fight, these corporationers ! I 
thought Ben Bailey had had more bottom !" 
was his exclamation, after a borough meeting 
which had passed off unanimously ; and scan- 
dalized at the pacific disposition of his ad- 
versaries, our puissant grazier turned his 



27 



2P 



314 



BELFORD REGIS. 



steps towards "fresh fields and pastures 
new." 

He did not move very far. Just over the 
border-line, which divides the parish of St. 
Stephen, in the loyal and independent borough 
of Belford, from the adjoining hamlet of Sun- 
Jiam — that is to say, exactly half a mile from 
the great shop in the Butts, did Mr. Lane 
take up his abode, calling his suburban habi- 
tation, which was actually joined to the town 
by two rows of two-story houses, one of them 
fronted with poplars, and called Marvell Ter- 
race, in compliment to the patriot of that 
name in Charles's days, — calling this rus in 
urbe of his " the country," after the fashion 
of the inhabitants of Kensington and Hack- 
ney, and the other suburban villages which 
surround London proper ; as if people who 
live in the midst of brick houses could have 
a right to the same rustic title with those who 
live amongst green fields. Compared to the 
Butts, however, Mr. Lane's new residence 
was almost rural ; and the country he called 
it accordingly. 

Retaining, however, his old town predilec- 
tions, his large, square, commodious, and very 
ugly red house, with very white mouldings 
and window-frames, (red, so to say, picked 
out with white,) and embellished by a bright 
green door and a resplendent brass knocker, 
was placed close to the road-side — as close 
as possible ; and the road happening to be 
that which led from the town of Belford to the 
little place called London, he had the happiness 
of counting above sixty stage-coaches, which 
passed his door in the twenty-four hours, with 
vans, wagons, carts, and other vehicles in 
proportion ; and of enjoying, not only from 
his commodious mansion, but also from the 
window of a smoking-room at the end of a 
long brick wall which parted his garden from 
the road, all the clatter, dust, and din, of these 
several equipages — the noise being duly en- 
hanced by there being, just opposite his smok- 
ing-room window, a public house of great 
resort, where most of the coaches stopped to 
take up parcels and passengers, and where 
singing, drinking, and four-corners were going 
on all the day long. 

One of his greatest pleasures in this re- 
tirement seems to be to bring all around him 
— wife, children, and grand-children — to the 
level of his own size, or that of his prize ox, 
— the expressions are nearly synonymous. 
The servant-lads have a chubby breadth of 
feature, like the stone heads with wings under 
them {soi-disant cherubim,) which one sees 
perched round old monuments ; and the maids 
have a broad, Dutch look, full and florid, like 
the women in Teniers' pictures. The very 
animals seem bursting with over-fatness : the 
great horse who draws his substantial equip- 
age, labours under the double weight of his 
master's flesh and his own ; his cows look 



like stalled oxen ; and the leash of his large 
red greyhounds, on whose prowess and pedi- 
gree he prides himself, and whom he boasts, 
and vaunts, and brags of, and offers to bet 
upon, in the very spirit of the inimitable dia- 
logue between Page and Shallow in the 
" Slerry Wives of "Windsor," could no more 
run a course in their present condition than 
they could fly, — the hares would stand and 
laugh at them. 

Mr. Lane is certainly a very happy person ; 
although, when first he removed from the 
Butts, it was quite the fashion to bestow a 
great deal of pity on the poor rich man, self- 
condemned to idleness, — which pity was as 
much thrown away as pity for those who 
have the power to follow their own devices 
generally is. Our good neighbour is not the 
man to be idle. Besides going every day to 
the old shop, where his sons carry on the 
business, and he officiates en amateur, attend- 
ing his old clubs, and pursuing his old diver- 
sions in Belford, he has his farm in Sunham 
to manage, (some five hundred acres of pas- 
ture and arable land, which he purchased with 
his new house,) and the whole parish to re- 
form. He has already begun to institute 
inquiries into charity-schools and poor-rates, 
has an eye on the surveyor of highways, and 
a close watch on the overseer; he attends 
turnpike meetings, and keeps a sharp look- 
out upon the tolls ; and goes peeping about 
the workhouse with an anxiety to detect pecu- 
lation that would do honour even to a Radical 
member of the reformed House of Commons. 
Moreover, he hath a competitor worthy of 
his powers, in the shape of the village orator, 
Mr. Jacob Jones, a little whipper-snapper of 
a gentleman farmer, with a shrill, cracked 
voice, and great activity of body, who, having 
had the advantage of studying some odds-and- 
ends of law, during a three years' residence 
in an attorney's office, has picked up therein 
a competent portion of technical jargon, to- 
gether with a prodigious volubility of tongue, 
and a comfortable stock of impudence ; and, 
under favour of these good gifts, hath led the 
village senate by the nose for the last dozen 
years. Now, Mr. Jacob Jones is, in his way, 
nearly as great a man as Mr. Lane; rides his 
bit of blood a fox-hunting with my Lord ; 
dines once a year with Sir John ; and advo- 
cates abuses through thick and thin — lie does 
not well know why — almost as stoutly as our 
good knight of the cleaver does battle for re- 
form. These two champions are to be pitted 
against each other at the next vestry-meeting, 
and much interest is excited as to the event 
of the contest. I, for my part, think that Mr. 
Lane will carry the day. He is, in every 
way, a man of more substance : and Jacob 
Jones will no more be able to " withstand the 
momentum of his republican fist," than a 
soldier of light infantry could stand the charge 



WILLIAM AND HANNAH. 



315 



of a heavy dragoon. Stephen, honest man, 
will certainly arid to his other avocations that 
of overseer of Sunham. Much good may it 
do him ! 



WILLIAM AND HANNAH. 

" Don't talk to me, William, of our having 
been asked in church. Don't imagine that I 
mind what people say about that. Let them 
attend to their own concerns, and leave me to 
manage mine. If this were our wedding 
morning, and I were within half an hour of 
being your wedded wife, I would part from you 
as readily as I throw away this rose-leaf, if I 
were to know for certain what I have heard 
to-day. Were you or were you not three 
times tipsy last week, at that most riotous 
and disorderly house, "The Eight Bells'?" 

This searching question was put by the 
young and blooming Hannah Rowe, a nursery- 
maid in the family of General Maynard, of 
Oakley Manor, to her accepted lover, William 
Curtis, a very fine young man, who followed 
his trade of a shoemaker in the good town of 
Belford. The courtship had, as the fair dam- 
sel's words implied, approached as nearly as 
well could be to the point matrimonial ; Han- 
nah having given her good mistress warning, 
and prepared her simple wardrobe; and Wil- 
liam, on his part, having taken and furnished 
a room — for to a whole house neither of them 
aspired — near his master's shop: William, 
although a clever workman, and likely to do 
well, being as yet only a journeyman. 

A finer couple it would be difficult to meet 
with anywhere, than William and his Han- 
nah. He was tall, handsome, and intelligent, 
with a perpetual spring of good-humour, and 
a fund of that great gift of Heaven, high ani- 
mal spirits, which being sustained by equal 
life of mind, (for otherwise it is not a good 
gift,) rendered him universally popular. She 
had a rich, sparkling animated beauty — a 
warmth of manner and of feeling, equally 
prepossessing. She loved W^illiam dearly, 
and William knev/ it. Perhaps he did not 
equally know that her quickness of temper 
was accompanied by a decision and firmness 
of character, which, on any really essential 
point, would not fail to put forth its strength. 
Such a point was this, as Hannah knew from 
woful experience : for her own father had been 
a frequenter of the alehouse — had ruined him- 
self altogether, health, property, and character, 
by that degrading and ruinous propensity, and 
had finally died of sheer drunkenness, leaving 
her mother a broken-hearted woman, and her- 
self, a child of eight years old, to struggle as 
best they might, through the wide world. 
Well did Hannah remember her dear mother, 
and that dear mother's sufferings ; — how she 
would sit night after night awaiting the return 



of her brutal husband, bending silently and 
patiently over the needlework, by which she 
endeavoured to support herself and her child ; 
and how, when he did return, when his reel- 
ing, unsteady step was heard on the pavement, 
or his loud knock at the door, or the horrid 
laugh and frightful oath of intoxication in the 
street, how the poor wife would start and 
tremble, and strive to mould her quivering 
lips into a smile, and struggle against her 
tears, as he called fiercely for comforts which 
she had not to give, and thundered forth im- 
precations on herself and her harmless child. 
Once she remembered — she could not have 
been above five years old at the time, but she 
remembered it as if it had hajjpened yester- 
day — awaking suddenly from sleep on her 
wretched bed, and seeing, by the dim moon- 
light that came in through the broken win- 
dows, her father, in his drunken frenzy, stand- 
ing over her, and threatening to strangle her, 
whilst her mother, frantic with fear, tore him 
away, and had her arm broken in the struggle. 
This scene, and scenes like this, passed 
through Hannah's mind, as she leant over the 
calm face of Mrs. Maynard's lovely infant, 
who lay sleeping on her lap, and repeated, in 
a low, calm voice, her former question to 
William — " Were you not three times tipsy 
last week !" 

" Now, Hannah," replied William, evasive- 
ly, " how can you be so cross and old-maidish ■? 
If I did get a little merry, what was it but a 
joyful parting from bachelor friends before 
beginning a steady married life ] What do 
you women know of such things 1 What 
can you know 1 and what can a young fellow 
do with himself, when his work is over, if he 
is not to go to a public house 1 We have not 
work now for above half a day — that is to 
say, not more work in a week than I could 
finish in three days ; and what, I should like 
to know, am I to do with the remainder ? At 
the Eight Bells, say what )'^ou like of the 
place, there's good liquor and good company, 
a good fire in winter, a newspaper to read, and 
the news of the town to talk over. Does not 
your master himself go to his club every 
night of his life when he is in London 1 And 
what — since you won't let me come above 
twice a week to see you — what would you 
have me to do with the long evenings when 
mi/ work is overl" 

Hannah was a little posed at this question. 
Luckily, however, a present sent to her mis- 
tress by an old servant who had married a 
gardener, consisting of a fine basket of straw- 
berries, another of peas, and a beautiful nose- 
gay of pinks and roses, caught her eye as 
they lay on the table before her. 

" Why not take a little plot of ground, and 
work in that of evenings, and raise vegetables 
and flowers 1 Any thing rather than the pub- 
lic house !" 

William laughed outright. 



316 



BELFORD REGIS. 



"Where am T to get this plot of ground? 
tell me that, Hannah ! You know that at 
present I am lodging with my aunt in Silver- 
street, who has only a little bricked yard ; 
and when we move to our room in Newton- 
row, why the outlet there will not be so large 
as that table. This is all nonsense, as you 
well know. I am no g.udener, but a merry 
shoemaker ; and such as I am you have 
chosen me, and you must take me." 

"And you will not promise to give up the 
Eight Bells'!" asked Haimah, imploringly. 

" Promise — no — " hesitated William. "I 
dare say I should do as you like ; but as to 
promising — it is you who have promised to 
take me ' for better for worse,'" added he, 
tenderly ; " surely you do not mean to deceive 
me ]" 

" Oh, William !" said Hannah, " it is you 
who would deceive me and yourself. I know 
what the public house leads to ; and suffer 
what I may, better suffer now and alone, than 
run the risk of that misery. Either promise 
to give up the Eight Bells, or, dearly as I 
love you, and far as things have gone, we 
must part," added she, firmly. 

And as William, though petitioning, re- 
monstrating, coaxing, storming, and implor- 
ing, would not give the required pledge, part 
they did ; his last speech denouncing a ven- 
geance which she could ill bear. 

" You will repent this, Hannah ! for you 
have been the ruin of me. You have broken 
my heart ; and if you hear of me every night 
at the alehouse, endeavouring to drown care, 
remember that it is you, and you only, who 
have driven me there!" And so saying, he 
walked sturdily out of the house. 

William went away in wrath and anger, 
determined to be as good, or rather as bad, as 
his word. Hannah remained, her heart over- 
flowing with all the blended and contending 
emotions natural to a woman (I mean a wo- 
man that has a heart) in such a situation. 
Something of temper had mingled with the 
prudence of her resolution, and, as is always 
the case where a rash and hasty temper has 
led a generous mind astray, the reaction was 
proportionably strong. She blamed herself — 
she pitied William — she burst into a passion 
of tears ; and it was not until the iriolence of 
her grief had awakened and terrified the little 
Emily, and that the necessity of pacifying 
the astonished child compelled her into the 
exertion of calming herself, ( so salutary in 
almost all cases is the recurrence of our daily 
duties!) that she remembered the real danger 
of William's unhappy propensity, the dying 
injunctions of her mother, and those fearful 
scenes of her own childhood which still at 
times haunted her dreams. Her father, she 
had heard, liad once been as kind, as gay, as 
engaging as William himself — as fond of her 
mother as William was of her. Where was 
the security that these qualities would not 



perish under the same evil influence and de- 
grading habits ] Her good mistress, too, 
praised and encouraged her, and for a whiln 
she was comforted. 

Very, very soon the old feeling returned. 
Hannah had loved with the full and overflow- 
ing atTection of a fond ;ind faithful nature, 
and time and absence, which seldom fail to 
sweep away a slight and trivial fancy, only 
gave deeper root to an attachment like hers ; 
her very heart clung to William. Her hours 
were passed in weaving visions of imaginary 
interviews, and framing tO herself imaginary 
letters. She loved to plan fancied dialogues 
— to think how fondly he would woo, and 
how firmly she would reject, — for she thought 
it quite sure that she should reject; and yet 
she yearned (oh ! how she yearned) for the 
opportunity of accepting. 

But such opportunity was far away. The 
first thing she heard of him was, that he was 
realizing his own prediction by pursuing a 
course of continued intemperance at the Eight 
Bells ; the next, that he was married ! — mar- 
ried, it should seem, from hate and anger, not 
from love, to a young and thoughtless girl, 
portionless and improvident as himself. No- 
thing but misery could ensue from such a 
union ; — nothing but misery did. Then came 
the beer-houses, with their fearful addition of 
temptation ; and Hannah, broken-hearted at 
the accounts of his evil courses, and ashamed 
of the interest which she still continued to 
feel for one who could never be any thing to 
her again, rejoiced when General and Mrs. 
Maynard resolved to spend some time in Ger- 
many, and determined that she should accom- 
pany them. 

From Germany the travellers proceeded to 
Italy, from Italy to Switzerland, and from 
Switzerland to France ; so that nearly five 
years elapsed before they returned to Oakley 
Manor. Five years had wrought the usual 
changes amongst Hannah's old friends in that 
neighbourhood. The servants were nearly all 
new, the woman at the lodge had gone away, 
the keeper's daughter was married ; so that, 
finding none who knew her anxiety respecting 
William, and dreading to provoke the answer 
which she feared awaited her inquiries, she 
forbore to ask any question respecting her for- 
mer lover. 

One evening, soon after their arrival, Gene- 
ral Maynard invited his wife and family to go 
and see the cottage gardens at Belford. "We'll 
take even little Emily and Hannah," added 
he, " for it's a sight to do one's heart good — 
ay, fifty times more good than famous rivers 
and great mountains ! and I would not have 
any of my cliildren miss it for the fee-simple 
of the land, which, by the by, happens to be- 
long to me. You remember my friend How- 
ard writing to me when I was at Manheim, 
desiring to rent about thirty acres near Belford, 
which had just fallen vacant. Well, he has 



WILLIAM AND HANNAH. 



317 



fenced it and drained it, and made roads and 
paths, and divided it into plots of a quarter of 
an acre, more or less, and let it out for exactly 
the same money which he fjives me, to the 
poor families in the town, chiefly to the inhab- 
itants of that wretched suburb Silver-street, 
where the miserable hovels had not an inch of 
outlet, and the children were constantly gro- 
velling in the mud and runninor under the 
horses' feet; passing their whole days in 
increasing and progressive demoralization ; 
wiiilst tlieir mothers were scolding and quar- 
relling and starving, and their fathers drown- 
ing their miseries at the beer-shops — a realiza- 
tion of Crabbe's gloomiest pictures ! Only 
imagine what these gardens have done for 
these poor people ! Every spare hour of the 
parents is given to the raising of vegetables 
for their own consumption, or for sale, or for 
the rearing and fatting that prime luxury of 
the English peasant, a pig. The children 
have healthy and pleasant employment. The 
artisan who can only find work for two or 
three days in the week is saved from the 
parish ; he who has full pay is saved from the 
alehouse. A feeling of independence is gene- 
j rated, and the poor man's heart is gladdened 
I and warmed by the conscious pride of property 
I in tlie soil — by knowing and feeling that the 
j spring shower and the summer sun are swell- 
ing and ripening his little harvest. 
I " I speak ardently," continued the General, 
I rather ashamed of his own enthusiasm ; " but 
I 've just been talking with that noble fellow 
Howard, who, in the midst of his many avo- 
cations, has found time for all this, and really 
I cannot help it. Whilst I was with him, in 
came one of the good folks to complain that 
his garden was rated. 'I'm glad of it,' re- 
plied Howard; 'it's a proof that you are a 
real tenant, and that this is not a charity affair.' 
And the man went off an inch taller. Howard 
confesses that he has not been able to resist 
the temptation of giving them back the amount 
of the rent in tools and rewards of one sort or 
other. He acknowledges that this is the weak 
part of his undertaking; but, as I said just 
now, he could not help it. Moreover, I doubt 
if the giving back the rent in that form be 
wrong — at least, if it be wrong to give it back 
at first. The working-classes are apt to be 
suspicious of their superiors — I am afraid that 
they have sometimes had reason to be so ; and 
as tlie benefits of the system cannot be imme- 
diately experienced, it is well to throw in 
these little boons to stimulate them to perse- 
verance. But here we are at Mr. Howard's," 
pursued the good General, as the carriage 
stopped at the gate of the brewery ; for that 
admirable person was neither more nor less 
than a country brewer. 

A beautiful place was that old-f\shioned 
brewery, situated on an airy bit of rising 
ground at the outskirts of the town, the very 
last house in the borough, and divided from 

27* 



all other buildings by noble rows of elms, by 
its own spacious territory of orchard and mea- 
dow, and by the ample outlet, full of drays,, 
and carts, and casks, and men, and horses, 
and all the life and motion- of a great and flou- 
rishing business; forming, by its extent and 
verdure, so striking a contrast to the usual 
dense and smoky atmos])here, the gloomy yet 
crowded appearance of a brewer's yard. 

The dwelling-house, a most picturesque 
erection, with one end projecting so as to form 
two sides of a square, the date, 16!2, on the 
porch, and the whole front covered with choice 
creepers, stood at some distance from the road ; 
and General Maynard and his lady hurried 
through it, as if knowing instinctively that on 
a fine summer evening Mrs. Howard's flower- 
garden was her drawing-room. What a flow- 
er-garden it was! A sunny, turfy knoll slop- 
ing abruptly to a natural and never-failing 
spring that divided it from a meadow rising 
on the other side with nearly equal abrupt- 
ness; the steep descent dotted with flower- 
beds, rich, bright, fresh, and gh/wing. and the 
path that wound up the hill, leading through 
a narrow stone gateway — an irregular arch 
overrun with luxuriant masses of the narrow- 
leaved, white-veined ivy, which trailed its 
long pendent strings almost to the ground into 
a dark and shadowy walk, runningr along the 
top of a wild precipitous bank, clothed partly 
with forest-trees, oak, and elm, and poplar — 
partly with the finest exotics, cedars, cy- 
presses, and the rare and graceful snow-drop- 
tree, of such growth and beauty as are seldom 
seen in Enoland, — and terminated by a root- 
house, overhung by the branches of an im- 
mense acacia, now in the full glory of its 
white and fragrant blossoms, and so com- 
pletely concealing all but the entrance of the 
old root-house, that it seemed as if that quiet 
retreat had no other roof than those bright 
leaves and chain-like flowers. 

Here they found Mrs. Howard, a sweet and 
smiling woman, lovelier in the rich glow of 
her matronly beauty than she had been a 
dozen years before as the fair .Tane Dorset, 
the belle of the country side. Here sat Mrs. 
Howard, surrounded by a band of laughing 
rosy children ; and directed by her, and pro- 
mising to return to the brewery to coffee, the 
Genera! and his family proceeded by a private 
path to the cottage allotments. 

Pleasant was the sight of those allotments 
to the right-minded and the kind, who love to 
contemplate order and regularity in the moral 
and physical world, and the cheerful and will- 
ing exertion of a well-directed and prosperous 
industry. It was a beautiful evening, late in 
June, and the tenants and their families were 
nearly all assembled in their small territories, 
each of which was literally filled with useful 
vegetables in every variety and of every kind. 
Here was a little girl weeding an onion-bed, 
here a boy sticking French beans; here a 



318 



BELFORD REGIS. 



woman gathering herbs for a salad, here a 
man standing in proud and happy contempla- 
tion of a superb j)lot of cauliflowers. Every- 
where there was a hum of cheerful voices, as 
neighbour greeted neighbour, or the several 
families chatted amongst each other. 

The General, who was warmly interested 
in the subject, and had just made himself 
master of the details, pointed out to Mrs. 
Maynard those persons to whom it had been 
most beneficial. "That man," said he, "who 
has, as you perceive, a double allotment, and 
who is digging with so much good-will, has 
ten children and a sickly wife, and yet has 
never been upon the parish for the last two 
years. That thin young man in the blue 
jacket is an out-door painter, and has been out 
of work these six weeks — (by the by, Howard 
has just given him a job) — and all that time 
has been kept by his garden. And that fine- 
looking fellow who is filling a basket with 
peas, whilst the pretty little child at his side 
is gathering strawberries, is the one whom 
Howard prize? most, because he is a person 
of higher (|ua!ities — one who was redeemed 
from intolerable drunkenness, retrieved from 
sin and misery, by this occupation. He is a 
journeyman shoemaker — a young widower — " 

Hannah heard no more — she had caught 
sight of William, and William had caught 
sight of her; and in an instant her hands 
were clasped in his, and they were gazing on 
each other with eyes full of love and joy, and 
of the blessed tears of a true and perfect re- 
conciliation. 

"Yes, Hannah!" said William, "I have 
sinned, and deeply; but I have suffered bit- 
terly, and most earnestly have I repented. It 
is now eighteen months since I have en- 
tered a public-house, and never will I set 
foot in one again. Do you believe me, Han- 
nah ?" 

" Do I !" exclaimed Hannah, with a fresh 
burst of tears ; " oh, what should I be made 
of if I did not]" 

" And here are the peas and the strawber- 
ries," said William, smiling; "and the pinks 
and the roses," added he, more tenderly, tak- 
ing a nosegay from his lovely little girl, as 
Hannah stooped to caress her; "and the poor 
motherless child — my only child ! she has no 
mother, Hannah — will yon be one to her?" 

"Will II" again echoed Hannah; "oh, 
William, will I notT' 

" Remember, I am still only a poor jour- 
neyman — I have no money," said William. 

" But I have," replied Hannah. 

"And shall we not bless Mr. Howard," 
continued he, as, with his own Hannah on his 
arm, and his little girl holding by his hand, 
he followed Mrs. Maynard and the General. — 
"Shall we not bless Mr, Howard, who res- 
cued me from idleness and its besetting 
temptations, and gave me pleasant and profit- 
able employment in the cottage-garden'?" 



Note. — The system on which the above 
story is founded, is happily no fiction; and 
although generally appropriated to the agri- 
cultural labourer of the rural districts, it has, 
in more than one instance, been tried, with 
eminent success, amongst the poorer artisans 
in towns — to whom, above all other classes, 
the power of emerging from the (in every 
sense) polluted atmosphere of their crowded 
lanes and courts must be invaluable. 

The origin of the system is so little known, 
and seems to me at once so striking and so 
natural, that I cannot resist the temptation of 
relating it almost in the words in which it 
was told to me by one of the most strenuous 
and judicious supporters of the cottage allot- 
ments. 

John Denson was a poor working man, an 
agricultural labourer, a peasant, who, finding 
his weekly wages inadequate to the support 
of his family, and shrinking from applying for 
relief to the parish, sought and obtained of the 
lord of the manor, the permission to enclose a 
small plot of waste land, of which the value 
had hitherto been very trifling. By dilitrent 
cultivation he brought it to a state of great 
productiveness and fertility. This was after- 
wards sufliciently extended to enable him to 
keep a cow or two, to support his family in 
comfort and independence, and, ultimately, to 
purchase the fee-simple of the land. During 
the hours of relaxation, he educated himself 
sufliciently to enable him to relate clearly and 
correctly the result of his experience ; and 
feeling it his duty to endeavour to improve the 
condition of his fellow-labourers, by informing 
thern of the advantages which he had derived 
from industrious and sober habits, and the 
cultivation of a small plot of ground, he pub- 
lished a pamphlet called "The Peasant's 
Warning Voice," which, by attracting the 
attention of persons of humanity and influ- 
ence, gave the first impulse to the system. 

Among the earliest and most zealous of its 
supporters was Lord Braybrooke, to whom, 
next after John Denson, (for that noble-minded 
peasant must always claim the first place,) 
belongs the honour of promulgating exten- 
sively a plan replete with humanity and wis- 
dom. 

It was first carried into effect by his Lord- 
ship, several years ago, in the parish of Saf- 
fron Walden, a place then remarkable for 
misery and vice, but which is now conspicu- 
ous for the prosperity and good conduct of its 
poorer inhabitants. The paupers on the rates 
were very numerous, (ainounting, I believe, 
to L35,) and are now comparatively few, and 
— which is of far more importance, since the 
reduction of the poor-rates is merely an inci- 
dental consequence of the system — the cases 
of crime at the Quarter Sessions have dimin- 
ished in a similar proportion. 

Since that period, the cottage allotiTients 
have been tried in many parts of England, and 



THE CURATE OF ST. NICHOLAS'. 



319 



always with success. Indeed, they can hardly 
fail, provided the soil be favourable to spade- 
husbandry, the rent not higher than that which 
would be demanded from a larcre occupier of 
land, the ground properly drained and fenced, 
and the labourers not encumbered with rules 
and reo'ulatioiis : for the main object being not 
merely to add to the physical comforts, but to 
raise the moral character of the working 
classes, especial care should be taken to in- 
duce and cherish the feeling of independence, 
and to prove to them that they are considered 
as tenants paying rent, and not as almsmen 
receiving cliarity. 

I am happy to add, thai the Mr. Howard of 
this little story (that is not quite his name) 
does actually exist. He is an eminent brewer 
in a small town in our neighbourhood, and 
has, also, another great brewery near London ; 
he has a large family of young children and 
orphan relations, is an active magistrate, a 
sportsman, a horticulturist, a musician, a 
cricketer; is celebrated for the most extensive 
and the most elegant hospitality ; and yet, has 
found time, not only to establish the system 
in his own parish, but, also, to oiiiciate as 
secretary to a society for the promotion of this 
good object throughout the country. Heaven 
grant it success ! I, for my poor part, am 
thoroughly convinced, that, if ever project 
were at once benevolent and rational, and 
practicable and wise, it is this of the cottage 
allotments ; and I can hardly refrain from en- 
treating my readers — especially my fair read- 
ers — to exert whatever power or influence they 
may possess in favour of a cause which has, 
for its sole aim and end, the putting down of 
vice and misery, and the diffusion of happi- 
ness and virtue. 



THE CURATE OF ST. NICHOLAS'. 

Amongst the most generally beloved, not 
merely of the clergy, but of the whole popula- 
tion of Belford, as that population stood some 
thirty years ago, was my good old friend, the 
Curate of St. Nicholas' ; and, in my mind, he 
had qualities that might both explain and jus- 
tify his universal popularity. 

Belford is, at present, singularly fortunate 
in the parochial clergy. Of the two vicars, 
whom I have the honour and the privilege of 
knowing, one confers upon the place the en- 
nobling distinction of being the residence of a 
great poet; whilst both are not only, in the 
highest sense of that highest word, gentle- 
men, in birth, in education, in manners, and 
in mind — but eminently popular in the pulpit, 
and, as parish jjriests, not to be excelled, even 
amoncrst the trenerally excellent clergymen of 
the Church of England — a phrase, by the 
way, which just at this moment sounds so 



like a war-cry, that I cannot too quickly dis- 
claim any intention of inflicting a political 
dissertation on the unwary reader. My de- 
sign is simply to draw a faithful likeness of 
one of the most peaceable members of the 
establishment. 

Of late years, there has been a prodigious 
change in the body clerical. The activity of 
the dissenters, the spread of education, and 
the immense increase of population, to say 
nothing of that "word of power," Reform, 
have combined to produce a stirring spirit of 
emulation amongst the younger clergy, which 
has quite changed the aspect of the profession. 
Heretofore, the "church militant" was the 
quietest and easiest of all vocations; and the 
most slender and lady-like young gentleman, 
the " mamma's darling" of a great family, 
whose lungs were too tender for the bar, and 
whose frame was too delicate for the army, 
might be sent with perfect comfort to the snug 
curacy of a neighbouring parish, to read Ho- 
race, cultivate auriculas, christen, marry, and 
bury, about twice a quarter, and do duty once 
every Sunday. Now times are altered ; pray- 
ers must be read and sermons preached twice 
a day at least, not forgetting lectures in Lent, 
and homilies at tide times ; workhouses are to 
be visited ; schools attended, boys and girls 
taught in the morning, and grown-up bump- 
kins in the evening; children are to be cate- 
chised; masters and mistresses looked after; 
hymn-books distributed; bibles given away; 
tract societies fostered amongst the zealous, 
and psalmody cultivated amongst the musical. 
In short, a curate, now-a-days, even a country 
curate, much more if his parish lie in a great 
town, has need of the lungs of a barrister in 
good practice, and the strength and activity 
of an officer of dragoons. 

Now this is just as it ought to be. Never- 
theless, I cannot help entertaining certain re- 
lentings in favour of the well-endowed church- 
man of the old school, round, indolent, and 
rubicund, at peace with himself and with all 
around him, who lives in quiet and plenty in 
his ample parsonage-house, dispensing with a 
liberal hand the superfluities of his hospitable 
table, regular and exact in his conduct, but 
not so precise as to refuse a Saturday night's 
rubber in his own person, or to condemn his 
parishioners for their game of cricket on Sun- 
day afternoons; charitable in word and deed, 
tolerant, indulgent, kind, to the widest extent 
of that widest word ; but, except in such wis- 
dom (and it is of the best,) no wiser than that 
eminent member of the church. Parson Adams. 
In a word, exactly such a man as my good old 
friend the rector of Hadley, cidtvaM curate of 
St. Nicholas' in Belford, who has just passed 
the window in that venerable relique of anti- 
quity, his one-horse chaise. Ah, we may see 
him still, through the budding leaves of the 
clustering China rose, as he is stopping to 
give a penny to poor .lame Dinah Moore — 



320 



BELFORD REGIS. 



stopping-, and stooping his short round person 
with no small effort, that he may put it into 
her little hand, because the child would have 
some difliculty in picking it up, on account of 
her crutches. Yes, there he goes, rotund and 
rosy, "a tun of a man," filling three parts of 
his roomy equipage; the shovel-hat with a 
rose in it, the very model of orthodoxy, over- 
shadowing his white hairs and placid counte- 
nance ; his little stunted foot-boy in a purple 
livery, driving a coach-horse as fat as his 
master; whilst the old white terrier, f\Uter 
still — his pet terrier Venom, waddles after the 
chaise (of which the head is let down, in ho- 
nour, I presume, of this bright April morning,) 
much resembling in gait and aspect that other 
white waddling thing, a goose, if a goose 
were gifted with four legs. 

There he goes, my venerable friend the 
Reverend Josiah Singleton, rector of Hadley- 
cum-Doveton, in the county of Southampton, 
and vicar of Delworth, in the county of Sur- 
rey. There he goes, in whose youth tract 
societies and adult schools were not, but who 
yet has done as much good and as little harm 
in his generation, has formed as just and as 
useful a link between the rich and the poor, 
the landlord and the peasant, as ever did 
honour to religion and to human nature. Per- 
haps this is only saying, in other words, that, 
under any system, benevolence and single- 
mindedness will produce their proper effects. 
I am rfot, however, going to preach a ser- 
mon over my worthy friend — long may it be 
before his funeral sermon is preached I or 
even to write his eloge, for eloi^es are dull 
things ; and to sit down with the intention of 
being dull,^ — to set about the matter with 
malice prepense (howbeit the calamity may 
sometimes happen accidentally,) I hold to be 
an unnecessary impertinence. I am only to 
give a slight sketch, a sort of bird's-eye view 
of my reverend friend's life, which, by the 
way, has been, except in one single particular, 
so barren of incidents, that it might almost 
pass for one of those proverbially uneventful 
narratives. The Lives of the Poets. 
j Fifty-six years ago, our portly rector — then, 
it may be presumed, a sleek and comely 
bachelor — left college, where he had passed 
through his examinations and taken his de- 
grees with respectable mediocrity, and was 
ordained to the curacy of St. Nicholas' parish, 
in our market-town of Belford, where, b)^ the 
recommendation of his vicar. Dr. Grampound, 
he fixed himself in the small but neat first- 
floor of a reduced widow gentlewoman, who 
endeavoured to eke out a small annuity by let- 
ting lodgings at eight shillings a-week, linen, 
china, plate, glass, and waiting included, and 
by keeping a toy-shop, of which the whole 
stock, fiddles, drums, balls, dolls, and shuttle- 
cocks, might be safely appraised at under eight 
])Ounds, including a stitelj' roeking-liorse, the 
poor widow's chuval de bataille, which had 



occupied one side of Mrs. Martin's shop from 
the time of her setting up business, and still 
continued to keep iiis station uncheapened by 
her thrifty customers. 

There, by the advice of Dr. Grampound, 
did he place himself on his arrival at Belford ; 
and there he continued for full thirty years, 
occupying the same first-floor; the sitting- 
room — a pleasant apartment, with one window 
(for the little toy-shop was a corner-house) 
abutting on the High Bridge, and the other 
on the market-place — still, as at first, furnish- 
ed with a Scotch carpet, cane chairs, a Pem- 
broke table, and two hanging shelves, which 
seemed placed there less for their ostensible 
destination of holding books, sermons, and 
newspapers, than for the purpose of bobbing 
against the head of every unwary person who 
might happen to sit down near the wall ; and 
the small chamber behind, with its tent-bed 
and dimity furniture, its mahogany chest of 
drawers, one chair and no table; with the 
self-same spare, quiet, decent landlady, in her 
faded but well-preserved mourning gown, and 
the identical serving maiden, Patty, a demure, 
civil, modest damsel, dwarfed, as it should 
seem, by constant curtsying, — since from 
twelve years upwards she had not grown an 
inch. Except the clock of time, which, how- 
ever imperceptibly, does still keep moving, 
every thing about the little toy-shop in the 
market-place at Belford was at a stand-still. 
The very tabby-cat which lay basking on the 
hearth, might have passed for his progenitor 
of happy memory, who took his station there 
the niirht of Mr. Singleton's arrival; and 
the self-same hobby-horse still stood rocking 
opposite the counter, the admiration of every 
urchin who passed thedoor, and so completely 
the pride of the mistress of the domicile, that 
it is to be questioned — convenient as thirty 
shillings, lawful money of Great Britain, 
might sometimes have proved to Mrs. ^Martin 
— whether she would not have felt more re- 
luctance than pleasure in parting with this, 
the prime ornament of her stock. 

There, however, the rocking-horse remain- 
ed ; and there remained Mr. Sinaileton, gra- 
dually advancing from a personable youth to 
a portly middle-aged man ; and obscure and 1 
unternpting as the station of a curate in a . 
country-town may appear, it is doubtful whe- i 
ther those thirty years of comparative poverty ] 
were not amongst the happiest of his easy and i 
tranquil life. 

Very happy they undoubtedly were. To 
say nothing of the comforts provided for him 
by his assiduous landlady and her civil do- ' 
mestic, both of whom felt all the value of 
their kind, orderly, and considerate inmate ; 
especially as compared with the rackety re- 
cruitinir ofllcers and troublesome single gen- 
tlewomen who had generally occu|)ied the 
first-floor; our curate was in prime favour 
with his vicar, Dr. Grampound, a stately pil- 



THECURATE OF ST. NIC HOL AS'. 



321 



lar of divinity, rigidly orthodox in all matters 
of church and state, who, having a stall in a 
distant cathedral, and another living by the 
sea-side, spent but little of his time at Bel- 
ford, and had been so tormented by his three 
last curates — the first of whom was of avow- 
edly whig politics, and more than suspected 
of Calvinistic religion ; the second a fox- 
hunter, and the third a poet — that he was de- 
lighted to intrust his flock to a staid, sober 
youth of high-church and tory principles, who 
never mounted a horse in his life, and would 
hardly have trusted himself on Mrs. Martin's 
steed of wood ; and whose genius, so far 
from carrying him into any flights of poesy, 
never went beyond that weekly process of 
sermon-making, which, as the doctor observed, 
was all that a sound divine need know of 
authorship. Never was curate a greater fa- 
vourite with his principal. He has even been 
heard to prophesy that the young man would 
be a bishop. 

Amongst the parishioners, high and low, 
.Tosiah was no less a favourite. The poor 
felt his benevolence, his integrity, his piety, 
and his steady kindness; whilst the richer 
classes (for in the good town of Belford few 
were absolutely rich) were won by his unaf- 
fected good-nature, the most popular of all 
qualities. There was nothing shining about 
the man, no danger of his setting the Thames 
on fire, and the gentlemen liked him none the 
worse for that; but his chief friends and allies 
were the ladies — not the young ladies, by 
whom, to say the truth, he was not so much 
courted, and whom, in return, he did not 
trouble himself to court ; but the discreet 
mammas and grand-mammas, and maiden 
gentlewomen of a certain age, amongst whom 
he found himself considerably more valued, 
and infinitely more at home. 

Sooth to say, our staid, worthy, prudent, 
sober young man, had at no time of his life 
been endowed with the biioj'ant and mercu- 
rial spirit peculiar to youth. There was in 
him a considerable analogy between the mind 
and the body. Both were heavy, sluggish, 
and slow. He was no strait-laced person 
either; he liked a joke in his own quiet way 
well enough ; but as to encountering the 
quips, and cranks, and quiddities of a set of 
giddy girls, he could as soon have danced a 
cotillion. The gift was not in him. So with 
a wise instinct he stuck to their elders ; called 
on them in the morning; drank tea with them 
at night; played whist, quadrille, cassiiio, 
backgammon, commerce, or lottery-tickets, 
as the party might require; told news and 
talked scandal as well as any woman of them 
all ; accommodated a diflference of four years' 
standing between the wife of the chief attor- 
ney and the sister of the principal physician ; 
and was appealed to as absolute referee in a 
question of precedence between the widow of 
a post-captain and the lady of a colonel of 

2Q 



volunteers, which had divided the whole gen- 
tility of the town into parties. In short, he 
was such a favourite in the female world, that 
when the ladies of Belford (on their husbands 
setting up a weekly card-club at the Crown) 
resolved to meet on the same night at each 
other's houses, Mr. Singleton was, by unani- 
mous consent, the only gentleman admitted to 
the female coterie. 

Happier man could hardly be, than the 
worthy Josiah in this fair company. At first, 
indeed, some slight interruptions to his com- 
fort had ofl^ered themselves, in the shape of 
overtures matrimonial, from three mammas, 
two papas, one uncle, and (I grieve to say) 
one lady, an elderly young lady, a sort of 
dowager spinster in her own proper person, 
who, smitten with Mr. Singleton's excellent 
character, a small independence, besides his 
curacy in possession, and a trifling estate 
(much exaggerated by the gossip fame) in 
expectancy, and perhaps somewhat swayed 
by Dr. Grampound's magnificent prophec}', 
had, at the commencement of his career, re- 
spectively given him to understand that he 
might, if he chose, become nearly related to 
them. This is a sort of dilemma which a 
well-bred man, and a man of humanity, (and 
our curate was both,) usually feels to be tol- 
erably embarrassing. Josiah, however, ex- 
tricated himself with his usual straightfor- 
ward simplicity. He said, and said truly, 
" that he considered matrimony a great com- 
fort — that he had a respect for the state, and 
no disinclination to any of the ladies ; but 
that he was a poor man, and could not afford 
so expensive a luxury." And with the ex- 
ception of one mamma, who had nine unmar- 
ried daughters, and proposed waiting for a 
living, and the old young lady who had offered 
herself, and who kept her bed and threatened 
to die on his refusal, thus giving him the 
fright of having to bury his inamorata, and 
being haunted by her ghost — with these slight 
exceptions, every body took his answer in 
good part. 

As he advanced in life, these sort of annoy- 
ances ceased — his staid, sober deportment, rud- 
dy countenance, and portly person, giving him 
an air of being even older than he really was; 
so that he came to be considered as that pri- 
vileged person, a confirmed old bachelor, the 
general beau of the female coterie, and the 
favourite marryer and christener of the town 
and neighbourhood. Nay, as ye^rs wore 
away, and he began to marry some whom he 
had christened, and to bury many whom he 
had married, even Dr. Grampound's prophecy 
ceased to be remembered, and he appeared to 
be as firmly rooted in Belford as in St. Nicho- 
las's church, and as completely fixed in the 
toy-shop as the rocking-horse. 

Destiny, however, had other things in store 
for him. The good town of Belford, as I 
have already hinted, is, to its own misfortune, 



322 



BELFORD REGIS. 



a poor place ! an independent borough, and 
subject, accordincrly, to the infliction (privi- 
lege, 1 believe, the voters are pleased to call 
it) of an election. For thirty years — durintr 
which period there had been seven or ei^ht of 
these visitations — the calamity had passed 
over so mildly, that, except three or four days 
of intolerable drunkenness, (accompanied, of 
course, by a sufficient number of broken heads,) 
no other mischief had occurred ; the two great 
families, whig and tory, might be said to di- 
vide the town, — for this was before the days 
of that active reformer, Stephen Lane, — hav- 
ing entered, by agreement, into a compromise 
to return one member each ; a compact which 
might have held good to this time, had not 
some slackness of attention on the part of the 
whigs (the Blues, as they were called in 
election jargon) provoked the Yellow or tory 
part of the corporation, to sign a requisition to 
the Hon. Mr. Delworth, to stand as their se- 
cond candidate, and produced the novelty of a 
sharp contest in their hitherto peaceful bo- 
rough. When it came, it came with a ven- 
geance. It lasted eight days — as long as it 
could last. The dregs of that cup of evil 
were drained to the very bottom. Words are 
faint to describe the tumult, the turmoil, the 
blustering, the brawling, the abuse, the ill- 
will, the battles by tongue and by fist, of that 
disastrous time. At last the Yellows carried 
it by six; and on a petition and scrutiny in 
the House of Commons, by one single vote: 
and as Mr. Singleton had been engaged on the 
side of the winning party, not merely by his 
own political opinions, and those of his an- 
cient vicar, Dr. Grampound, but, also, by the 
predilections of his female allies, who were 
Yellows to a man, those who understood the 
ordinary course of such matters were not 
greatly astonished, in the course of the ensu- 
ing three years, to find our good curate rector 
of Hadley, vicar of Delworth, and chaplain to 
the new member's father. One thing, how- 
ever, was remarkable, that amidst all the scur- 
rility and ill blood of an election contest, and 
in spite of the envy which. is sure to follow a 
sudden change of fortune, Mr. Singleton nei- 
ther made an enemy nor lost a friend. His 
peaceful, unofi'ending character disarmed of- 
fence. He had been unexpectedly useful too 
to the winning party, not merely by knowing 
and having served many of the poorer voters, 
but by possessing one eminent qualification, 
not suffioiently valued or demanded in a can- 
vasser : he was the best listener of the party,* 
and is said to have gained the half-dozen votes 
which decided the election, by the mere pro- 
cess of letting the people talk. 



* A friend of mine, the lady of a borough member, 
who was very active in canvassing for her husband, 
once said to me, on my complimenting her on the 
number of votes she had obtained : "It was all done 
by hstening. Our good friends, the voters, like to 
hear themselves talk." 



This talent, which, it is to be presumed, he 
acquired in the ladies' club at Belford, and 
which probably contributed to his popularity 
in that society, stood him in great stead in the 
aristocratic circle of Delworth Castle. The 
whole family was equally delighted and 
amused by his honhommie and simplicity ; 
and he, in return, captivated by their kind- 
ness, as well as grateful for their benefits, 
paid them a sincere and unfeigned homage, 
which trebled their good-will. Never was so 
honest and artless a courtier. There was 
something at once diverting and amiable in 
the ascendency which every thing connected 
with his patron held over Mr. Singleton's im- 
agination. Loyal subject as he unquestiona- 
bly was, the king, queen, and royal family 
would have been as nothino- in his eyes, com- 
pared with Lord and Lady Delworth, and their 
illustrious offspring. He purchased a new 
peerage, which, in the course of a few days, 
opened involuntarily on the honoured page 
which contained an account of their genealo- 
gy ; his walls were hung -.vith ground-plans 
of Hadley House, elevations of Delworth Cas- 
tle, maps of the estate, prints of the late and 
present lords, and of a judge of Queen Anne's 
reign, and of a bishop of George the Second's, 
worthies of the family; he had, on his dining- 
room mantel-piece, models of two wings, once 
projected for Hadley, but which had never 
been built; and is said to have once bought an 
old head of the first Duke of Marlborough, 
which a cunning auctioneer had fobbed oflT 
upon him, by pretending that the great captain 
was a progenitor of his noble patron. 

Besides this predominant taste, he soon 
began to indulge other inclinations at the rec- 
tory, which savoured a little of his old bache- 
lor habits. He became a collector of shells 
r.nd china, and a fancier of tulips; and when 
he invited the coterie of Belford ladies to par- 
take of a syllabub, astonished and delighted 
them by the performance of a pijjing bullfinch 
of his owr- teaching, who executed the Blue 
Bells of Scotland in a manner not to be sur- 
passed by the barrel-organ, by means of which 
this accomplished bird had been instructed. 
He engaged Mrs. Martin as his housekeeper, 
and Patty as his housemaid ; set up the iden- 
tical one-horse chaise in which he was riding 
to-day; became a member of the clerical din- 
ner club; took in St. .James's Chronicle and 
the Gentleman's Magazine; and was set down 
by every body as a confirmed old bachelor. 

All these indications notwithstanding, no- 
thing was less in his contemplation than to 
remain in that forlorn condition. Marriage, 
after all, was his predominant taste; his real 
fancy was for the ladies. He was fifty-seven, 
or thereabouts, when he began to make love ; 
hut he has amply made up for his loss of time, 
by marrying no less than four wives since that 
period. Call him Mr. Singleton, indeed! — 
why, his proper name would be Doubleton. 



KING HARWOOD. 



323 



Four wives has he had, and of all varieties. 
His first was a pretty rosy smiling lass just 
come from school, who had known him all her 
life, and seemed to look upon him just as a 
school-girl does upon an indulgent grandpapa, 
who comes to fetch her home for the holidays. 
She was as happy as a bird, poor thing! dur- 
ing the three months that she lived with him 
— but then came a violent fever, and carried 
her off. 

His next Avife was a pale, sickly, consump- 
tive lady, not over-young, for whose conveni- 
ence he set up a carriage, and for whose health 
he travelled to Lisbon and Madeira, and Nice, 
and Florence, and Hastings, and Clifton, and 
all the places by sea and land, abroad and at 
home, where sick people go to get well, — at 
one of which she, poor lady, died. 

Then he espoused a buxom, jolly, merry 
widow, who had herself had two husbands, 
and who seemed likely to see him out; but 
the small-pox came in her way, and she died 
also. 

Then he married his present lady, a charm- 
ing woman, neither fat nor thin, nor young 
nor old — not very healthy, nor particularly 
sickly — who makes him very happy, and 
seems to find her own happiness in making 
him so. 

He has no children by any of his wives; 
but has abundance of adherents in parlour and 
hall. Half the poor of the parish are occa- 
sionally to be found in his kitchen, and his 
dining-room is the seat of hospitality, not 
only to his old friends of the town and his 
new friends of the country, but to all the fami- 
lies of all his wives. He talks of them (for 
he talks more now than he did at the Belford 
election, having fallen into the gossiping habit 
of " narrative old age") in the quietest manner 
possible, mixing, in a way the most diverting 
and the most unconscious, stories of his first 
wife and his second, of his present and his 
last. He seems to have been perfectly happy 
with all of them, especially with this. But 
if he should have the misfortune to lose that 
delightful person, he would certainly console 
himself, and prove his respect for the state, 
by marrying again; and such is his reputation 
as a superexcellent husband, especially in the 
main article of giving his wives their own 
way, that, in spite of his being even now an 
octogenarian, 1 have no doubt but there would 
be abundance of fair candidates for the heart 
and hand of the good Rector of Hadley. 



KING HARWOOD. 

The good town of Belford swarmed, of 
course, with single ladies — especially with 
single ladies of that despised denomination 
which is commonly known by the title of old 
maids. For gentlewomen of that description, 



especially of the less affluent class, (and al- 
though such a thing may be found here and 
there, a rich old maid is much rarer than a 
poor one,) a provincial town in this protestant 
country, where nunneries are not, is the natu- 
ral refuge. A village life, however humble 
the dwelling, is at once more expensive — 
since messengers and conveyances, men and 
horses, of some sort, are in the actual country 
indispensable, — and more melancholy, for 
there is a sense of loneliness and insignifi- 
cance, a solitude within doors and without, 
which none but an unconnected and unpro- 
tected woman can thoroughly understand. 
And London, without family ties, or personal 
importance, or engrossing pursuit, — to be poor 
and elderly, idle and alone in London, is a 
climax of desolation which every body can 
comprehend, because almost every one must, 
at some time or other, have felt, in a greater 
or less degree, the humbling sense of individ- 
ual nothingness — of being but a drop of water 
in the ocean, a particle of sand by the sea- 
shore, which so often presses upon the mind 
amidst the bustling crowds and the splendid 
gaieties of the great city. To be rich or to 
be busy, is the necessity of London. 

The poor and the idle, on the other hand, 
get on best in a fcountry town. Belford was 
the paradise of ill-jointured widows and por- 
tionless old maids. There they met on the 
trable-land of gentility, passing their mornings 
in calls at each other's houses, and their even- 
ings in small tea-parties, seasoned with a 
rubber or a pool, and garnished with the little 
quiet gossiping (call it not scandal, gentle 
reader !) which their habits required. So large 
a portion of the population consisted of single 
ladies, that it might almost have been called 
a maiden town. Indeed, a calculating Cantab, 
happening to be there for the long vacation, 
amused his leisure by taking a census of the 
female householders, beginning with the Mrs. 
Davisons — fine alert old ladies, between se- 
venty and eighty, who, being proud of their 
sprightliness and vigour, were suspected of 
adding a few more years to their age than 
would be borne out by the register, — and end- 
ing with Miss Letitia Pierce, a damsel on the 
confines of forty, who was more than suspected 
of a slight falsification of dates the converse 
way. I think he made the sum total, in the 
three parishes, amount to one hundred and 
seventy-four. 

The part of the town in which they chiefly 
congregated, the lady's quartier, was one hilly 
corner of the parish of St. Nicholas',a sort of 
highland district, all made up of short rows, 
and pigmy places, and half-finished crescents, 
entirely uncontaminated by the vulgarity of 
shops, ill-paved, worse lighted, and so placed 
that it seemed to catch all the smoke of the 
more thickly inhabited part of the town, and 
was constantly encircled by a wreath of va- 
pour, like Snowdon or Skiddaw. 



324 



BELFORD REGIS. 



Why the good ladies chose this elevated 
and inconvenient position, one can hardly tell; 
perhaps, because it was cheap ; perhaps, be- 
cause it was genteel — perhaps, from a mixture 
of both causes ; I can only answer for the fact; 
and of this favourite spot the most favoured 
portion was a slender line of houses, tall and 
slim, known by the name of Warwick-terrace, 
consisting of a tolerably spacious dwelling at 
either end, and four smaller tenements linked 
two by two in the centre. 

Tbe tenants of Warwick-terrace were, with 
one solitary exception, exclusively female. 
One of the end houses was occupied by a 
comfortable-looking, very round Miss Black- 
all, a spinster of fifty, tiie riciiest and simplest 
of the row, with her j)arrot, who had certainly 
more words, and nearly as many ideas, as his 
mistress : her black footman, whose fine livery, 
white, turned up with scarlet, and glittering 
with silver lace, seemed rather ashamed of his 
" sober-suited" neighbours ; the plush waist- 
coat and inexpressibles blushing as if in 
scorn. The other corner was filled by Mrs. 
Leeson, a kind-hearted, bustling dame, the 
great ends of whose existence were visiting 
and cards, who had, probably, made more 
morning calls and played a greater number of 
rubbers than any woman in Belford, and who 
boasted a tabby cat, and a head maid called 
Nanny, that formed a proper pendant to the 
parrot and Caesar. Of the four centre habita- 
tions, one pair was the residence of Miss 
Savage, who bore the formidable reputation 
of a sensible woman — an accusation which 
rested, probably, on no woise foundation than 
a gruff voice and something of a vinegar as- 
pect, — and of Miss Steele, who, poor thing, 
underwent a still worse calumny, and was 
called literary, simply because forty years ago 
she had made a grand poetical collection, con- 
sisting of divers manuscript volumes, written 
in an upright taper hand, and filled with such 
choice morceaux as Mrs. Greville's " Ode to 
Indifference," Miss Seward's " Monody on 
Major Andre," sundry translations of Metas- 
tasio's " Nice," and a considerable collection 
of enigmas, on which stock, undiminished and 
ilnincreased, she still traded ; whilst the last 
brace of houses, linked together like the Siam- 
ese twins, was divided between two families, 
the three Miss Lockes, — whom no one ever 
dreamt of talking of as separate or individual 
personages — one should as soon have thought 
of severing the Graces, or the Furies, or the 
Fates, or any other classical trio, as of know- 
ing them apart : the three Miss Lockes lived 
in one of these houses, and Mrs. Harwood 
and her two daughters in the other. 

It is wiih the Harwoods only that we have 
to do at present. 

Mrs. Harwood was the widow of the late 
and the mother of the present rector of Digh- 
ton, a family living, purchased by the father 
of her late husband, who, himself a respect- 



able and affluent yeoman, aspired to a rivalry 
with his old landlord, the squire of the next 
parish ; and, when he sent his only son to 
the university, established him in the rectory, 
married him to the daughter of an archdeacon, 
and set up a public house, called the Harwood 
Arms — somewhat to the profit of the Herald's 
Office, who had to discover or invent these 
illustrious bearings — had accomplished the 
two objects of his ambition, and died con- 
tented. 

The son proved a bright pattern of posthu- 
mous duty ; exactly the sort of rector that 
the good old farmer would have wished to see, 
did he turn out, — respectable, conscientious, 
always just, and often kind ; but so solemn, 
so pompous, so swelling in deportment and 
grandiloquent in speech, that he had not been 
half a dozen years inducted in the living be- 
fore he obtained the popular title of bishop 
of Dighton — a distinction which he seems to 
have taken in good part, by assuming a cos- 
tume as nearly episcopal as possible, at all 
points, and copying, with the nicest accuracy, 
the shovel hat and buzz wig of the prelate of 
the diocese, a man of seventy-five. He put 
his coachman and footboy into the right cleri- 
cal livery, and adjusted his household and 
modelled his behaviour according to his strict- 
est notions of the stateliness and decorum 
proper to a dignitary of the church. 

Perhaps he expected that the nickname by 
which he was so little aggrieved would some 
day or other be realized ; some professional 
advancement he certainly reckoned upon. 
But, in spite of his cultivating most assidu- 
ously all profitable connexions — of his christ- 
ening his eldest son " Earl " after a friend of 
good parliamentary interest, and his younger 
boy " King," after another — of his choosing 
one noble sponsor for his daughter Georgina, 
and another for his daughter Henrietta — he 
lived and died with no better preferment than 
the rectory of Dighton, which had been pre- 
sented to him by his honest father five-and- 
forty years before, and to. which his son Earl 
succeeded : the only advantage which his 
careful courting of patrons and patronage had 
procured for his family being comprised in his 
having obtained for his son King, through the 
recommendation of a noble friend, the situa- 
tion of clerk at his banker's in Lombard-street. 

Mrs. Harwood, a stately portly dame, al- 
most as full of parade as her husband, had, 
on her part, been equally unlucky. The grand 
object of her life had been to marry her daugh- 
ters, and in that she failed, probably because 
she had been too ambitious and too open in 
her attempts. Certain it is that, on the re- 
moval of the widow to Belford, poor Miss 
Harwood, who had been an insipid beauty, 
and whose beauty had turned into sallowness 
and haggardness, was forced to take refuge in 
ill health and tender spirits, and set up, as a 
last chance, for interesting ; whilst Miss Hen- 



KING HARWOOt). 



325 



rietta, who had five-and-twenty years hefore i 
reckoned herself accomplished, still, though 
with diminished pretensions, kept the field — 
sang with a voice considerably the worse for 
wear, danced as often as she could get a part- 
ner, and flirted with beaux of all ages, from 
sixty to sixteen — chiefly, it may be presumed, 
with the latter, because of all mankind a shy 
lad from college is the likeliest to be taken in 
by an elderly miss. A wretched personage, 
under an affectation of boisterous gaiety, was 
Henrietta Harwood ! a miserable specimen of 
that most miserable class of single women 
who, at forty and upwards, go about dressing 
and talking like young girls, and will not 
grow old. 

Earl Harwood was his father slightly mo- 
dernized. He was a tall, fair, heavy-looking 
man, not perhaps quite so solemn and pom- 
pous as " the bishop," but far more cold and 
supercilious. If I wished to define him in 
four letters, the little word "prig" would 
come very conveniently to my aid ; and per- 
haps, in its compendious brevity, it conveys 
as accurate an idea of his manner as can be 
given : a prig of the slower and graver order 
was Earl Harwood. 

His brother King, on the other hand, was a 
coxcomb of the brisker sort; up — not like 
generous champagne ; but like cider, or perry, 
or gooseberry-wine, or " the acid flash of soda- 
water ;" or, perhaps, more still like the slight 
froth that runs over the top of that abomina- 
tion, a pot of porter, to which, by the way, 
together with the fellow abominations, snuff 
and cigars, he was inveterately addicted. 
Conceit and pretension, together with a dash 
of the worst because the finest vulgarity, that 
which tliinks itself genteel, were the first and 
last of King Harwood. His very pace was 
an amble — a frisk, a skip, a strut, a prance — 
he could not walk ; and he always stood on 
tiptoe, so that the heels of his shoes never 
wore out. The effect of this was, of course, 
to make him look less tall than he really was ; 
so that, being really a man of middle height, 
he passed for short. His figure was slight, 
his face fair, and usually adorned with a smile 
half su|)ercilious and half self-satisfied, and 
set off" by a pair of most conceited-looking 
spectacles. There is no greater atrocity than 
his who shows you glass for eyes, and, instead 
of opening wide those windows of the heart, 
fobs you off" with a bit of senseless crystal 
which conceals, instead of enforcing, an hon- 
est meaning — "there was no speculation in 
those pebbles which he did glare withal." For 
the rest, he was duly whiskered and curled; 
though the eyelashes, when by a chance re- 
moval of the spectacle they were discovered, 
lying under suspicion of sandiness; and, the 
whiskers and hair being auburn, it was a dis- 
puted point whether the barber's part of him 
consisted in dyeing his actual locks, or in a 
supplemental periwig: that the curls were of 

28 



their natural colour, nobody believed that took 
the trouble to think about it. 

But it was his speech that was the prime 
distinction of King Harwood : the pert fops 
of Congreve's comedies, Petulant, Witwond, 
Froth, and Brisk, (pregnant names!) seemed 
but types of our hero. He never opened his 
lips (and he was always chattering) but to 
proclaim his own infinite superiority to all j 
about him. He would have taught Burke to ' 
speak, and Reynolds to paint, and John Kem- 
ble to act. The Waverley novels would have 
been the better for his hints; and it was some 
pity that Shakspeare had not lived in these 
days, because he had a suggestion that would 
greatly have improved his Lear. 

Nothing was too great for him to meddle 
with, and nothing too little; but his preference 
went very naturally with the latter, which 
amalgamated most happily with his own 
mind : and when the unexpected legacy of a 
plebeian great-aunt, the despised sister of his 
grandfather, the farmer, enabled him to leave 
quill-driving, of which he was heartily weary, 
and to descend from the high stool in Lom- 
bard-street, on which he had been perched for 
five-and-twenty years, there doubtless mingled 
with the desire to assist his family, by adding 
his small income to their still smaller one — 
for this egregious coxcomb was an excellent 
son and a kind brother, just in his dealings, 
and generous in his heart, when, through the 
thick coating of foppery, one could find the 
way to it — some wish to escape from the city, 
where his talents were, as he imagined, buried 
in the crowd, smothered against the jostling 
multitudes, and to emerge, in all his lustre, in 
the smaller and more select coteries of the 
country. On his arrival at Belford, accord- 
ingly, he installed himself, at once, as arbiter 
of fashion, the professed beau jargon, the 
lady's man of the town and neighbourhood ; 
and having purchased a horse, and ascertained, 
to his great comfort, that his avocation as a 
banker's clerk w-as either wholly unsuspected 
in the county circles which his late father had 
frequented, or so indistinctly known, that the 
very least little white lie in the world would 
pass him off" as belonging to the House, he 
boldly claimed acquaintance with every body 
in the county whose name he had ever heard 
in his life, and, regardless of the tolerably 
visible contempt of the gentlemen, proceeded j 
to make his court to the ladies with might and 
with main. 

He miscalculated, however, the means best 

fitted to compass his end. Women, however 

frivolous, do not like a. frivolous man: they 

would as soon take a fancy to their mercer as 

to the man who ofl^ers to choose their silks; 

and if he will find fault with their embroidery, 

and correct their patterns, he must lay his ac- 

' count in being no more regarded by them than 

I their milliner or their maid. Sooth to say, 

I your fine lady is an ungrateful personage : she 



326 



BELFORD REGIS. 



accepts ihe help, and then laughs at the offi- 
cious helper — sucks the orange and throws 
away the peel. This truth found King Har- 
wood, when, after riding to London, and run- 
ning all over that well-sized town to match, 
in German lamh's wool, the unmatchable 
brown and gold feathers of the game-cock's 
neck, which that ambitious embroideress. 
Lady Delaney, aspired to imitate in a table- 
carpet, he found himself saluted for his pains 
with the malicious sobriquet of King of the 
Bantams. This and other affronts drove him 
from the county society, which he had in- 
tended to enlighten and adorn, to the less bril- 
liant circles cf Bel ford, which, perhaps, suited 
his taste better, he being of that class of per- 
sons who had rather reigrn in the town than 
serve in the country; whilst his brother Earl, 
safe in cold silence and dull respectability, 
kept sedulously among his rural compeers, 
and was considered one of the most unexcep- 
tionable grace-sayers at a great dinner, of any 
clergyman in the neighbourhood. 

To Belford, therefore, the poor King of the 
Bantams was content to come, thinking him- 
self by far the cleverest and most fashionable 
man in the place; an opinion which, I am 
sorry to say, he had pretty much to himself. 
The gentlemen smiled at his pretensions, and 
the young ladies laughed, which was just the 
reverse of the impression which he intended 
to make. How the thing happened, I can 
hardly tell, for, in general, the young ladies 
of a country town are sufficiently susceptible 
to attention from a London man. Perhaps the 
man was not to their taste, as conceit finds 
few favourers ; or, perhaps, they disliked the 
kind of attention, which consisted rather in 
making perpetual demands on their admira- 
tion, than in offering the tribute of his own ; 
perhaps, also, the gentleman, who partook of 
the family fault, and would be young in spite 
of the register, was too old for them. How- 
ever it befell, he was no favourite amongst the 
Belford belles. 

Neither was he in very good odour with the 
mammas. He was too poor, too proud, too 
scornful, and a Harwood, in which name all 
the pretension of the world seemed gathered. 
Nay, he not only in his own person out-Har- 
wooded Harwood, but was held accountable 
for not a few of the delinquencies of that ob- 
noxious race, whose airs had much augmented 
since he had honoured Belford by his pre- 
sence. Before his arrival. Miss Henrietta and 
her stately mamma had walked out, like the 
other ladies of the town, unattended : the King 
came, and they could not stir without being 
followed as their shadow by the poor little 
footboy, who formed the only serving-man of 
their establishment; before that avatar they 
dined at six, now seven was the family hour; 
and whereas they were wont, previously, to 
take that refection without alarming their 
neighbours, and causing Miss Blackall's par- 



rot to scream, and Mrs. Leeson's cat to mew, 
now the solitary maid of all-work, or per- 
chance the King himself, tinkled and jangled 
the door-bell, or the parlour-bell, to tell those 
who knew it before that dinner was ready, (I 
wonder he had not purchased a gong,) and to 
set every lady in the Row a moralizing on the 
sin of pride and the folly of pretension. Ah ! 
if they who are at once poor and gently bred 
could but understand how safe a refuge from 
the contempt of the rich they would find in 
frank and open poverty ! how entirely the 
]Kide of the world bends before a simple and 
honest humility! — how completely we, the 
poorest, may say with Constance (provided 
only that we imitate her action, and throw 
ourselves on the ground as we speak the 
words,) " Here is my throne, — let kings come 
bow to me !" — if they would but do this, how 
much of pain and grief they might save them- 
selves ! But this was a truth which the Har- 
woods had yet to discover. 

Much of his unpopularity might, however, 
be traced to a source on which he particularly 
prided himself: — a misfortune which has be- 
fallen a wiser man. 

Amongst his other iniquities the poor King 
of the Bantams had a small genius for music, 
an accomplishment that flattered at once his 
propensities and his pretensions, his natural 
love of noise and his acquired love of conse- 
quence. He sung, with a falsetto that rang 
through one's head like the screams of a 
young peacock, divers popular ballads in va- 
rious languages, very difficult to distinguish 
each from each ;* he was a most pertinacious 
and intolerable scraper on the violincello, an 
instrument which it is almost as presumptuous 
to touch, unless finely, as it is to attempt and 
to fail in an epic poem or an historical picture ; 
and he showed the extent and variety of his 
want of power, by playing quite as ill on the 
flute, which again may be compared to a fail- 
ure in the composition of an acrostic, or the 
drawing of a butterfly. Sooth to say, he was 
equally bad in all ; and yet he contrived to be 
quite as great a pest to the unmusical part of 
society — by far the larger part in Belford cer- 
tainly, and, I suspect, everywhere — as if he 
had actually been the splendid pert^ormer he 
fancied himself. Nay, he was even a greater 



* Non-artioulation is the besetting sin of flonrishing 
singers of all ranks. It is only Ihe very best and the 
very highest who condescend, not merely to give ex- 
pression to their words, but words to their expression. 
Some, of a thr better order of taste than Mr. King 
llarwoixl, are addicted to this tantalizing delect. I 
remoniher an instance of two such, vvlio were singing 
very sweetly, as to mere nuisical sound, some Italian 
duets, when an old gentleman, (juile of the old .school, 
complained that he could not understand them. They 
then politely sung an Knglish air; but as they had 
omitted to announce their intention, he never disco- 
vered the change of language, and repeated his old 
complaint, " .Ah, I dare say it's all very fine; but I 
can't understand it!" 



KING HARWOOD. 



327 



nuisance than a fine player can be ; for if 

music be, as Mr. Charles Lamb happily calls 
it, "measured malice," malice out of all mea- 
sure must be admitted to be worse still. 

Generally speaking, people who dislike the 
art deserve to be as much bored as they are 
by the " concord of sweet sounds." There is 
not an English lady in a thousand who, when 
asked if she be fond of music, has the courage 
enough to say. No : she thinks it would be 
rude to do so; whereas, in my opinion, it is a 
civil way of getting out of the scrape, since, 
if the performance be really such as commands 
admiration, (and the very best music is an 
enjoyment as exquisite as it is rare,*) the de- 
light evinced comes as a pleasant surprise, or 
as a graceful compliment ; and if (as is by 
very far most probable) the singing chance to 
be such as one would rather not hear, why 
then one has, at least, the very great comfort 
of not being obliged to simper and profess 
oneself pleased, but may seem as tired, and 
look as likely to yawn as one will, without 
offering any particular alTront, or incurring any 
worse imputation than that of being wholly 
without taste for music — a natural defect, at 
which the amateur who has been excruciating 
one's ears vents his contempt in a shrug of 
scornful pity, little suspecting hov>r entirely 
(as is often the case with that amiable pas- 
sion) the contempt is mutual. 

Now there are certain cases under which 
the evil of music is much mitigated : when 
one is not expected to listen, for instance, as 
at a large party in London, or, better still, at 
a great house in the country, where there are 
three or four rooms open, and one can get 
completely out of the way, and hear no more 
of the noise than of a peal of bells in the next 
parish. Music, under such circumstances, 
may be endured with becoming philosophy. 
But the poor Belfordians had no such resource. 
Their parties were held, at the best, in two 
small drawing-rooms laid into one by the aid 
of folding-doors; so that when Mr. King, ac- 
companied by his sister Henrietta, who drum- 
med and strummed upon the piano like a 
boarding-school Miss, and sung her part in a 
duet with a voice like a raven, began his eter- 
nal vocalization, (for, never tired of hearing 
himself, he never dreamt of leaving off until 
his unhappy audience parted for the night,) — 
when once the self-delighted pair began, the 
deafened whist-table groaned in dismay ; lot- 



* The circumstances under which music is heard 
often eommiinifaie to il a charm not its own. A mili- 
tary band, for instance, in the open air, wind instru- 
ments upon the water, the magnificent masses of the 
Romish church, or the organ peaHng along the dim 
aisles of our own venerable cathedrals, will scarcely 
fail to exercise a strong power over the imagination. 
There is another association in music, that is perhaps 
more delightful than all: the young innocent girl who 
trips about the house, carolling snatches of songs with 
her round, clear, youthful voice — gay, and happy, and 
artless as an uncaged bird. 



tery-tickets were at a discount ; commerce at 
a stand-still ; Pope Joan died a natural death, 
and the pool of quadrille came to an untimely 
end. 

The reign of the four kings, so long the 
mild and absolute sovereigns of the Belford 
parties, might be said to be over, and the good 
old ladies, long their peaceable and loving 
subjects, submitted with peevish patience to 
the yoke of the usurper. They listened and 
they yawned ; joined in their grumbling by 
the other vocalists of this genteel society, the 
singing young ladies and manoeuvring mam- 
mas, who found themselves literally "pushed 
from their stools," their music-stools, by the 
Harwood monopoly of the instrument, as well 
as aflronted by the Bantam King's intolerance 
of all bad singing except his own. How long 
the usurpation would have lasted, how long 
the discontent would have been confined to 
hints and frowns, and whispered mutterings, 
and very intelligible innuendoes, without break- 
ing into open rebellion, — in other words, how 
long it would have been before King Harwood 
was sent to Coventry, there is no telling. He 
himself put an end to his musical sovereignty, 
as other ambitious rulers have done before 
him, by an overweening desire to add to the 
extent of his domihions. 

Thus it fell out. 

One of the associations which did the great- 
est honour to Belford, was a society of amateur 
musicians — chiefly tradesmen, imbued with a 
real love of the art, and a desire to extend and 
cultivate an amusement which, however one 
may laugh at the affectation of musical taste, 
is, when so pursued, of a very elevating and 
delightful character — who met frequently at 
each other's houses for the sake of practice, 
and, encouraged by the leadership of an ac- 
complished violin-plaj'er, and the possessio'n 
of two or three voices of extraordinary bril- 
liancy and power, began about this time to 
extend their plan, to rehearse two or three 
times a week at a great room belonging to one 
of the society, and to give amateur concerts at 
the Town-hall. 

Very delightful these concerts were. Every 
man exerted himself to the utmost, atid, ac- 
customed to play the same pieces with the 
same associates, the performance had much 
of the unity which makes the charm of family 
music. They were so unaffected, too, so tho- 
roughly unpretending — there was such genuine 
good taste, so much of the true spirit of enjoy- 
ment, and so little of trickery and display, 
that the audience, who went prepared to be 
indulgent, were enchanted; the amateur con- 
certs became the fashion of the day, and all 
the elegance and beauty of the town and 
neighbourhood crowded to the Belford Town- 
hall. This was enough for Mr. King Har- 
wood. He had attended once as a hearer, and 
he instantly determined to be heard. It was 
pretermitting his dignity, to be sure, and his 



_J 



328 



BELFORD REGIS. 



brother, Earl, would have been dumb for ever 
before l.e would have condescended to such 
an association. But the vanity of our friend 
the King was of a more popular description. 
Rather than not get applause, he would have 
played Punch at Belford fair; acccordingly, 
he offered himself as a tenor singer to the 
amateur society, and they, won by his puffs 
of his musical genius, — which, to say the 
truth, had about them the prevailing power 
which always results from the speaker's per- 
fect faith in his own assertions, the self-delud- 
ing faith which has never failed to make con- 
verts, from Mahomet down to Joanna South- 
cot, — they, won to belief, and civilly unwill- 
ing to put his talents to the proof, accepted 
his services for the next concert. 

Luckless King Harwood ! He to sing in 
concerted pieces ! Could not he have remem- 
bered that unhappy supper of the Catch and 
Glee Club in Finsbury-square, where, for his 
sake, " Non Nobis, Domine," was hissed, and 
"Glorious Apollo" well-nigh damned? He 
to aspire to the dictatorship of country musi- 
cians ! Had he wholly forgotten that still 
more unlucky morning, when, aspiring to re- 
form the church music of Dighton, he and the 
parish clerk and the obedient sexton, began, 
as announced and pre-arranged, to warble 
Luther's Hymn; whilst all the rest of the 
singing gallery, three clarionets, two French 
horns, the bassoon, and the rustic vocalists 
struck up the Hundreth Psalm ; and the unin- 
structed charity children, catching the last 
word as given out by the clerk, completed the 
triple chain, not of harmony, but of discord, 
by screaming out at the top of their shrill 
childish voices the sweet sounds of the Morn- 
ing Hymn 1 Was that day forgotten, and that 
day's mortification ? — when my lord, a musical 
amateur of the first water, whom the innova- 
tion was intended to captivate, was fain to 
stop his cognoscentic ears, whilst Lady Julia 
held her handkerchief to her fair face to con- 
ceal her irrepressible laughter, and the un- 
happy source of this confusion ran first of all 
to the Rectory to escape from the tittering re- 
marks of the congregation, and then half-way 
to London to escape from the solemn rebuke 
of the Rector? Could that hour be forgotten? 

I suppose it was. Certain he offered him- 
self and was accepted ; and was no sooner 
installed a member of the Society, than he 
began his usual course of dictation and finding 
fault. His first contest was that very fruitful 
ground of dispute, the concert bill. VVitli the 
instrumental pieces he did not meddle; but in 
the vocal parts the Society had wisely confined 
themselves to English words and English 
composers, to the great horror of the new 
prirnn tenure, who proposed to substitute Spohr 
and Auber and Rossini, for Purcell and Har- 
rington and Bishop, and to have "no vulgar 
English name," in the whole bill of fare. 

"To think of the chap!" exclaimed our 



good friend, Stephen Lane, when Master King 
proposed a quartet from the " Cenerentola," 
in lieu of the magnificent music which has 
well-nigh turned one of the finest tragedies in 
the world into the very finest opera — (1 mean, 
of course, Matthew Locke's music in Macbeth) 
— "To think of the chap !" exclaimed Stephen, 
who had sung Hecate with admirable power 
and beauty for nearly forty years, and whose 
noble bass voice still retained its unrivalled 
richness of tone — "To think of his wanting 
to frisk me into some of his parley-voos stuff, 
and daring to sneer and snigger not only at 
old Locke's music! — and I'll thank any of 
your parley-voos to show me finer, — but at 
Shakspeare himself! I don't know much of 
poetry, to be sure," said Stephen ; " but I 
know this, that Shakspeare 's the poet of old 
England, and that every Englishman's bound 
to stand up for him, as he is for his country 
or his religion ; and, dang it, if that chap 
dares to fleer at him again before my face, I 'II 
knock him down — and so you may tell him, 
Master Antony," pursued the worthy butcher, 
somewhat wroth against the leader, whose 
courtesy had admitted the offending party, — 
" so you may tell him; and I tell you, that if 
I had not stood uj) all my life against the sys- 
tem, I'd strike, and leave you to get a bass 
where you could. I hate such puppies, and 
so you may tell him !" So saying, Stephen 
walked away, and the concert bill remained 
unaltered. 

If (as is possible) there had been a latent 
hope that the new member would take offence 
at his want of influence in the programme of 
the evening's amusement, and " strike" him- 
self, the hope was disappointed. Most punc- 
tual in the orchestra was Mr. King Harwood, 
and most delighted to perceive a crowded and 
fashionable audience. He placed himself in 
a conspicuous situation and a most conspicuous 
attitude, and sat out first an overture of We- 
ber's, then the fine old duet, "Time has not 
thinned my flowing hair," and then the cause 
of quarrel, "When shall we three meet again," 
in which Stephen had insisted on his bearing 
no part, with scornful sang f raid — although 
the Hecate was so superb, and the whole per- 
formance so striking, that, as if to move his 
spleen, it had been rapturously encored. The 
next piece was " O Nanny !" harmonized for 
four voices, in which he was to bear a part — 
and a most conspicuous part he did bear, sure 
enough ! The essence of that sweetest melody, 
which " custom cannot stale," is, as every one 
knows, its simplicity ; but simplicity made no 
part of our vocalist's merits I No one that 
heard him will ever forget the trills, and runs, 
and shakes, the cadences and flourishes, of 
that "0 Nanny!" — The other three voices 
(one of which was Stephen's,) stopped in as- 
tonishment, and the panting violins " toiled 
after him in vain." At last, Stephen Lane, 
somewhat provoked at having been put out of 



KING HARWOOD. 



329 



his own straiorht course by any thing, — for, as 
he said afterwards, he thoufrht he could have 
sunjT "O Nanny." in the midst of an earth- 
quake, and deternnined to see if he could stop 
the chap's flourishes, — suddenly snatched the 
fiddle-stick out of the hands of the wonderinfr 
leader, and jerked the printed criee out of the 
while-grloved hands of the singrer, as he was 
holdino- the leaves with the most delicate af- 
fectation — sent them sailino- and flutterinji- 
over the heads of the audience, and then, as 
the Kino^, nothingr daunted, continued his va- 
riations on "Thou wert fairest," followed up 
his blow by a dexterous twitch with the same 
convenient instrument at the poor beau's caxon, 
which flew spinnins^ alonor the ceilinor, and 
aliorhted at last on one of the ornaments of 
the centre chandelier, leaving the luckless 
vocalist with a short crop of reddish hair, 
sliohtly bald and somewhat grizzled, a fierce 
pair of whiskers curled and dyed, and a most 
chap-fallen countenance, in the midst of the 
cheers, the bravos, and the encores of the di- 
verted audience, who laughed at the exploit 
from the same resistless impulse that tempted 
honest Stephen to the act. 

" Flesh and blood could not withstand it, 
man !" exclaimed he, apologetically, holding 
out his huge red fist, which the crest-fallen 
beau was far too anory to take; "but I'm 
quite ready to make the wig good ; I '11 give 
you half a dozen, if you like, in return for the 
fun; and I'd recommend their fitting tirrhter, 
for really it 's extraordinary what a little bit of 
a jerk sent that fellow flyintj up to the ceiling 
just like a bird. The fiddlestick's none the 
worse — nor you either, if you could but think 
so." 

But in the midst of this consolatory and 
conciliatory harangue, the discomfited hero of 
the evening- disappeared, leaving his " O Nan- 
ny !" under the feet of the company, and his 
periwig perched on the chandelier over their 
heads. 

The result of this adventure was, in the 
first ])lace, a most satisfactory settlement of 
the question of wig or no wifjf, which had di- 
vided the female world of Belford ; and a 
complete cure of his musical mania on the 
part of its hero. He never sang a note again, 
and has even been known to wince at the 
sound of a barrel-organ; whilst those little 
vehicles of fairy tunes, French work-boxes 
and snuflT-boxes, were objects of his especial 
alarm. He always looked as if he ex|)ected 
to hear the sweet air of " O Nanny !" issuing 
from them. 

One woiild have thought that such a ca- 
lamity would have been something of a les- 
son. But vanity is a strontr-rooted plant that 
soon sprouts out again, croj) it off closely as 
you may, and the misadventure wrought but 
little change in his habits. For two or three 
days, (probably, whilst a new wig was mak- 
ing) he kept his room, sick or sulky; then he 



rode over to Dighton, for two or three days 
more; after which he returned to Belford, re- 
visited his old haunts and renewed his old 
ways, strutting and skipping, as usual, the 
loudest at public meeting-s — the busiest on 
committees — the most philosophical member 
of the Philosophical Society, at which, by the 
way, adventuring with all the boldness of ig- 
norance on certain chemical experiments, he 
very literally burnt his fintrers ; and the most 
horticultural of the horticulturalists, marching 
about in a blue apron, like a real gardener, 
flourishing watering-])ots, cheapening bud- 
ding-knives, and boasting of his marvels in 
grafting and pruning, although the only things 
resembling trees in his mother's slip of a gar- 
den were some smoky China roses that would 
not blow, and a few blighted currants that re- 
fused to ripen. 

But these were trifles. He attended all the 
more serious business of the town and coun- 
try — was a constant man at the vestry, al- 
though no householder, and at borough and 
county meetings, althouo-h he had not a foot 
of land in the world. He attended rail-road 
meetings, navigration meetings, turnpike meet- 
ings, gas-work meetinsfs, pavinsf meetings, 
Macadamizing meetings, water-work meet- 
ings, cottage-allotment meetings, anti-slave- 
trade meetings, education meeting-s of every 
sort, and dissenting meetings of all denomina- 
tions ; never failed the bench ; was as punc- 
tual at an inquest as the coroner, at the quar- 
ter-sessions as the chairman, at the assizes as 
the judge, and hath been oftener called to order 
by the court, and turned out of the grand-jury 
room by the foreman, than any other man in 
the county. In short, as Stephen Lane, whom 
he encountered pretty frequently in the course 
of his perambulations, pithily observed of him, 
" A body was sure to find the chap wherever 
he had no business." 

Stephen, who, probably, thought he had 
given him punishment enough, regarded the 
poor King after the fashion in which his great 
dog vSmoker would look upon a cur whom he 
had tossed once and disdained to toss again — 
a mixture of toleration and contempt. The 
utmost to which the good butcher was ever 
provoked by his adversary's noisiest nonsense 
or pertest presutnption, was a significant nod 
towards the chandelier from w^hence the me- 
morable wig had once hung pendent, a true 
escutcheon of pretence ; or, if that memento 
were not sufficient, the whistling a few bars 
of" Where thou wert fairest," — a gentle hint, 
which seldom failed of its effect in perplexing 
and dumfounding the orator. 

They were, however, destined to another 
encounter; and, as often happens in this world 
of shifting circumstance, the result of that en- 
counter brought out points of character which 
entirely changed their feelings and position 
towards each other. 

Stephen had been, as I have before said, or 



2S* 



2R 



330 



BELFORD REGIS. 



meant to say, a mighty cricketer in his time; 
and, althoiitrh now many stone too heavy for 
active participation, continued as firmly at- 
tached to the sport, as fond of loolving- on and 
promoting that most noble and truly Enorlish 
grame^ as your old cricketer, when of a hearty 
and English character, is generally found to 
be. He patronised and promoted the diversion 
on all occasions, formed a weekly club at Bel- 
ford, for the sake of practice, assigned them a 
commodious meadow for a cricket-ground, 
trained u|) sons and grandsons to the exercise, 
made matches with all the parishes round, 
and was so sedulous in maintaining the credit 
of the Bel ford Eleven, that not a lad came 
into the place as an apprentice or a journey- 
man — especially if he happened to belong to 
a cricketing county — without Stephen's ex- 
amining into his proficiency in his favourite 
accomplishment. Towards blacksmiths, who, 
from the development of muscular power in 
the arms, are often excellent players, and mil- 
lers, who are good cricketers, one scarcely 
knows why — it runs in the trade — his atten- 
tion was particularly directed, and his re- 
searches were at last rewarded by the disco- 
very of a first-rate batsman, at a forge nearly 
opposite his own residence. 

Caleb Hyde, the handicraftsman in ques- 
tion, was a spare, sinewy, half-starved looking 
young man, as ragged as the wildest colt he 
ever shod : Humphry Clinker was not in a 
more unclothed condition when he first shocked 
the eyes of Mrs. Tabitha Bramble; and Ste- 
phen seeing that he was a capita] ironsmith, 
and sure to command good wages, berran to 
fear that his evil plight arose, as in nioe°cases 
out of ten ragged ness does arise, from the 
gentle seductions of the beer-houses. On in- 
quiry, however, he found that his protege was 
as sober as if there was not a beer-house in 
the world; that he had been reduced to his 
present unseemly plight by a long fever; and 
that his only extravagance consisted in his 
having, ever since he was out of his appren- 
ticeship, supported by the sweat of his brow 
an aged mother and a sickly sister, for whose 
maintenance, during his own tedious illness, 
he had ])awned iiis clothes, rather than allow 
them to receive relief from the parish. This 
instance of affectionate independence won our 
butcher's heart. 

" That 's what I call acting like a man and 
an Englishman !" exclaimed honest Stephen. 
'I I never had a mother to- take care of," con- 
tinued he, pursuing the same train of thought, 
— " that is, I never knew her; and an unnatu- 
ral jade slie must have been : but nobody be- 
longing to me should ever have received pa- 
rish money whilst I had the use of my two 
hands; — and this poor fellow must be seen 
to!" 

And as an induction to the more considera- 
ble and more permanent benefits which he 
designed for him, he carried Caleb off to the 



cricket-ground, where there was a grand ren- 
dezvous of all the amateurs of the neighbour- 
hood, beating up for recruits for a great match 
to come off at Danby-park on the succeeding 
week. 

"They give their players a guinea a day," 
thought Stephen ; "and I'd bet fifty guineas 
that Sir Ttiomas takes a fancy to him." 

Now, the Belfnrd cricket-ground happened 
to be one of Mr. King Harwood's many 
lounges. He never, to be sure, condescended 
to play there; but it was an excellent oppor- 
tunity to find fiult with those that did, to lay 
down the law on disputed points, to talk fa- 
miliarly of the great men at Lord's, and to 
boast how, in one match, on that classic 
ground, he had got more notches than Mr. 
Ward, and had caught out Mr. Budd. and 
bowled out Lord Frederick. Any body, to 
have heard him, would have thought him, in 
his single person, able to beat a whole eleven. 
That marquee, on the Belford criclcet-ground, 
was the place to see King Harwood in his 
glory. 

There he was, on the afternoon in question, 
putting in his word on all occasions; a word 
of more importance than usual, because Sir 
Thomas being himself unable to attend, his 
steward, whom he had sent to select the 
auxiliaries for the great match, was rather 
more inclined than his master would have 
been to listen to his suirgestions, (a circum- 
stance which may be easily accounted for by 
the fact, that the one did know him, and the 
other did not,) and, therefore, in more danger 
of being prejudiced by his scornful disdain of 
poor Caleb, towards whom he had taken a 
violent aversion, first as a protege of Mr. Lane, 
and, secondly, as being very literally an "un- 
washed artificer;" Stephen having carried him 
off from the forge without even permitting the 
indispensable ablutions, or the slight improve- 
ment in costume which his scanty wardrobe 
would have permitted. 

" He would be a disgrace to your eleven, 
Mr. Miller!" said his Bantamic Majesty to 
the civil steward; " Sir Thomas would have 
to clothe him from top to toe. There's the 
cricketer that I should recommend," added he, 
pointing to a young linendraper. in nankeen 
shorts, light shoes, and silk stockino-s. " He 
understands the proper costume, and is, in my 
mind, a far prettier player. Out!" shouted 
" the skipping King," as Caleb, running a 
little too hard, saved himself from being 
stumped out by throwing himself down at full 
length, with his arm extended, and the end of 
his bat full two inches beyond the stride; 
"Out! fairly out!" 

" No out !" vociferated the butcher; "it's 
a thing done every day. He's not out, and 
you are !" exclaimed the man of the cleaver. 

But the cry of "out" having once been 
raised, the other side, especially the scout 
who had picked up and tossed the ball, and 



KING HARWOOD. 



331 



the wicket-keeper who had caught it from the 
scout, and the bowler — a dodged surly old 
playpr, whom Caleb's batting had teased not 
a little — ^^joined in the clamour; and forthwith 
a confusion and a din of tongues, like that of 
the Tower of Babel, arose amongst cricketers 
and standers-by; from the midst of which 
could be heard at intervals, " Lord's Ground," 
" Howard," " Mr. Ward," Mr. Budd," " Lord 
Frederick," and "The Marybone Club," in 
the positive dogmatical dictatorial tones of 
Mr. King Harwood ; and the apparently irre- 
levant question, "O Nanny, wilt thou gang 
with me?" sung, in his deep and powerful 
bary-tone voice, by Stephen Lane., 

At last, from mere weariness, there was a 
pause in the uproar; and our honest butcher, 
wiping his fine broad manly face, exclaimed, 
half in soliloquy, 

"To be sure, it's foolish enough to make 
such a squabbling at a mere practising bout 
among ourselves; but one can't help being 
aggravated to hear a chap, who sits there 
never touching a bat, lay down the law as if 
he could beat all England; whereas it's my 
firm opinion that he never played in a match 
in his life. If he had, he'd want to play now. 
I defy a man that has been a cricketer not to 
feel a yearning, like, after the game when it's 
going on before his eyes; and I would not 
mind laying a smartish wager that his playing 
is just as bad as his singing." 

"I'll play any man for thirty pounds, the 
best of two innings, at single wicket !" replied 
King, producing the money. 

"Done," replied Stepiien ; "and Caleb, 
here, shall be your man." 

"Surely, Mr. Lane," responded the affronted 
beau, "you can't intend to match me with a 
dirty ragged fellow like that ] Of course I 
expect something like equality in my oppo- 
nent — some decent person. No one could 
expect me to play against a journeyman black- 
smith." 

" Why not?" demanded the undaunted radi- 
cal ; "we're all the same flesh and blood, 
whellier clean or dirty — all sprung from Adam. 
And as to Caleb, poor fellow ! who pawned 
his clothes to keep his old mother and his sick 
sister, I only wish we were all as good. How- 
somever, as that match would be, as you say, 
rather unequal — for I'll be bound that he'd 
beat you with his right hand tied behind him, 
— why, it would not be fair to put him against 
you. Here's my little grandson Gregory, 
who wont be ten years old till next Martinmas 
— he shall play you; or, dang it, man," 
shouted Stephen, " I '11 play you myself ! I 
have not taken a bat in hand these twenty 
years," continued he, begiiming, in spite of 
the remonstrances of his triends, especially of 
poor Caleb, to strip off his coat and waistcoat, 
and prepare for the encounter, — "I have not 
touched bat or ball for these twenty years, 
but 1 'm as sure of beating that chap as if he 



was a woman. So hold your tongue, Peter 
Jenkins ! be quiet, Caleb ! Don't you prate 
about your grandmother, Gregory; fir play I 
will. And get you ready, Master Harwood, 
for I mean to bowl you out at the first ball." 

And Master King did make ready accord- 
ingly; tied one handkerchief round his^white 
trousers and another round his waist, lamented 
the want of his nankeens and his cricketing 
pumps, poised the bats, found fault with the 
ball, and finally placed himself in an attitude 
at the wicket; and having won the toss, pre- 
pared to receive the ball, which Stephen on 
his part was preparing very deliberately to 
deliver. 

Stephen in his time had been an excellent 
fast bowler ; and as that power was not af- 
fected by his size, (though probably some- 
what impaired by want of practice,) and his 
confidence in his adversary's bad play was 
much increased by the manner in which he 
stood at his wicket, he calculated with the 
most comfortable certainty on getting him out 
whenever he liked ; and he was right ; the 
unlucky King could neither stop nor strike. 
He kept no ^uard over his wicket ; and in less 
than three minutes the stumps rattled without 
his having once hit the ball. 

It was now Stephen's turn to go in — the 
fattest cricketer of a surety that ever wielded 
bat. He stood up to his wicket like a man, 
and considering that King's howling was soon 
seen to be as bad as his hitting — that is to 
say, as bad a? any thirg could be — there was 
every chance of his stopping the ball, and 
continuing ia for three hours ; but whether he 
would get a notch in three days, wlietlier dear 
Stephen Lane could run, was a problem. It 
was solved, however, and sooner than might 
have been expected. He gave a mighty hit — 
a hit that sent her spinning into the hedge at 
the bottom of the ground — a hit, of which any 
body else would have made three even at sin- 
gle wicket; and, setting out on a leisurely 
long-trot, contrived to get home, without much 
inconvenience, just before the panting King 
arrived at his ground. In his next attempt at 
running, he was net so fortunate: his antago- 
nist reached the wicket whilst he was still in 
mid-career, so that his innings was over, and 
Mr. King Harwood had to go in against one. 

Alas! lie found it one too many! At the 

very second ball, he made a hit — his first hit 

— and unluckily a hit up, and Stephen caught 

him out by the mere exertion of lifting his 

right arm ; so that the match was won at a 

single innings, the account standing thus: — 

King Harwood, first innings ... 

Ditto second innings . . 

Stephen Lane, first innings ... 1 

It would have been difficult to give the 
scorers on both sides less trouble. 

Stephen was charmed with his success, 
laughing like a child for very glee, tossing 
the ball into the air, and enjoying his triumph ! 



332 



BELFORD REGIS. 



with unrestrained delight, until his anta<jonist, 
who had home his defeat with much equanim- 
ity, approached him with the amount of his 
bet: it then seemed to strike him suddenly, 
that Mr. Harwood was a Gentleman, and poor, 
and that tliirty pounds was too much for him 
to lose* 

" No, no, sir," said Stephen, grently putting 
aside the otTered notes; "all's rioht now: 
we 've had our frolic out, and it's over. 'Twas 
foolish ennu(rh,at the best, in an old man like 
me, and so my dame will say; but, as to 
playino- for money, llvat's quite entirely out 
of the question." 

" These notes are yours, Mr. Lane," replied 
Kinn' Harwood, gravely. 

" No such thing, man," rejoined Stephen, 
more earnestly ; " I never play for money, 
except now and then a sixpenny game at all- 
fours, with Peter .Tenkins there. I hate gam- 
bling. We've all of us plenty to do with our 
bank-notes, without wasting them in such 
tom-foolery. Put 'em up, man, do. Keep 
'em till we play the return match, and that 
won't be in a hurry, I promise you ; I 've had 
enough of this sport for one while," added 
Stephen, wiping his honest face, and preparing 
to reassume his coat and waistcoat ; " put up 
the notes, man, can't ye !" 

" As 1 said before, Mr. Lane, this money is 
yours. You need not scruple taking it; for, 
though I am a poor man, I do not owe a far- 
thing in the world. The loss will occasion 
me no inconvenience. I had merely put aside 
this sum to ])ay Charles Wither the diiTerence 
between my bay mare and liis chestnut horse; 
and now I shall keep the mare; and, perhaps, 
after all, she is the more useful roadster of the 
two. You must take the money." 

"I'll be hanged if I do!" exclaimed Ste- 
phen, struck with sudden and unexpected re- 
spect at the frank avowal of poverty, the good 
principles, and the good temper of this speech. 
" How can I"? Wasn't it my own rule, when 
I gave this hit of ground to the cricketers, 
that nobody should ever play in it for any 
stake, high or low ? A pretty thing it would 
be if I, a reformer of forty years' standing, 
should be the first man to break a law of my 
own making ! Besides, 'tis setting a bad ex- 
ample to these youngsters, and ought not to 
be done — and sha'n't be done," continued 
Stephen, waxing positive. "You've no no- 
tion what an obstinate old chap I can be ! 
Better let me have my owji way." 

" Provided you let me have mine. You say 
you cannot take these notes — 1 feel that I can- 
not keep them. Suppose we make them over 
to yo\ir friend Caleb, to repair his wardrobe?" 

" Danij it, you are a real good fellow !" 
shouted Stej)hen, in an ecstasy, grasping King 
Harwood's hand, and shaking it as if he 
would shake it off; "a capital fellow I a true- 
born Englisliman! and I beg your pardon, 
from my soul, for that trick of the wig, and 



all my flouting and fleering before and since. 
You 've taught me a lesson that I sha'n't for- 
get in a hurry. Your heart 's in the right 
place; and when that's the case, why a little 
finery and nonsense signifies no more than the 
patches upon Caleb's jacket, or the spots on 
a bullock's hide, just skin-deep, and hardly 
that. I 've a respect for you, man ! and I beg 
your pardon over and over." And again and 
again he wrung King Harwood's hand in his | 
huge red fist ; whilst borne away by his ' 
honest fervency, King returned the pressure i 
and walked silently home, wondering a little i 
at his own gratification, for a chord had been 
struck in his bosom that had seldom vibrated 
before, and the sensation was as new as it 
was delightful. 

The next morning little Gregory Lane made 
his appearance at Warwick-terrace, mounted 
on Charles Wither's beautiful chestnut. 

"Grandfather sends his duty, sir," said the 
smiling boy, jumping down, and putting the 
bridle into King Harwood's hand, " and says 
that you had your way yesterday, and that he 
must have his to-day. He's as quiet as a 
lamb," added the boy, already, like Harry 
Blount in Marmion, a " sworn horse-courser ;" 
" and such a trotter ! He 'II carry you twelve 
miles an hour with ease." And King Har- 
wood accepted the offering; and Stephen and 
he were good friends ever after. 



THE CARPENTER'S DAUGHTER. 

Of all interesting objects, children, out of 
doors, seem to me the most interesting to a 
lover of nature. In a room, I may, perhaps, 
be allowed to exercise my privilege as an old 
maid, by confessing that they are in my eyes 
less engaging. If well-behaved, the poor 
little things seem constrained and genes — 
if ill-conducted, the i^enc is transferred to the 
unfortunate <rrown-up people, whom their noise 
distracts and their questions interrupt. Within 
doors, in short, I am one of the many persons 
who like children in their places, — tiiat is to 
say, in any place where I am not. But out of 
doors there is no such limitation : from the 
gypsy urchins under a hedge, to the little 
lords and ladies in a ducal demesne, they are 
charming to look at, to watch, and to listen to. 
Dogs are less amusing, flowers are less beau- 
tiful, trees themselves are less picturesque. 

I cannot even mention them without recall- 
ing to my mind twenty groups or sinnrle fioures, 
of which Gainsborough would have made at 
once a picture and a story. The little aristo- 
cratic-looking girl, for instance, of some five 
or six years old, whom I used to see two 
years ago, every morning at breakfast-time, 
tripping along the most romantic street in 
England, (the High-street in Oxford,) attend- 



THE CARPENTER'S DAUGHTER. 



333 



ed or escorted, it is doubtful which, by a su- 
perb Newfoundland dog, curly and black, car- 
ryinf{ in his huge mouth her tiny workbag, or 
her fairy parasol, and guarding with so true a 
fidelity his pretty young lady, whilst she, on 
her part, queened it over her lordly subject 
with such diverting gravity, seeming to guide 
him whilst he guided her — led, whilst she 
thought herself leading, and finally deposited 
at her daily school, with as much regularity 
as the same sagacious quadruped would have 
displayed in carrying his master's glove, or 
fetching a stick out of the water. How I 
should like to see a portrait of that fair de- 
mure elegant child, with her full short frock, 
her frilled trousers, and her blue kid shoes, 
threading her way, by the aid of her sable 
attendant, through the many small impedi- 
ments of the crowded streets of Oxford ! 

Or the pretty scene of childish distress 
which I saw last winter on my way to East 
Court, — a distress which told its own story as 
completely as the picture of the broken pitclier ! 
Driving rapidly along the beautiful road from 
Eversley Bridge to Finchamstead, up hill and 
down ; on the one side a wide shelving bank, 
dotted with fine old oaks and beeches, inter- 
mingled with thorn and birch, and magnificent 
holly, and edging into Mr. Palmer's forest- 
like woods ; on the other, an open hilly coun- 
try, studded with large single trees. In the 
midst of this landscape, rich and lovely even 
in winter, in the very middle of the road, 
stood two poo' "ottage children, a year or two 
younger th«"j the damsel of Oxford ; a large 
basket da' gling from the hand of one of them, 
and a hfap of barley-meal — the barley-meal 
that should have been in the basket — the 
week's dinner of the pig, scattered in the dirt 
at their feet. Poor little dears, how they cried ! 
They could not have told their story, had not 
their story told itself; — they had been carry- 
ing the basket between them, and somehow it 
had slipped. A shilling remedied that disaster, 
and sent away all parties smiling and content. 

Then again, this very afternoon, the squab- 
bles of those ragged urchins at cricket on the 
common — a disputed point of out or not out ? 
The eight-year-old boy who will not leave his 
wicket; the seven and nine-year-old imps 
who are trying to force him from his post; 
the wrangling partisans of all ages, from ten 
downwards, the two contending sides, who 
are brawling for victory; the grave, ragged 
umpire, a lad of twelve, with a stick under 
his arm, who is solemnly listening to the 
cause ; and the younger and less interested 
spectators, some just breeched, and others 
still condemned to the ignominious petticoat, 
who are sitting on the bank, and wondering 
which party will carry the day ! 

What can be prettier than this, unless it be 
the fellow-group of girls — sisters, I presume, 
to the boys — who are laughing and screaming 
round the great oak ; then darting to and fro, 



in a game compounded of hide-and-seek and 
base-ball. Now tossing the ball high, high 
amidst the branches; now flinging it low 
along the common, bowling as it W'Cre, almost 
within reach of the cricketers ; now pursuing, 
now retreating, running, jumping, shouting, 
bawling — almost shrieking with ecstasy; 
whilst one sunburnt black-eyed gipsy throws 
forth her laughing face from behind the trunk 
of the old oak, and then flings a newer and a 
gayer ball — fortunate purchase of some hoard- 
ed sixpence — amongst her admiring play- 
mates. Happy, happy children ! that one 
hour of innocent enjoyment is worth an age ! 

It was, perhaps, my love of picturesque 
children that first attracted my attention to- 
wards a little maiden of some six or seven 
years old, whom I used to meet, sometimes 
going to school, and sometimes returning from 
it, during a casual residence of a week or two 
some fifteen years ago in our good town of 
Belford. It was a very complete specimen 
of childish beauty; what would be called a 
picture of a child, — the very study for a 
painter ; with the round, fair, rosy face, co- 
loured like the apple-blossom ; the large, 
bright, open blue eyes; the broad white fore- 
head, shaded by brown clustering curls, and 
the lips scarlet as winter berries. But it was 
the expression of that blooming countenance 
which formed its principal charm; every look 
was a smile, and a smile which had in it as 
much of sweetness as of gaiety. She seemed, 
and she was, the happiest and the most atfec- 
tionate of created beings. Her dress was 
singularly becoming. A little straw bonnet, 
of a shape calculated not to conceal, but to 
display the young pretty face, and a full short 
frock of gentianella blue, which served, by its 
brilliant yet contrasted colouring, to enhance 
the brightness of that brightest complexion. 
Tripping along to school with her neat covered 
basket in her chubby hand, the little lass was 
perfect. 

I could not help looking and admiring, and 
stopping to look; and the pretty child stopped 
too, and dropped her little curtsy; and then I 
spoke, and then she spoke; — for she was too 
innocent, too unfearing, too modest to be shy; 
so that Susy and I soon became acquainted ; 
and in a very few days the acquaintanceship 
was extended to a fine open-countenanced man, 
and a sweet-looking and intelligent young wo- 
man, Susan's father and mother, — one or other 
of whom used to come almost every evening 
to meet their darling on her return from school ; 
for she was an only one, — the sole oflspring of 
a marriage of love, which was, I believe, 
reckoned unfortunate by every body except 
the parties concerned : they felt and knew 
that they were happy. 

I soon learnt their simple history. William 
Jervis, the only son of a rich carpenter, had 
been attached, almost from childhood, to his 
fair neighbour, Mary Price, the daughter of a 



334 



BELFORD REGIS. 



haberdasher in a great way of business, who 
lived in the same street. The carpenter, a 
plodding, frntral artisan of the old school, who 
trusted to indefatigable industry and undevi- 
ating sobriety for getting on in life, had an 
instinctive mistrust of the more dashing and 
speculative tradesman, and, even in the height 
of his prosperity, looked with cold and doubt- 
ful eyes on his son's engagement. Mr. 
Price's circumstances, however, seemed, and 
at the time were, so flourishing — his offers so 
liberal, and his daughter's character so excel- 
lent, that to refuse his consent would have 
been an unwarrantable stretch of authority. 
All that our prudent carpenter could do was, 
to delay the union, in hopes that something 
might still occur to break it off; and when ten 
days before the time finally fixed for the mar- 
riage, the result of an unsuccessful speculation 
placed Mr. Price's name in the Gazette, most 
heartily did he congratulate himself on the 
foresight which, as he hoped, had saved him 
from the calamity of a portionless daughter- 
in-law. He had, however, miscalculated the 
strength of his son's affection for poor Mary, 
as well as the firm principle of honour, which 
regarded their long and every-way sanctioned 
engagement as a bond little less sacred than 
wedlock itself; and on Mr. Price's dying, 
within a very few months, of that death 
which, although not included in the bills of 
mortalitjr, is yet but too truly recognised by 
the popular phrase, a broken heart, William 
Jervis, after vainly trying every mode of appeal 
to his obdurate father, married the orphan girl 
— in the desperate hope that, the step being 
once taken, and past all remedy, an only child 
would find forgiveness for an offence attended 
by so many extenuating circumstances. 

But here, too, William, in his turn, miscal- 
culated the invincible obstinacy of his father's 
character. He ordered his son from his house 
and his presence, dismissed him from his em- 
ployment, forbade his very name to be men- 
tioned in his hearing, and, up to the time at 
which our story begins, comported himself 
exactly as if he never had had a child. 

William, a dutiful, affectionate son, felt se- 
verely the deprivation of his father's affection, 
and Mary felt for her William ; but, so far as 
regarded their worldly concerns, I am almost 
afraid to say how little tliey regretted their 
change of prospects. Young, healthy, active, 
wrapt up in each other and in their lovely 
little girl, they found small difliculty and no 
hardship in earning — he by his trade, at which 
he was so good a workman as always to com- 
mand high wages, and she by needle-work — 
sufficient to supply their humble wants; and 
when the kindness of Walter Price, Mary's 
brother, who had again opened a shop in the 
town, enabled them to send their little Susy 
to a school of a better order than their own 
funds would have permitted, their utmost am- 
bition seemed gratified. 



So far was speedily made known to me. I 

discovered also that Mrs. Jervis possessed, in 
a remarkable degree, the rare quality called 
taste — a faculty which does really appear to 
be almost intuitive in some minds, let meta- 
physicians laugh as they may ; and the ladies 
of Belford, delighted to find an opportunity of 
at once exercising their benevolence, and pro- 
curing exquisitely fancied caps and bonnets at 
half the cost which they had been accustomed 
to pay to the fine yet vulgar milliner, who had 
hitherto ruled despotically over the fashions 
of the place, did not fail to rescue their new 
and interesting protegee from the drudgery of 
sewing white seam, and of poring over stitch- 
ing and button-holes. 

For some years all prospered in their little 
household. Susy grew in stature and in 
beauty, retaining the same look of intelligence 
and sweetness which had, in her early child- 
hood, fascinated all beholders. She ran some 
risk of being spoiled, (only that, luckily, she 
was of the grateful, unselfish, affectionate 
nature which seems unspoilable,) by the ad- 
miration of Mrs. Jervis's customers, who, 
whenever she took home their work, would 
send for the pretty Susan into the parlour, and 
give her fruit and sweetmeats, or whatever 
cakes might be likely to please a childish ap- 
petite ; which it was observed, she contrived, 
whenever she could do so without offence, to 
carry home to her mother, whose health, al- 
ways delicate, had lately appeared more than 
usually precarious. Even her stern grand- 
father, now become a master-builder, and one 
of the richest tradesmen in the town, had been 
remarked to look long and wistfully on the 
lovely little girl, as, holding by her father's 
hand, she tripped lightly to church, altiiough, 
on that father himself, he never deigned to 
cast a glance ; so that the more acute deni- 
zens of Belford used to prognosticate that, 
although William was disinherited, Mr. Jer- 
vis's property would not go out of the family. 
So matters continued awhile. Susan was 
eleven years old, when a stunning and unex- 
pected blow fell upon them all. Walter 
Price, her kind uncle, who had hitherto seem- 
ed as prudent as he was prosperous, became 
involved in the stoppage of a great Glasgow 
house, and was obliged to leave the town ; 
whilst her father, having unfortunately accept- 
ed bills drawn by him, under an assurance 
that they should be provided for long before 
they became due, was thrown into prison for 
the amount. There was, indeed, a distant 
hope that the affairs of the Glasgow house 
might come round, or, at least, that Walter 
Price's concerns might be disentangled from 
theirs ; and for this purpose, his presence, as 
a man full of activity and intelligence, was 
absolutely necessary in Scotland ; but this 
prospect was precarious and distant. In the 
mean time, William Jervis lay lingering in 
prison, his creditor relying avowedly on the 



THE CARPENTER'S DAUGHTER. 



335 



chance that a rich father could not, for shame, 

allow his son to perish there; whilst Mary, 

sick, helpless, and desolate, was too broken- 

i spirited to venture an application to a quarter, 

j from whence any slio^ht hope that she mioht 

otherwise have entertained was entirely ban- 

] ished by the recollection that the penalty 

j had been incurred through a relation of her 

I own. 

" Why should I go to him 1" said poor 
Mary to herself, when referred by Mr. Bar- 
nard, her husband's creditor, to her wealthy 
father-in-law, — " why trouble him] He will 
never pay my brother's debt : he would only 
turn me from his door, and, perhaps, speak of 
Walter and W'illiam in a way that would 
break my heart." And, with her little dautrh- 
ter in her hand, she v.'alked slowly back to a 
small room tiiat she had hired near the jail, 
and sat down sadly and heavily to the daily 
diminishing millinery work, which was now 
the only resource of the once happy family. 

In the afternoon of the same day, as old 
Mr. Jervis was seated in a little summer- 
house at the end of his neat garden, gravely 
smoking his pipe over a tumbler of spirits 
and water, defiling the delicious odour of his 
honey-suckles and sweetbriers by the two 
most atrocious smells on this earth — the 
fumes of tobacco* and of gin — his medita- 
tions, probably none of the most agreeable, 
were interrupted, first by a modest single 
knock at the front door, (which, the interme- 
diate doors being open, he heard distinctly,) 
then by a gentle parley, and, lastly, by his 
old housekeeper's advance up the gravel-walk, 
followed by a very young girl, who. approached 
him hastily yet tremblingly, caught his rough 
hand with her little one, lifted up a sweet 
face, where smiles seemed breaking through 
her tears, and, in an attitude between stand- 
ing and kneeling — an attitude of deep reve- 
rence — faltered, in a low, broken voice, one 
low, broken word, — " Grandfather !" 

" How came this child here ]" exclaimed 
Mr. Jervis, endeavouring to disengage the 
hand which Susan had now secured within 
both hers — " how dared you let her in, Nor- 
ris, when you knew my orders respecting the 
whole family ?" 

"How dared I let her \nV^ returned the 
housekeeper — " how could 1 help if? Don't 
we all know that there is not a single house 
in the town where little Susan (Heaven bless 
her dear face !) is not welcome ! Don't the 
very jailers themselves let her into the prison 
before hours and after hours 1 And don't the 
sheriff himself, as strict as he is said to be, 
sanction it 1 Speak to your grandfather, Susy, 

* Whenever one thinks of Sir Walter Raleigh as 
the importer of this disgusting and noisome weed, it 
tends greatly to mitigate the horror which one feels 
for his unjust execution. Had he been only beheaded 
as the inventor of smoking, all would have been 
right 



love — don't be dashed. "f And, with this 
encouraging exhortation, the kind housekeeper 
retired. 

Susan continued clasping her grandfather's 
hand, and leaning her face over it, as if to 
conceal the tears which poured down her 
cheeks like rain. 

" What do you want with me, child V at 
length interrupted Mr. Jervis, in a stern voice. 
" What brought you here ?" 

"Oh, grandfather! Poor father's in pri- 
son !" 

"I did not put him there," observed Mr. 
Jervis, coldly; "you must go to Mr. Bar- 
nard on that affair." 

" Mother did go to him this morning," re- 
plied Susan, " and he told her that she inust 
apply to you " 

" Well !" exclaimed the grandfather, im- 
patiently. 

" But she said she dared not, angry as you 
were with her — more especially as it is through 
uncle Walter's misfortune that all this inis- 
ery has happened. Mother dared not come to 
you." 

" She was right enough there," returned 
Mr. Jervis. " So she sent you I" 

" No, indeed ; she knows nothing of my 
coming. She sent me to carry home a cap to 
Mrs. Taylor, who lives in the next-street, and, 
as I was i)assing the door, it came into my 
head to knock — and then Mrs. Norris brought 
me here — Oh, grandfather! I hope I have not 
done wrong ! I hope you are not angry! — 
But if you were to see how sad and pale poor 
father looks in that dismal prison — and poor 
mother how sick and ill she is ; how her hand 
trembles when she tries to work — Oh, grand- 
father ! if you could but see them, you would 
not wonder at my boldness." 

" All this comes of trusting to a speculating 
knave like Walter Price !" observed Mr. Jer- 
vis, rather as a soliloquy than to the child, 
who, however, heard and replied to the remark. 

" He was very kind to me, was uncle Wal- 
ter ! He put me to school, to learn reading, 
and writing, and ciphering, and all sorts of 
needle-work — not a charity-school, because he 
wished me to be amongst decent children, and 
not to learn bad ways. And he has written 
to offer to come to prison himself, if father 
wishes it — only — I don't understand about 
business — but even Mr. Barnard says that the 
best chance of recovering the money is his 
remaining at liberty; and, indeed, indeed, 
grandfather, my uncle Walter is not so wicked 
as you think for — indeed he is not." 

" This child is grateful !" was the thought 
that passed through her grajid father's mind ; 
but he did not give it utterance. He, how- 

i Dashed — frightened. I believe this expression, 
though frequently used there, is not confined to Berk- 
shire. It is one of the pretty provincial phrases by 
which Richardson has contrived to give a charming 
rustic grace to the early letters of Pamela. 



336 



BELFORD REGIS. 



ever, drew ber closer to him, and seated her 
in the summer-house at his side. " So you 
can read and write, and keep accounts, and do 
all sorts of needle-work, can you, my little 
maid 1 And you can run of errands, doubt- 
less, and are handy about a house"? Should 
you like to live with me and Norris, and 
make my shirts, and read the newspajier to 
me of an evening, and learn to make puddings 
and pies, and be my own little Susan 1 Eh ! 
— Should you like this?" 

" Oh, grandfather!" exclaimed Susan, en- 
chanted. 

" And water the flowers," pursued Mr. Jer- 
vis, " and root out the weeds, and gather the 
beau-pots 1 Is not this a nice garden, Susy ?" 

" Oh, beautiful ! dear grandtather, beauti- 
ful !" 

" And would you like to live with me in 
this pretty house and this beautiful garden — 
should you, Susy "?" 

" Oh, yes, dear grandfather !" 

"And never wish to leave me 1" 

" Oh, never ! never !" 

" Nov to see the dismal jail again — the dis- 
mal, dreary jail V 

" Never ! — but father is to live here too ?" 
inquired Susan, interrupting herself — " father 
and mother I" 

" No I" replied her grandfather — " neither 
of them. It was you whom I asked to live 
here with me. I have nothing to do with 
them, and you must choose between us." 

" They not live here ! I to leave my father 
and my mother — my own dear mother, and 
she so sick ! my own dear father, and he in 
a jail! Oh, grandfather ! you cannot mean it 
— you cannot be so cruel !" 

" There is no cruelty in the matter, Susan. 
I give you the offer of leaving your parents, 
and living with me ; but I do not compel you 
to accept it. You are an intelligent little girl, 
and perfectly capable of choosing for your- 
self. But 1 beg you to take notice that, by 
remaining with them, you will not only share, 
but increase their poverty ; whereas, with me, 
you will not only enjoy every comfort your- 
self, but relieve them from the burden of your 
support." 

" It is not a burden," replied Susan, firmly ; 
— " I know that, young and weak, and igno- 
rant as I am now, I am yet of some use to my 
dear mother — and of some comfort to my dear 
father ; and every day I shall grow older and 
stronger, and more able to be a help to them 
both. And to leave them ! to live here in 
plenty, whilst they were starving! to be ga- 
thering posies, whilst they were in prison ! 
Oh, grandfather \, I should die of the very 
thought. Thank you for your offer," con- 
tinued she, rising, and dropping her little 
curtsy — "but my choice is made. Good 
Hvening, grandfather!" 

" Don't be in such a hurry, Susy," rejoined 
tier grandfather, shaking the ashes from his 



pipe, taking the last sip of his gin and water, 
and then proceeding to adjust his hat and wig 
— "Don't be in such a hurry: you and I 
shan't part so easily. You're a dear little 
girl, and since you won't stay with me, I must 
e'en go with you. The father and mother who 
brought up such a child, must be worth bring- 
ing home. So, with your good leave, Miss 
Susan, we'll go and fetch them." 

And, in the midst of Susy's rapturous 
thanks, her kisses and her tears, out they sal- 
lied : and the money was paid, and the debtor 
released, and established with his overjoyed 
wife in the best room of Mr. Jervis's pretty 
habitation, to the unspeakable gratitude of the 
whole party, and the ecstatic delight of the 
Carpenter's Daughter. 



SUPPERS AND BALLS; 

OR, TOWN VERSUS COUNTRY. 

Thirty years ago Belford was a remarkably 
sociable place, just of the right size for plea- 
sant visiting. In very small towns people see 
each other too closely, and fall almost uncon- 
sciously into the habit of prying and peeping 
into their neighbours' concerns, and gossiping 
and tittle-tattling, and squabbling, and jost- 
ling, as if the world were not wide enough 
for them ; and such is the fact — their world is 
too narrow. In very great towns, on the other 
hand, folks see too little of one another, and 
do not care a straw for their near dwellers. 
Large provincial towns, the overgrown capitals 
of overgrown counties, are almost as bad in 
that respect as London, where next-door 
neighbours may come into the world, or go 
out of it — be born, or married, or buried, with- 
out one's hearing a word of the birth, or the 
wedding, or the funeral, until one reads the 
intelligence, two or three days afterwards, in 
the newspapers. 

Now in Belford, thirty years ago, whilst 
you were perfectly secure from any such cold 
and chilling indifference to your well or ill 
being, so you might reckon on being tolerably 
free from the more annoying impertinence of 
a minute and scrutinizing curiosity. The 
place was too large for the one evil, and too 
small for the other : almost every family of 
the class commonly called genteel, visited and 
was visited by the rest of their order; and not 
being a manufacturing town, and the trade, 
although flourishing, being limited to the sup- 
ply of the inhabitants, and of the wealthy and 
populous neighbourhood, the distinction was 
more easily drawn than is usual in this com- 
mercial country ; and the gentry of Belford 
might be comprised in the members of the 
three learned professions, the principal part- 
ners in the banks, one or two of the most 
thriving brewers, and that numerous body of 



SUPPERS AND BALLS. 



337 



idle persons who live upon their means, and 
whona the political economists are pleased, 
somewhat uncivilly, to denominate "the un- 
productive classes." 

Another favourable circumstance in the then 
state of the Belford society, was the circum- 
stance of nobody's being over-rich. Some 
had, to be sure, larger incomes than others ; 
but there was no great monied man, no bo- 
rough Croesus, to look down upon his poorer 
neighbours, and insult them by upstart pride 
or pompous condescension. All met upon the 
table-land of gentility, and the few who were 
more affluent contrived, almost without excep- 
tion, to disarm envy by using their greater 
power for the gracious purpose of diffusing 
pleasure and promoting sociability. And cer- 
tainly a more sociable set of people could not 
easily have been found. 

To say nothing at present of the professional 
gentlemen, or of that exceedingly preponder- 
ating part of the female "interest" (to borrow 
another cant phrase of the day,) the widows 
and single ladies, the genteel inhabitants of 
Belford were as diversified as heart could de- 
sire. We had two naval captains : the one, 
a bold, dashing, open-hearted tar, who after 
remaining two or three years unemployed, 
fuming, and chafing, and grumbling over his 
want of interest, got a ship, and died, after a 
brilliant career, at the summit of fame and 
fortune ; the other, a steady, business-like 
person, who did his duty as an English sailor 
always does, but who, wanting the art of 
making opportunities, the uncalculating brave- 
ry, the happy rashness, which seems essential 
to that branch of the service, lived obscurely, 
and died neglected. His wife had in her tem- 
perament the fire that her husband wanted. 
She was a virago, and would, beyond all 
doubt, have thought nothing of encountering 
a whole fleet, whether friends or foes ; whilst 
Sir Charles's lady (for our gallant officer had 
already won that distinction) was a poor, 
shrinking, delicate, weak-spirited little wo- 
man, who would have fainted at the sound of 
a signal-gun, and have died of a royal salute. 
They were great acquisitions to the society, 
especially Sir Charles, who, though he would 
have preferred a battle every day, had no ob- 
jection, in default of that diversion, to a party 
of any sort, — dance, supper, dinner, rout, no- 
thing came amiss to him, although it must be 
confessed that he liked the noisest best. 

Then arrived a young Irish gentleman, who 
having run away with an heiress, and spent 
as much of her fortune as the Court of Chan- 
cery would permit, came to Belford to retrench, 
and to wait for a place, which, through some 
exceedingly indirect and remote channel of 
interest, he expected to procure, and for which 
he pretended to prepare, and doubtless thought 
that he was preparing himself by the study of 
Cocker's Arithmetic. He study Cocker ! Oh, 
dear me ! all that he was ever likely to know 



of pounds, shillings, and pence, was the art 
of spending them, in which he was a profi- 
cient. A gay, agreeable, thoughtless creature 
he was, and so was his pretty wife. They 
had married so young, that whilst still looking 
like boy and girl, a tribe of boys and girls 
were rising round them, all alike gay and 
kind, and merry and thoughtless. They were 
the very persons to promote parties, since 
without them they could not live. 

Then came a Scotch colonel in the Compa- 
ny's service, with an elegant wife and a pretty 
daughter. A mighty man for dinnering and 
suppering was he I I question if Ude be a 
better cook. I am quite sure that he does not 
think so much of his own talents in that way 
as our colonel did. He never heard of a tur- 
tle within twenty miles, but he offered to dress 
it, and once nearly broke his neck in descend- 
ing into a subterranean kitchen to superintend 
the haunches at a mayor's feast. An excel- 
lent person was he, and a jovial, and a perfect 
gentleman even in his white apron. 

Then came two graver pairs : a young cler- 
gyman, who had married a rich and very 
charming widow, and seemed to think it right 
to appear staid and demure to conceal the half- 
a-dozen years by which she had the disadvan- 
tage of him ; and a widow and her son, a 
young man just from college, and intended for 
the diplomatic line, for which, if to be silent, 
solemn, safe, and dull, be a recommendation, 
he was very eminently gifted. 

Then we had my friend the talking gentle- 
man and his pretty wife ; then a half-pay ma- 
jor, very prosy; then a retired commissary, 
very dozy ; then a papa with three daughters ; 
then a mamma with two sons; then a family 
too large to count; and then some score of re- 
spectable and agreeable ladies and gentlemen, 
the chorus of the opera, the figurantes of the 
ballet, who may fairly be summed up in one 
general eulogy as very good sort of people in 
their way. 

This catalogue raisonnc of the Belford gen- 
tlefolks does not sound very grand or very in- 
tellectual, or very much to boast about; but 
yet the component parts, the elements of so- 
ciety, mingled well together, and the result 
was almost as pleasant as the colonel's inim- 
itable punch — sweet and spirited, with a little 
acid, and not too much water — or as Sir 
Charles's champagne, sparkling and efferves- 
cent, and completely up as his ovrn brilliant 
spirits and animated character. I was a girl 
at the time — a very young girl, and, what is 
more to the purpose, a very shy one, so that I 
mixed in none of the gaieties ; but, speaking 
from observation and recollection, I can fairly 
say that I never saw any society more inno- 
cently cheerful, or more completely free from 
any other restraints than those of good breed- 
ing and propriety. The gentlemen had fie- 
quent dinner-parties, and the young people 
occasional dances at such houses where the 



29 



2S 



338 



BELFORD REGIS. 



rooms were large enough ; but the pleasantest 
meetings were social suppers, preceded by a 
quiet rubber, and a noisy round game, suc- 
ceeded by one or two national airs, very sweet- 
ly sung by the Irishman's wife and the colo- 
nel's daughter, enlivened by comic songs by 
the talking gentleman — a genius in that line, 
and interspersed with more of fun and jest, 
and jollity of jokes that nobody could explain, 
and of laughter no one knew why, than I ever 
have happened to witness amongst any assem- 
blage of well-behaved and well-educated peo- 
ple. One does sometimes meet with enjoy- 
ment amongst a set of country lads and lasses ; 
but to see ladies and gentlemen merry as well 
as wise, is, in these utilitarian days, some- 
what uncommon. 

N. B. If I were asked whether this happy 
state of things still continues, I should find 
the question difficult to answer. Belford is 
thirty years older since the joyous Christmas 
holidays which have left so pleasant an im- 
pression on my memory, and more than thirty 
years larger, since it has increased and multi- 
plied, not after the staid and sober fashion of 
an English country town, but in the ratio of 
an American city — Cincinnati for instance, or 
any other settlement of the West, which was 
the wilderness yesterday, and starts into a 
metropolis to-morrow. Moreover, I doubt if 
the habits of the middle ranks in England be 
as sociable now as they were then. The man- 
ners immortalized by Miss Austen are rapidly 
passing away. There is more of finery, more 
of literature, more of accomplishment, and, 
above all, more of pretension, than there used 
to be. Scandal vanished with the tea-table ; 
gossiping is out of fashion ; jokes are gone 
by; conversation is critical, analytical, politi- 
cal — any thing but personal. The world is a 
wise world, and a learned world, and a scien- 
tific world ; but not half so merry a world as 
it was thirty years ago. And then, courteous 
reader, I too am thirty years older, which 
must be taken into the account; for if those 
very supper-parties, those identical Christmas 
holidays, which I enjoyed so much at four- 
teen, were to return again bodily, with all their 
"quips and cranks, and jollity," it is just a 
thousand to one but they found the woman of 
forty-four too grave for them, and longing for 
the quiet and decorum of the elegant conver- 
sazione ana select dinners of 1834: of such 
contradictions is this human nature of ours 
mingled and composed ! 

To return once more to Belford, as I remem- 
ber it at bonny fifteen. 

The public amusements of the town were 
sober enough. Ten years before, clubs had 
flourished; and the heads of houses had met 
once a week at the King's Arms for the pur- 
pose of whist-playing; whilst the ladies, thus 
deserted by their liege lords, had established 
a meeting at each other's mansions on club- 



nights, from which, by way of retaliation, the 
whole male sex was banished except Mr. Sin- 
gleton. At the time, however, of which I 
speak, these clubs had ])assed away ; and the 
public diversions were limited to an annual 
visit from a respectable company of actors, 
the theatre being, as is usual in countrj' places, 
very well conducted and exceedingly ill at- 
tended ; to biennial concerts, equally good in 
their kind, and rather better patronised ; and 
to almost weekly incursions from itinerant 
lecturers on all the arts and sciences, and from 
prodigies of every kind, whether thre^-year 
old fiddlers or learned dogs. 

There were also balls in their spacious and 
commodious town-hall, which seemed as much 
built for the purposes of dancing as for tiiat 
of trj'ing criminals. Public balls there were 
in abundance ; but at the time of which I 
speak they were of less advantage to the good 
town of Belford than any one, looking at the 
number of good houses and of pretty young 
women, could well have thought possible. 
Never was a place in which the strange pre- 
judice, the invisible but strongly felt line of 
demarcation, which all through England di- 
vides the county families from the townspeo- 
ple, was more rigidly sustained. To live in 
that respectable borough was in general a re- 
cognised exclusion from the society of the 
neighbourhood ; and if by chance any one so 
high in wealth, or station, or talent, or con- 
nexion, as to set the proscription at defiance, 
happened to settle within the obnoxious walls, 
why then the country circle took possession 
of the new-comer, and he was, although liv- 
ing in the very heart of the borough, claimed 
and considered as a country family, and seized 
by the county and relinquished by the town 
accordingly.* The thing is too absurd to rea- 
son upon ; but so it was, and so to a great de- 
gree it still continues all over England. 

A public ball-room is, perhaps, of all others, 
the scene where this feeling is most certain to 
display itself; and the Belford balls had, from 
time immemorial, been an arena where the 
conflicting vanities of the town and county 
belles came into collision. A circumstance 
that had happened some twenty years before 
the time of which I vcrite (that is to say, near- 
ly fifty years ago) had, however, ended in the 
total banishment of the Belford beauties from 
the field of battle. 

Every body remembers the attack made 
upon George III. by an unfortunate mad wo- 
man, of the name of Margaret Nicholson ; the 
quantity of addresses sent up in consequence, 
from all parts of the kingdom, and the number 

* They order matters rather better now ; at least, I 
know some three or four very deliRlitful persons who, 
ahhough guilty of hving amongst streets and brick 
walls, do yet visit in town or country as they see fit; 
and the ball-room flistinction is, I believe, partly swept 
away — but not quite. 



THE OLD EMIGRE. 



339 



of foolish persons who accompanied the depu- 
tations and accepted the honour of kniirhthood 
on the occasion. Amongst these simple per- 
sonages were two aldermen of Belford, a 
brewer and a banker, whose daughters, emu- 
lous of their fathers' wisdom, were rash 
enough, at the next monthly assembly, to 
take place above the daughters of the high 
sheriff, and the county members, and half the 
landed gentry of the neighbourhood. The 
young country ladies behaved with great dis- 
cretion ; they put a stop to the remonstrances 
of their partners, walked in a mass to the 
other end of the room, formed their own set 
there, and left the daughters of the new-made 
knights to go down the dance by tliemselves. 
But the result was the establishment of sub- 
scription balls, under the direction of a county 
committee, and a complete exclusion, for the 
time, at least, of the female inhabitants of 
Belford. 

By some means or other, the gentlemen 
contrived to creep in as partners, though not 
much to their own comfort or advantage. The 
county balls at Belford were amongst the 
scenes of King Harwood's most notable dis- 
appointments ; and a story was in circulation 
(for the truth of which, however, I will not 
venture to vouch) that our young diplomatist, 
who, from the day he first entered Oxford to 
that in which he left it, had been a tuft-hunter 
by profession, was actually so deceived, by 
her being on a visit to a noble family in the 
neighbourhood, as to request the hand of a 
young lady for the first two dances, who turned 
out to be nothing better than the sister of the 
curate of his own parish, who came the very 
next week to keep her brother's house, a house 
of six rooms little better than closets, in Bel- 
ford, who had not the apology of beauty, and 
whose surname was Brown ! 

It follows, from this state of things, that, in 
tracing the annals of beauty in the Belford 
ball-room, in our subsequent pages, our por- 
traits must be chiefly drawn from the young 
ladies of the neighbourhood, the fair damsels 
of the town (for of many a fair damsel the 
town could boast) having been driven to other 
scenes for the display of their attractions. I 
am not sure that they lost many admirers by 
the exclusion ; for a pretty girl is a pretty girl, 
even if she chance to live amongst houses and 
brick walls, instead of trees and green fields, 
— and, somehow or other, young men will 
make the discovery. And a pair of bright 
eyes will do as much execution at a concert, 
or a lecture, or a horticultural show, or even 
— with all reverence be it spoken — at a mis- 
sionary meeting, as if threading the mazes of 
the old-fashioned country dance, or r/os-d-rfos- 
ing in the most fashionable quadrille. No- 
thing breaks down artificial distinctions so 
certainly as beauty ; and so, or I mistake, our 
Belford lasses have found. 



THE OLD EMIGRE. 

The town of Belford is, like many of our 
ancient English boroughs, full of monastic 
remains, which give an air at once venerable 
and picturesque to the irregular streets and 
suburban gardens of the place. Besides the 
arreat ruins of the abbey extending over many 
acres, and the deep and beautiful arched gate-i ' 
way forming ])art of an old romantic house, 
which, although erected many centuries later, 
is now falling to decay, whilst the massive 
structure of the arch remains firm and vigorous 
as a rock,* — besides that graceful and sha- 
dowy gateway which, with the majestic elms 
that front it, has formed the subject of almost 
as many paintinofs and drawings as Durham 
Cathedral — besides these venerable remains, 
every corner of the town presents some relic 
of " hoar antiquity " to the eye of the curious 
traveller. Here, a stack of chimneys, — there, 
a bit of ffarden wall, — in this place, a stone 
porch with the date 1472, — in that, an oaken- 
raftered granary of still earlier erection — all 
give token of the solid architecture of the 
days when the mitred abbots of the great 
monastery of Belford, where princes have 
lodged and kings been buried, (as witness the 
stone coffins not long since disinterred in the 
ruined chapel,) were the munificent patrons 
and absolute suzerains of the good burghers 
and their borounrh town. Even where no such 
traces exist, the very names of the diflferent 
localities indicate their connexion with these 
powerful Benedictines. Friar Street, Minster 
Street, the Oriel, the Holy Brook, the Abbey 
Mills, — names which have long outlived, not 
only the individiial monks, but even the proud 
foundation by which they were bestowed, — 
still attest the extensive influence of the lord 
abbot. If it be true, according to Lord Byron, 
that " words are things," still more truly may 
we say, that names are histories. 

Nor were these remains confined to the town. 
The granges and parks belonging to the wide- 
spreading abbey lands, their manors and fish- 
eries, extended for many miles around ; and 
more than one yeoman, in the remoter villages, 
claims to be descended of the tenants who 
held farms under the church ; whilst many a 
mouldering parchment indicates the assump- 
tion of the abbey property by the crown, or 
its bestowal on some favourite noble of the 
court. And, amidst these relics of ecclesias- 
tical pomp and wealth, be it not forgotten, 
that better things were mingled, — almshouses 
for the old, hospitals for the sick, and crosses 
and chapels at which the pilgrim or the way- 

* It was not, I believe, at this gateway, but at one 
the very remains of which are now swept away, that 
the abbot and two of iiis monks were hanged at the 
time of the Reformation : a most causeless piece of 
cruelty, since no resistance was offered by the help- 
less Benedictines. 



340 



BELFORD REGIS, 



farer miLrlit offer up his prayers. One of the 
latter, dedicated to " Our Ladye," was siuo-u- 
larly situated on the centre pier of the old 
hridge at Upton, where, indeed, the original 
basement, surmounted by a more modern dwell- 
inff-house, still continues. 

I3y far the most beautiful ruin in Belford is, 
however, the east end of an old Friary, situate 
at the entrance of the town from the pleasant 
'village of Upton above-mentioned, from which 
it is divided by about half a mile of green 
meadows sloping down to the great river, 
with its long straggling bridge, sliding, as it 
were, into an irregular street of cottages, 
trees, and gardens, terminated by the old 
church, embosomed in wood, and crowned b}'^ 
the great chalk-pit, and the high range of 
Oxfordshire hills. 

The end of the old Friary forming the an- 
gle between two of the streets of Belford, 
and being, itself, the last building of the 
town, commands this pretty pastoral prospect. 
It is placed in about half an acre of ground, 
partly cultivated as a garden, partly planted 
with old orchard trees, standing back from the 
street on the one side, and the road on the 
other, apart and divided from every meaner 
building, except a small white cottage, which 
is erected against the lower part, and which 
it surmounts in all the pride of its venerable 
beauty, retaining almost exactly that form of 
a pointed arch, to which the groined roof was 
fitted ; almost, but not quite, since, on one 
side, part of the stones are crumbling away 
into a picturesque irregularity, whilst the 
other is overgrown by large masses of ivy, 
and the snapdragon and the wallflower have 
contributed to break the outline. The east 
window, however, is perfect — as perfect as if 
finished yesterday. And the delicate tracery 
of that window, the rich fretwork of its 
Gothic carving, clear as point-lace, regular as 
the quaint cutting of an Indian fan, have to 
me — especially when the summer sky is seen 
through those fantastic mouldings, and the 
ash and elder saplings, which have sprung 
from the fallen masses below, mingle their 
fresh and vivid tints with the hoary apple 
trees of the orchard, and the fine mellow hue 
of the weather-stained grey stone — a truer 
combination of that which the mind seeks in 
ruins, the union of the beautiful and the sad, 
than any similar scene with which I am 
acquainted, however aided by silence and 
solitude, by majestic woods and mighty wa- 
ters. 

Perhaps, the very absence of these romantic 
adjuncts, the passing at once from the busy 
hum of men to this memorial of past genera- 
tions, may aid the impression; or, perhaps, 
the associations connected with the small cot- 
tage that leans aofainst it, and harmonizes so 
well in form, and colour, ^nd feeling, with the 
general picture, may have more influence than 
can belong merely to form and colour in pro- 



ducing the half-uncoi scious melancholy that 
steals over the thoughts. 

Nothing could be less melancholy than my 
first recollections of that dwelling, when, a 
happy school-girl at home for the holidays, I 
used to open the small wicket, and run up the 
garden-path, and enter the ever-open door to 
purchase Mrs. Duval's famous brioches and 
marangles. 

Mrs. Duval had not always lived in the cot- 
tage by the Friary. Fifteen years before, she 
had been a trim black-eyed maiden, the only 
daughter and heiress of old Anthony Richards, 
an eminent confectioner in Queen Street. 
There she had presided over turtle-soup and 
tartlets, ices and jellies — in short, over the 
whole business of the counter, with much 
discretion, her mother being dead, and Anthony 
keeping close to his territory — the oven. With 
admirable discretion had Miss Fanny Richards 
conducted the business of the shop ; smiling, 
civil, and attentive to every body, and yet 
contriving, — in spite of her gay and pleasant 
manner, the evident light-heartedness which 
danced in her sparkling eyes, and her airy 
steps, and her arch yet innocent speech, a 
light-heartedness which charmed even the 
gravest — to avoid any the slightest approach 
to allurement or coquetry. The most practised 
recruiting officer that ever lounged in a country 
town could not strike up a flirtation with Fan- 
ny Richards; nor could the more genuine ad- 
miration of the raw boy just come from Eton 
and not yet gone to Oxford, extort the slen- 
derest encouragement from the prudent and 
right-minded maiden. She returned their pre- 
sents and laughed at their poetry, and had 
raised for herself such a reputation for civility 
and [)ropriety, that, when the French man-cook 
of a neighbouring nobleman, an artiste of the 
first water, made his proposals, and her good 
father, after a little John Bullish demur, on 
the score of language and country, was won, 
imitating the example related of some of the 
old painters to bestow on him his daughter's 
hand, in reward of the consummate skill of 
his productions, (a magnificent Pale de Peri- 
crord is said to have been the chef-d'' auvre 
which gained the fair prize,) not a family in 
the town or neighbourhood but wished well to 
the young nymph of the counter, and resolved 
to do every thing that their protection and pa- 
tronage could compass for her advantage and 
comfort. 

The excellent character and excellent con- 
fectionary of the adroit and agreeable French- 
man completely justified Fanny's choice; and 
her fond father, from the hour that he chuck- 
lingly iced her wedding-cake, and changed his 
old, homely, black and white inscription of 
"Anthony Richards, pastry-cook," which had 
whilom modestly surmounted the shop-win- 
dow, into a very grand and very illegible 
scroll, gold on a blue ground, in the old Eng- 
lish character, (^rafiesjue the bridegroom called 



THE OLD EMIGRE. 



341 



it ; indeed, if it had been Arabic, it could hard- 
ly have been more unintelligible,) of " An- 
thony Richards and Louis Duval, man-cookS 
and restorers," which required the contents of 
the aforesaid window to explain its meaning 
to English eyes,— from that triumphant hour 
to the time of his death, some three years af- 
terwards, never once saw cause to repent that 
he had intrusted his daughter's fortune and 
ha])piness to a foreigner. So completely was 
his prejudice surmounted, that, when a boy 
was born, and it was proposed to give him the 
name of his grandfather, the old man posi- 
tively refused. " Let him be such another 
Louis Duval as you have been," said he, " and 
I shall be satisfied." 

All prospered in Queen-street, and all de- 
served to prosper. From the noblemen and 
gentlemen, at whose houses, on days of high 
festival, Louis Duval officiated as chef de cui- 
sine, down to the urchins of the street, half- 
penny customers whose object it was to get 
most sweets for their money, all agreed that 
the cookery and the cakery, the souffles and 
the buns, were inimitable. Perhaps the ready 
and smiling civility, the free and genuine kind- 
ness, which looked out and weighed a penny- 
worth of sugar-plums with an attention as real 
and as good-natured as that with which an 
order was taken for a winter dessert, had some- 
thing to do with this universal popularity. Be 
that as it may, all prospered, and all deserved 
to prosper, in Queen-street; and, until the old 
man died, it would have been difficult, in the 
town or the country, to fix on a more united, 
or a happier family. That event, by bringing 
an accession of property and powf r to Louis 
Duval, introduced into his mind a spirit of 
speculation, an ambition, (if one may apply 
so grand a word to the projects of a confec- 
tioner,) which became as fatal to his fortunes 
as it has often proved to those of greater men. 
He became weary of his paltry profits and his 
provincial success — weary even of the want 
of competition, — for poor old Mrs. Tliomas, 
the pastry-cook in the market-place, an inert 
and lumpish personage of astounding dimen- 
sions, whose fame, such it was, rested on huge 
plum-cakes almost as big round as herself, 
and little better than bread with a few currants 
interspersed, wherewith, under the plea of 
wholesomeness, poor children were crammed 
at school and at home, — poor old Mrs. Thomas 
could never be regarded as his rival ; — these 
motives, together with the wish to try a wider 
field, and an unlucky suggestion from his old 
master, the Earl, that he and his wife would 
be the very persons for a London hotel, in- 
duced him to call in his debts, dispose of his 
house and business in Queen-street, embark in 
a large concern in the West-end, and leave 
Bel ford altogether. 

The result of this measure may be easily 
anticipated. Wholly unaccustomed to Lon- 
don, and to that very nice and difficult under- 

29* 



taking, a great hotel, — and with a capital 
which, though considerable in itself, was yet 
inadequate to a speculation of such magnitude, 
— poor Monsieur and Madame Duval (for they 
had assumed all the Frenchifications possible 
on setting up in the great city) were tricked, 
and cheated, and laughed at by her country- 
men and by his, and in the course of four 
years w^ere completely ruined ; whilst he, 
who might always have procured a decent 
livelihood by going about to ditferent houses 
as a professor of the culinary art, (for though 
Louis had lost every thing else, he had not, 
as he used to observe, and it was a comfort to 
him, poor fellow ! lost his professional repu- 
tation,) caught cold by overheating himself in 
cooking a great dinner, fell into aconsumpiion, 
and died ; leaving his young wife and her 
little boy friendless and penniless in the wide 
world. 

Under these miserable circumstances, poor 
Fanny naturally returned to her native town, 
with some expectation, perhaps, that the pa- 
trons and acquaintances of her father and her 
husband might re-establish her in her old 
business, for which, having been brought up 
in the trade, and having retained all the re- 
ceipts which had made their shop so cele- 
brated, she was peculiarly qualified. But, 
although surrounded by well-wishers and per- 
sons ready to assist her to a certain small ex- 
tent, Mrs. Duval soon found how difficult it is 
for any one, especially a woman, to obtain 
money without security, and without any cer- 
tainty of repayment. That she had failed 
once, was reason enough to render people 
fearful that she might fail again. Besides, 
her old rival, Mrs. Thomas, was also dead, 
and had been succeeded by a Quaker couple, 
so alert, so intelligent, so accurately and de- 
licately clean in all their looks, and ways, and 
wares, that the very sight of their bright coun- 
ter, and its simple but tempting cates, gave | 
their customers an appetite. They were the i 
fashion, too, unluckily. Nothing could go i 
down for luncheon in any family of gentility, 
but Mrs. Purdy's biscuits ; and poor Mrs. \ 
Duval found her more various and richer con- ( 
fectionary comparative!}' disregarded. The I 
most that her friends could do for her was to \ 
place her in the Friary Cottage, where, be- I 
sides carrying on a small trade with the few i 
old customers who still adhered to herself and 
her tartlets, she could have the advantage of 
letting a small bed-chamber and a pleasant 
little parlour to any lodger desirous of uniting 
good air, and a close vicinity to a large town, 
with a situation peculiarly secluded and ro- 
mantic. 

The first occupant of Mrs. Duval's pleasant 
apartments was a Catholic priest, an emigre, 
to whom they had a double recommendation, 
in his hostess's knowledge of the French 
language, of French habits, and French cook- 
ery, (she being, as he used to affirm, the only ! 



342 



BELFORD REGIS. 



Englishwoman that ever made drinkable cof- 
fee,) and in the old associations of the pre- 
cincts (" piece of a cloister") around which 
the venerable memorials of the ancient faith 
still lingered even in decay. He niig-ht have 
said, with Antonio, in one of the finest scenes 
ever conceived by a poet's imaijination, that 
in which the Echo answers from the murdered 
woman's grave, — 

" I do love these ancient ruins; 
We never tread upon them but we set 
Our foot upon some reverend history; 
And, questionless, here in this open court 
(Which now lies open to the injuries 
Of stormy weather) some do lie interr'd. 
Loved the church so well, and gave so largely to't, 
They thought tt should have canopied their bones 
Till doomsday : but all things have their end : 
Churches and cities (which have diseases like to men) 
Must have like death that we have." 

Webster — Duchess of Malfy. 

If such were the inducements that first at- 
tracted M. I'Abbe Villaret, he soon found 
others in the pleasing manners and amiable 
temper of Mrs. Duval, whose cheerfulness 
and kindness of heart had not abandoned her 
in her change of fortune ; and in the attaching 
character of her charming little boy, who — 
singularly tall of his age, and frained with 
the mixture of strength and delicacy, of pli- 
ancy and uprightness, which characterizes the 
ideal forms of the Greek marbles, and the 
reality of the human figure amongst the abo- 
rigines of North Atiierica,* and a countenance 
dark, sallow, and colourless, but sparkling 
with expression as that of the natives of the 
South of Europe, the eye all laughter, tiie 
smile all intelligence, — was as unlike in mind 
as in. person to the chubby, ruddy, noisy ur- 
chins by whom he was surrounded. Quick, 
gentle, docile, and graceful to a point of ele- 
gance rarely seen even amongst the most care- 
fully-educated children, he might have been 
placed at court as the page of a fair young 
(]ueen, and have been the plaything and pet of 
the maids of honour. The pet of M. I'Abbe 
he became almost as soon as he saw him ; 
and to that pleasant distinction was speedily 
added the invaluable advantage of being his 
pupil. 

L'Abbe Villaret had been a cadet of one 
of the oldest families in France, destined to 
the church as the birthright of a younger son, 
but attached to his profession with a serious- 
ness and earnestness not common amongst 
the gay noblesse of the ancien rcf^ime, who 
too often assumed the petit collet as the badge 
of one sort of frivolity, just as their elder 
brothers wielded the sword, and served a catn- 
paign or two, by way of excuse for an idle- 
ness and dissipation of a different kind. This 
devotion had of course been greatly increased 

* My readers will remember West's exclamation on 
the first sight of the Apollo, — "A young Mohawk 
Indian, by Heaven!" 



by the persecution of the church which dis- 
tinguished the commencement of the Revolu- 
tion. The good Abbe had been marked as 
one of the earliest victims, and had escaped, 
through the gratitude of an old servant, from 
the fate which swept off sisters and brothers, 
and almost every individual, except himself, 
of a large and flourishing family. Penniless 
and solitary, he made his way to Entjiand, 
and found an asylum in the town of Belford, 
at first assisted by the pittance allowed by 
our governinent to those unfortunate foreigners, 
and subsequently supported by his own exer- 
tions as assistant to the priest of the Catholic 
Chapel in Belford, and as a teacher of the 
French language in the town and neighbour- 
hood ; and so complete had been the ravages 
of the Revolution in his own family, and so 
entirely had he established hiinself in the es- 
teem of his English friends, that when the 
short peace of Amiens restored so many of his 
brother emigres to their native land, he refused 
to quit the country of his adoption, and re- 
mained the contented inhabitant of the Friary 
Cottage. 

The contented and most beloved inhabitant, 
not only of that small cottage, but of the 
town to which it belonged, was the good 
Abbe. Every body loved the kind and placid 
old rnan, whose resignation was so real and 
so cheerful, who had such a talent for making 
the best of things, whose moral alchymy 
could extract some good out of ?very evil, 
and who seetriRd only the more indulgent to 
the faults and follies of others because he had 
so little cause to require indulgence for his 
own. One prejudice he had — a lurking pre- 
dilection in favour of good blood and long 
descent; the Duke de St. Simon himself 
would hardly have felt a stronger partiality 
for the Montmorencies or the Mortemars ; and 
yet so well was this prejudice governed, so 
closely veiled from all offensive display, that 
not only la belle et bonne bourgeoise Madame 
Lane, as he used to call the excellent wife of 
that great radical leader, but even le gros 
bourgeois son cpoiix, desperate whicr as he was, 
were amongst the best friends and sincerest 
well-wishers of our courteous old Frenchman. 
He was their customer for the little ineat that 
his economy and his appetite required ; and 
they were his for as many French lessons as 
their rosy, laughing daughters could be coax- 
ed into taking during tiie very short interval 
that elapsed between their resj)ectively leaving 
school and getting married. How the Miss 
Lanes came to learn French at all, a jjiece of 
finery rather inconsistent with the substantial 
plainness of their general education, I could 
not comprehend, until I found that the daugh- 
ters of Mrs. Green, the grocer, their opposite 
neighbour, between whotn and dear Mrs. Lane 
there existed a little friendly rivalry, (for, 
good woman as she was, even Margaret Lane 
had something of the ordinary frailties of hu- 



THE OLD EMIGRE, 



343 



man nature,) were studying French, music, 
danclnpr, drawinor, and Italian ; and althoucfh 
she quite disapproved of this hash of accom- 
plishments, yet no woman in Christendom 
could bear to be so entirely outdone by her 
next neiohbour: besides she doubtless cal- 
culated tiiat the little they were likely to 
know of the language would be too soon for- 
gotten to do them any harm ; that they would 
settle into sober tradesmen's wives, content 
" to scold their maidens in their mother 
tongue ;" and that the only permanent conse- 
quence would be, the giving her the power to 
be of some slight service to the good em/o-re. 
So the Miss Lanes learned French ; and Mrs. 
Lane, who was one of poor Mrs. Duval's best 
friends and most constant customers, borrowed 
all her choicest receipts to compound for the 
Abbe his favourite dishes, and contrived to 
fix the lessons at such an hour as should 
authorize her offering the refreshment which 
she had so carefully prepared. Bijou, too, 
the Abbe's pet dog, a beautiful little curly 
spaniel, of great sagacity and fidelity, always 
found a dinner ready for him at Mrs. Lane's ; 
and Louis Duval, the master's other pet, was 
at least equally welcome; — so that the whole 
trio were soon at home in the Butts. And 
although Stephen held in abomination all 
foreigners, and thought it eminently patriotic 
and national to hate the French and their 
ways, never had tasted coffee or taken a pinch 
of snuff in his days ; and although the Abbe, 
on his part, abhorred smoking, and beer, and 
punch, and loud talking, and all the .Tohn 
Bullisms whereof Stephen was compounded ; 
although Mr. Lane would have held himself 
guilty of a sin if he had known the French 
for " how d'ye dol" and the Abbe, teacher of 
languages though he were, had marvellously 
contrived to learn no more English than just 
served him to make out his pupil's transla- 
tions, (perhaps the constant reading of those 
incomparable compositions might be the rea- 
son why the real spoken idiomatic tongue was 
still unintelligible to him ;) yet they did con- 
trive, in spite of their mutual prejudices and 
their deficient means of communication, to be 
on as friendly and as cordial terms as any two 
men in Belford ; and, considering that the 
Frenchman was a decided aristocrat and the 
Englishman a violent democrat, and that each 
knew the other's politics, that is saying much. 
But from the castle to the cottage, from the 
nobleman whose children he taught down to 
the farmer's wife who furnished him with 
eggs and butter, the venerable Abbe was a 
universal favourite. There was something in 
his very appearance — his small neat person, a 
little bent, more by sorrow than age — his thin 
white hair — bis mild intelligent -countenance, 
with a sweet placid smile, that spoke more of 
courtesy than of gaiety — his quiet manner, 
his gentle voice, and even the broken English, 
which reminded one that he was a sojourner 



in a strange land, that awakened a tningled 
emotion of respect and of pity. His dress, 
too, always neat, yet never seeming new, con- 
tributed to the air of decayed gentility that 
hung about him ; and the beautiful little dog 
who was his constant attendant, and the grace- 
ful boy who so frequently accompanied him, 
formed an interesting group on the high roads 
which he frequented ; for the good Abbe«was 
so much in request as a teacher, and the 
amount of his earnings was so considerable, 
that he might have passed for well-to-do in 
the world, had not his charity to his poorer 
countrymen, and his liberality to Louis and 
to Mrs. Duval, been such as to keep him con- 
stantly poor. 

Amongst his pupils, and the friends of his 
pupils, his urbanity and kindness could not 
fail to make him popular; whilst his gentle- 
ness and patience with the stupid, and his 
fine taste and power of inspiring emulation 
amongst the cleverer children, rendered him a 
very valuable master. Besides his large con- 
nexion in Belford, he attended, as we have 
intimated, several families in the neighbour- 
hood, and one or two schools in the smaller 
towns, at eight or ten miles' distance ; and 
the light and active old man was accustomed 
to walk to these lessons, with little Bijou for 
his companion, even in the depth of winter ; 
depending, it may be, on an occasional cast 
for himself and his dog in the gig of some 
good-natured traveller, or the cart of some 
small farmer or his sturdy dame returning 
from the market-town, (for it is a character- 
istic of our county that we abound in female 
drivers — almost all our country wives are capi- 
tal whips,) who thought themselves well re- 
paid for their civility by a pinch of rappee in 
the one case, or a "Tank you, madame!" 
" Moche oblige, sar I" on the other. 

Nobody minded a winter's walk less than 
M. I'Abbe; and as for Bijou, he delighted in 
it, and would dance and whisk about, jump 
round his master's feet, and bark for very joy, 
whenever he saw the hat brushing, and the 
great-coat putting on, and the gloves taken out 
of their drawer, in preparation for a sortie, 
especially in snowy weather — for Bijou loved 
a frisk in the snow, and Louis liked it no less. 
But there was one person who never liked 
these cold and distant rambles, and that per- 
sonage was Mrs. Duval ; and on one dreary 
morning in January, especially, she opposed 
them by main and by might. She had had 
bad dreams, too ; and Mrs. Duval was the 
least in the world superstitious ; and " she 
was sure that no good would come of taking 
such a walk as that to Chardley, full a dozen 
miles, on such a day — nobody could be so 
unreasonable as to expect M. I'Abbe in such 
weather ; and as for Miss Smith's school, 
Miss Smith's school might wait !" 

M. I'Abbe reasoned with her in vain. 
" Your dreams — bah ! — I must go, my dear 



844 



BELFORD REGIS. 



little woman. All Miss Smith's pupils are 
come back from the holidays, and they want 
their lessons, and they have brought the money 
to pay me, and 1 want the money to pay you, 
and I will bring yon a pink riband as bright 
as your cheeks, and Louis " 

"Oh, pray let me go with you, M. I'Abbe!" 
interrupted Louis. '^ 

" And Louis shall stay with you," pursued 
M. I'Abbe. " You must not go, my dear boy ; 
stay with your mother; alwa3^s be a good son 
to your good mother, and I will bring you a 
book. I will bring you a new Horace, since 
you get on so well with your Latin. God 
bless you, my dear boy ! AUons, Bijou !" 
And M. I'Abbe was setting off. 

" At least stay all night !" interposed Mrs. 
Duval; "don't come home in the dark, pray!" 

" Bah !" replied the Abbe, laugliing. 

" And with money, too ! and so many bad 
people about! and such a dream as T have 
had !" again exclaimed Madame Duval. "I 
thought that two wolves " 

" Your dream ! — bah !" ejaculated the Abbe. 
" I shall bring you a pink riband, and be home 
by ten." And with these words he and Bijou 
departed. 

Ten o'clock came — a cold, frosty night, not 
moonlight, but starlight, and with so much 
snow upon the ground, that the beaten path- 
way on the high-road to Chardley might be 
easily traced. Mrs. Duval who had been 
fidgety all through the day, became more so 
as the evening advanced, particularly as Louis 
importuned her vehemently to let him go and 
meet their dear lodger. 

" You go ! No, indeed !" replied Madame 
Duval — " at this time of night, and after my 
dream! It's quite bad enough to have M. 
I'Abbe wandering about the high roads, and 
money with him, and so many bad people 
stirring. I saw one great, tall, dangerous- 
looking fellow at the door this morning, who 
seemed as if he had been listening when he 
talked of bringing money home: I should not 
wonder if he broke into the house — and my 
dream, too! Stay where you are, Louis. I 
won't hear of your going." 

And the poor boy, who had been taking 
down his furred cap to go, looked at his mo- 
ther's anxious face, and stayed. 

The hours wore away — eleven o'clock 
struck, and twelve — and still thorn were no 
tidings of the Abbe. Mrs. Duval began to 
comfort herself that he mitst have stayed to 
sleep at Chardley; that the Miss Smiths, 
whom she knew to be kind women, had in- 
sisted on his sleeping at their house; and she 
was preparing to go to bed in that persuasion, 
when a violent scratching and whining was 
heard at the door, and on Louis running to 
open it, little Bijou rushed in, covered with 
dirt, and without his master. 

"Oh, my dream!" exclaimed Mrs. Duval. 
" Louis, I thought that two wolves " 



" Mother," interrupted the boy, " see how- 
Bijou is jumping upon me, and whining, and 
then rnnning to the door, as if to entice me to 
follow him. I must go." 

" Oh, Louis ! remember!" — again screamed 
his mother — "Remember the great ill-looking 
fellow who was listening this mornincr]" 

" You forget, dear mother, that we all spoke 
in French, and that he could not have under- 
stood a word," returned Louis. 

"But my dream!" persisted Mrs. Duval. 
" My dreams always come true. Remember 
the pot 1 dreamt of your finding in the ruins, 
and which, upon digging for, you did find." 

"Which you dreamt was a pot of gold, 
and which turned out to be a broken paint- 
pot," replied Louis, impatiently. " Mother," 
added he, " I am sorry to disobey you, but see 
how this poor dog is dragging me to the door; 
hark how he whines ! And look ! look ! there 
is blood upon his coat! Perhaps his master 
has fallen and hurt himself, and even my slight 
help may be of use. I must go, and I will." 

And following the word with the deed. 
Louis obeyed the almost speaking action of 
the little dog, and ran quickly out of the 
house, on the road to Chardley. His mother, 
after an instant of vague panic, recovered her- 
self enough to alarm the neighbours, and send 
more efficient help than a lad of eleven years 
old to assist in the search. 

With a beating heart the brave and affec- 
tionate boy followed the dog, who led with a 
rapid pace and an occasional low moan along 
the high road to Chardley. The night had 
become milder, the clouds were driving along 
the sky, and a small, sleety rain fell by gusts ; 
all, in short, bespoke an approaching thaw, 
although the ground continued covered with 
snow, which cast a cold, dreary light on every 
object. For nearly three miles Louis and 
Bijou pursued their way alone. At the end 
of that time, they were arrested by shouts and 
lanterns advancing rapidly from the town, and 
the poor lad recognised the men whom his 
mother had sent to his assistance. 

" Any news of the poor French gentleman, 
master?" inquired .Tohn Gleve, the shoemaker, 
as he came up, almost breathless with haste. 
"It's lucky that I and Martin had two pair 
of boots to finish, and had not left our work; 
for poor Mrs. Duval there is half crazy with 
her fears for him and her dread about you. 
How couldst thou think of running off alone 1 
What good could a lad like thee do, frighten- 
ing his poor mother'? — And yet one likes un 
for 't," added .John, softening as he proceeded 
in his harangue; "one likes un for 't mainly. 
But look at the dog !" pursued he, interrupt- 
ing himself; "look at the dog, how he's 
snuffing and shuflling about in the snow ! 
And hark how he whines and barks, questing 
like ! And see what a trampling there 's been 
here, and how the snow on the side of the 
path is trodden about I" 



THE OLD EMIGRE, 



345 



" Hold down the lantern !" exclaimed Louis. 
" Give me the liofht, I beseecli you. Look 
here! this is blood ^-/m's blood !" sobbed the 
affectionate boy ; and, jrnided partly by that 
awful indication, partly by the disturbed snow, 
and partly bj' tlie dog, who, trembling in every 
limb, and keeping up a low mnnn, still pur- 
sued the track, they clambered over a gate 
into a field by the road-side; and in a ditch, 
at a little distance, found what all expected to 
find — the lifeless body of the Abbe. 

He had been dead apparently for some 
hours; for the corpse was cold, and the blood 
had stiffened on two wounds in his body. His 
pockets had been rifled of his purse and his 
pocket-book, both of which were found, with 
what money might have been in them taken 
out, cast into the hedge at a small distance, 
together with a sword Avith a broken hilt, with 
which the awful deed had probably been com- 
mitted. Nothing else had been taken from 
the poor old man. His handkerchief and 
snuff-box were still in his pocket, together 
with three yards of rose-coloured riband, neat- 
ly wrapped in paper, and a small edition of 
Horace, with the leaves uncnt. It may he 
imagined with what feelings Mrs. Duval and 
Louis looked at these tokens of recollection. 
Her grief found in tears the comfortable relief 
which Heaven has ordained for woman's sor- 
row ; but Louis could not cry — the consolation 
was denied him. A fierce spirit of revenwe 
had taken possession of the hitherto gentle 
and placid boy: to discover and bring to jus- 
tice the murderer, and to fondle and cherish 
poor Bijou (who was with difficulty coaxed 
into taking food, and lay perpetual-ly at the 
door of the room which contained his old mas- 
ter's body,) seemed to be the only objects for 
which Louis lived. 

The wish to discover the murderer was 
general throughout the neighbourhood, where 
the good, the pious, the venerable old man — 
harmless and inoffensive in word and deed, 
just, and kind, and charitable — had been so 
truly beloved and respected. Large rewards 
were offered by the Catholic gentry,* and 



* I cannot name the Catholic (gentry without paying 
my humble hut most sincere tribute of respect to the 
singularly high character of the old Catholic families 
in this county. It seems as if the oppression under 
which ihey so long laboured, had excited them to op- 
pose to such injustice the passive but powerful re- 
sistance of high moral virtue, of spotless integrity, of 
chivalrous honour, and of a diffusive charity, which 
their oppressors would have done well to imitate. 
Amongst them are to be found the names of Throck- 
morton, the friend and patron of Covvper, and of 
Blount, so wound up with every recollection of Pope, 
and of Eyslon, of East Hendrid, more ancient, per- 
haps, than any house in the county, whose curious old 
chapel, appended to his mansion, is mentioned in a 
deed bearing date the 19th of Mn;-, A. D. 1323, now 
in the possession of the fiimily. Nothing can be more 
interesting than the account, in a MS. belonging to 
Mr. Eyston, of the re-opening of this chapel during the 
short period in which the Roman Catholic religion 
was tolerated under James the Second ; and of the 

2T 



every exertion was made by the local police, 
and the magistracy of the town and country, 
to accomplish this great object. John Gleve 
had accurately measured the shoe-marks to 
and from the ditch where the body was found ; 
but farther than the gate of the field they had 
not thought to trace the footsteps ; and a thaw 
having come on, all signs had disappeared be- 
fore the morning. It had been ascertained 
that the Miss Siniths had paid him, besides 
soiTie odd money, in two £lO notes of the 
Chardley bank, the numbers of wiiich were 
known ; but of them no tidings could be pro- 
cured. He had left their house, on his return, 
about six o'clock in the evening, and had been 
seen to pass through a turnpike-gate, midway 
between the two towns, about eight, when, 
with his usual courtesy, he made a cheerful 
good-night to the gate-keeper; and this was 
the last that had been heard of him. No sus- 
piciotis person had been observed in the neigh- 
bourhood ; the most sagacious and experienced 
officers were completely at fault ; and the coro- 
ner's inquest was obliged to bring in the vague 
and unsatisfactory verdict of "Found murder- 
ed, by some person or persons unknown." 

Many loose people, such as beggars and 
vagrants, and wandering packnnen, were, how- 



persecution which succeeded at the Revolution. 
These scenes are now matters of history, and of his- 
tory only; since the growing wisdom and the human- 
izing spirit of the legislature and the age forbid even 
the fear of their recurrence ; but as curious historical 
documents, and as a standing lesson against bigotry 
and intolerance, however styled, a collection of such 
narratives (and many such, I believe, exist amongst 
the old Catholic families,) would be very valuable. 
One of the most remarkable MSS. that I have hap- 
pened to meet with, is an account of the life and cha- 
racter of Sir Francis Englefylde, Knt., privy counsel- 
lor to Queen Mary, v\ho retired into Spain to escape 
from the persecutions of Elizabeth, and died in an 
exile which he shared with many of his most eminent 
countrymen. He also belonged to our neighbour- 
hood ; the family of Englefield, now extinct, being the 
ancient possessors of VVhiteknighls. The Catholic 
gentleman, however, of our own day, whom Belford 
has the greatest cause to rank amongst its benefactors, 
is our neighbour — 1 will venture to say our friend — 
Mr. Wheble,a man eminently charitable, liberal, and 
enlightened, whose zeal for his own church, whilst it 
does not impede the exercise of the widest and most 
diffusive benevolence towards the professors of other 
forms of faith", has induced him to purchase all that 
could be purchased of the ruins of the great abbey, 
and to rescue the little that was still iindesecrated by 
the prison, the school, and the wharf Of these fine 
remains of the splendour and the piety of our ances- 
tors, the beautiful arch and the site of the abbey- 
church are fortunately amongst the portions thus pre- 
served from baser uses. It is impossible not to sym- 
pathize strongly with the feeling which dictated this 
purchase, and equally impossible not to lament, if only 
as a matter of taste, that there was no such guardian 
hand fifty years ago, to prevent the erection of the 
county jail, and the subsequent intro<luction of quays 
and national schools amongst some of the most exten- 
sive and finely situated monastic ruins in England, 
now irreparably contaminated by objects the most 
unsightly, and associations the most painfui and de- 
grading. 



346 



BELFORD REGIS. 



ever, apprehended, and obliged to give an ac- 
count of themselves ; and on one of these, a 
rag-man, called James Wilson, something like 
suspicion was at last fixed. The sword with 
which the murder was committed, an old regi- 
mental sword, with the mark and numher of 
the regiment ground out, had, as I have said 
before, a broken hilt; and round this hilt was 
wound a long strip of printed calico, of a very 
remarkable pattern, which a grocer's wife in 
Belford, attracted by the strange curiosity 
with which vulgar persons pursue such sights, 
to go and look at it as it lay exposed for re- 
cognition on a table in the Town Hall, remem- 
bered to have seen in tlie shape of a gown on the 
back of a girl who had lived with her a twelve- 
month before; and the girl, on being sought 
out in a neighbouring village, deposed readily 
to having sold the gown, several weeks back, 
to the rag-man in question. The measure of 
the shoes also tilted ; but they unluckily were 
of a most common shape and size. Wilson 
brought a man from the paper-mill, to prove 
that the entire gown in question had been car- 
ried there by him, with other rags, about a 
month before; and called other witnesses, who 
made out a complete alibi on the night in 
question ; so that the magistrates, although 
strongly prejudiced against him, from coun- 
tenance and manner, — the down look and the 
daring audacity with which nature, or rather 
evil habit, often stamps the ruffian, — were, 
after several examinations, on the point of dis- 
charging him, when young Louis, who had 
attended the whole inqui'y with an intelli- 
gence and an intensity of interest which, boy 
as he was, had won for him the privilege of 
being admitted even to the private examina- 
tions of the magistrates, and whose ill opinion 
of Wilson had increased every hour, he him- 
self hardly knew why, suddenly exclaimed, 
"Stop until I bring a witness!" and darted 
out of the room. 

During the interval of his absence, — for 
such was the power of the boy's intense feel- 
ing and evident intelligence, that the magis- 
trates did stop for him, — one of the police- 
officers happened to observe how tightly the 
prisoner grasped his hat. " Is it mere anger?" 
thought he within himself; "or is it agita- 
tion ] or can they have been such fools as not 
to search the lining"?" — " Let me look at that 
hat of yours, Wilson," said he aloud. 

" It has been searched," replied Wilson, 
still holding it. " What do you want with 
tiie haf?" 

" I want to see the lining." 

"There is no lining," replied the prisoner, 
grasping it still tighter. 

" Let me look at it, nevertheless. Take it 
from him," rejoined the officer. "All, ha! 
here is a little ragged bit of lining, though, 
sticking pretty fast too; for as loose and as 
careless as it looks, — a fine, cunning, hiding- 
place ! Give me a knife — a penknife !" said 



the myrmidon of justice, retiring with his 
knife and the hat to the window, followed by 
the eager looks of the prisoner, whose atten- 
tion, however, was immediately called to a 
nearer danger, by the return of Louis, with 
little Bijou in his arms. The poor dog flew 
at him instantly, barking, growling, quivering, 
almost shrieking with fury, bit his heels and 
his legs, and was with dilliculty dragged from 
him, so strong had passion made the faithful 
creature. 

" Look !" said Louis. " I brought him 
from his master's grave to bear witness against 
his murderer. " Look !" 

"Their worships will hardly commit me 
on the evidence of a dog," observed Wilson, 
recovering himself. 

" But see here," rejoined the police-officer, 
producing two dirty bits of paper, most curi- 
ously folded, from the old hat. " Here are the 
two Chardley notes — the 10/. notes — sigjned 
David Williams, Nos, 1035 and 662. What 
do you say to that evidence 1 You and the 
little dog are right, my good boy : this is the 
murderer, sure enough. There can be no 
doubt about committing him now." 

It is hardly necessary to add, that James 
Wilson was committed, or that proof upon 
proof poured in to confirm his guilt and dis- 
credit his witnesses. He died confessing the 
murder ; and Bijou and Louis, somewhat ap- 
peased by- having brought the criminal to 
justice, found comfort in their mutual affection, 
and in a lender recollection of their dear old 
friend and master. 



Note. — Not to go back to the dog of Mon- 
targis, and other well-attested accounts of 
murderers detected by dogs, I can bring a 
living spaniel to corroborate the fact, that 
these faithful and sagacious animals do seek 
assistance for their masters when any evil be- 
fiills them. The story, as told to me by 
Bramble's present mistress, whom I have the 
great pleasure to reckon amongst my friends, 
is as follows : — 

The blacksmith of a small village in Buck- 
inghamshire went blind, and was prevented 
from pursuing his occupation. He found, 
however, a friend in the surgeon of the neigh- 
bourhood, a man of singular kindness and 
benevolence, who employed him to carry out 
medicines, which he was enabled to do by the 
aid of a dog and a chain. But old John was 
a severe master, and of his dogs many died, 
and many ran away. At last, he had the good 
fortune to light upon our friend Bramble, a 
large black-and-white spaniel, of remarkable 
symmetry and beauty, with wavy hair, very 
long ears, feathered legs and a bushy tail, and 
with sajracity and fidelity equal to his beauty. 
Under Bramble's guidance, blind Jolm per- 
formed his journeys in perfect safety ; wher- 
ever the poor dog had been once, he was sure 



THE TAMBOURINE, 



347 



to know his way again ; and he appeared to 
discover, as if by instinct, to what place his 
master wished to go. One point of his con- 
duct was peculiarly striking. He constantly 
accompanied his master to church, and lay 
there perfectly quiet during the whole service. 
For three years that he formed regularly one 
of the congregation, he was never known to 
move or to make the slightest noise. 

One bitter night old John had been on a 
journey to Woburn, and not returning at his 
usual hour, the relations with whom he lived 
went to bed, as it was not uncommon for the 
blind man, when engaged on a longer expedi- 
tion than common, to sleep from home. The 
cottage was accordingly shut up, and the in- 
habitants, tired with labour, went to bed and 
slept soundly. The people at a neighbouring 
cottage, however, fancied that they heard, 
during the long winter night, repeated bowl- 
ings as of a dog in distress ; and when they 
rose in the morning, the first thing they 
heard was, that old John lay dead in a ditch 
not far from his own door. The poor dog 
was found close by the body; and it was as- 
certained by the marks on the path, that he 
had dragged his chain backward and forward 
from the ditch to the cottage, in the vain hope 
of procuring such assistance as might possibly 
have saved his master. 

Luckily for Bramble, the benevolent sur- 
geon, always his very good friend, was called 
in to examine if any spark of life remained 
in the body ; and he having ascertained that 
poor John was fairly dead, told the story of 
the faithful dog to his present excellent mis- 
tress, with whom Bramble Is as happy as the 
day is long. 

It is comfortable to meet with a bit of that 
justice which, because it is so rare, people 
call poetical, in real actual life; and I verily 
believe that in this case Bramble's felicity is 
quite equal to his merits, high as they nn- 
doubtedly are. The only drawback that I 
have ever heard hinted at, is a tendency on 
his part to grow over-fat; a misfortune which 
doubtless results from his present good feed, 
coming after a long course of starvation. 

Now that I am telling these stories of dogs, 
I cannot resist the temptation of recording one 
short anecdote of my pet spaniel Dash, a mag- 
nificent animal, of whose beauty I have spoken 
elsewhere, and who really does all but speak 
himself 

Every May 1 go to the Sil Chester woods, 
to gather wild lilies of the valley. Last 
year the numbers were, from some cause or 
other, greatly diminished : the roots, it is 
true, were there, but so scattered over the 
beautiful terraces of that unrivalled amphi- 
theatre of woods, and the blossorns so rare, 
that in the space of several acres, thinly co- 
vered with the plants and their finely-lined 
transparent green leaves, it was difficult to 
procure half-a-dozen of those delicate flower- 



stalks hung with snowy bells, and amidst the 
shifting lights and shadows of the coppice, 
where the sunbeams seemed to dance through 
the branches, still more difficult to discover 
the few that there were. I went searching 
drearily through the wood, a little weary of 
seeking and not finding, when Dash, who had 
been on his own devices after pheasants and 
hares, returning to me, tired with his sort of 
sport, began to observe mine ; and at once 
discerning my object and my perplexity, went 
gravely about the coppice, lily hunting ; find- 
ing them far more quickly than I did, stopping, 
wagging his tail, and looking round at me by 
the side of every flower, until I came and 
gathered it ; and then, as soon as I had se- 
cured one, pursuing his search after another, 
and continuing to do so without the slightest 
intermission until it was time to go home. I 
am half afraid to tell this story, although it is as 
true as that there are lilies in Silchester wood ; 
and the anecdote of Cowper's dog Beau and 
the water-lily is somewhat of a case in point. 
Whether Dash found the Hewers by scent or 
by sight, I cannot tell : probably by the latter. 



THE TAMBOURINE. 

A CHEESE-FAIR ADVENTURE. 

EvERV body likes a fair. Some people, 
indeed, especially of the order called fine la- 
dies, pretend that they do not. But go to the 
first that occurs in the neighbourhood, and 
there, amongst the thickest of the jostling 
crowd, with staring carters treading upon their 
heels, and grinning farmers' boys rubbing 
against their petticoats, — there, in the very 
middle of the confusion, you shall be sure to 
find them, fine ladies though they be ! They 
still, it is true, cry " How disagreeable !" — 
but there they are. 

Now, the reasons against liking a fair are 
far more plausible than those on the other side : 
the dirt, the wet, the sun, the rain, the wind, 
the noise, the cattle, the crowd, the cheats, 
the pick-pockets, the shows with nothing 
worth seeing, the stalls with nothing worth 
buying, the danger of losing your money, the 
certainty of losing your time, — all these are 
valid causes for dislike; whilst, in defence of 
the fair, there is little more to plead than the 
general life of the scene, the pleasure of look- 
ino- on so many happy faces, the consciousness 
that one da)% at least, in the year, is the pea- 
sant's holiday — and the undeniable fact, that, 
deny it as they may, all English people, even 
the cold fine lady, or the colder fine gentleman, 
do, at the bottom of their hearts, like a fair. 
It is a taste, or a want of taste, that belongs 
to the national temperament, is born with us, 
grows up with us, and will never be got rid 
of, let fashion declaim against it as she may. 



343 



BELFORD REGIS. 



The great fair at Belford liad, however, even 
hicrher pretensions to public favour than a 
deep-rooted old English feelino. It was a 
scene of business as well as of amusement, 
being not only a great market for horses and 
cattle, but one of the principal marts for the 
celebrated cheese of the great dairy counties. 
Factors from the West, and dealers from Lon- 
don, arrived days before the actual fair-day; 
and wagon after wagon, laden with the round, 
hard, heavy merchandise, rumbled slowly into 
the Forhury, where the great space before the 
school-house, the whole of the boys' play- 
ground, was fairly covered with stacks of 
Cheddar and North Wilts. Fancy the sin- 
gular effect of piles of cheeses, several feet 
high, extending over a whole large cricket- 
ground, and divided only by narrow paths lit- 
tered with straw, amongst which wandered 
the busy chapmen, offering a taste of their 
wares to their cautious customers, the country 
shop-keepers, (who poured in from every vil- 
lage within twenty miles,) and the thrifty 
housewives of the town, who, bewildered by 
the infinite number of samples, which, to an 
uneducated palate, seemed all alike, chose, at 
last, almost at random! Fancy the effect of 
this remarkable scene, surrounded by cattle, 
horses, shows, and people, the usual moving 
picture of a fair; tlie fine Gothic church of 
St. Nicholas on one side; the old arch of the 
abbey, and the abrupt eminence called Forhu- 
ry Hill, crowned by a grand clump of trees, 
on the other; the Mall, with its row of old 
limes, and its handsome houses, behind ; and, 
in front, the great river flowing slowly through 
green meadows, and backed by the iiigh ridge 
of Oxfordshire hills; — imagine this brilliant 
panorama, and you will never wonder that the 
most delicate ladies braved the powerful fumes 
of the cheese — an odour so intense that it 
even penetrated the walls and windows of 
the school-house — to contemplate the scene. 
When lighted up at night, it was, perhaps, 
still more fantastic and attractive, particularly 
before the Zoological gardens had afforded a 
home to the travelling wild beasts, whose 
roars and bowlings at feeding-time used to 
mingle so grotesquely with the drums, trum- 
pets, and fiddles, of the dramatic and eques- 
trian exhibitions, and the laugh, and shout, 
and song, of the merry visiters. 

A most picturesque scene, of a truth, was 
the Belford cheese-fair; and not always un- 
profitable : at least, I happen to know one in- 
stance, where, instead of^ having his pocket 
picked by the light-fingered gentry, whom 
mobs of all sorts are sure to collect, an honest 
person of my acquaintance was lucky enough 
to come by his own again, and recover in that 
unexpected place a piece of property of which 
he had been previously defrauded. 

The case was as follows : — 

The male part of our little establishment 
consists not of one man-servant, as is usual 



with persons of small fortune and some gen- 
tility, who keep, like that other poor and gen- 
teel personage, yclept Don Quixote a horse 
and a brace of greyhounds, (to say nothing of 
my own pony phaeton and my dog Dash,) but 
of two boys — the one a perfect pattern of a 
lad of fifteen or thereabout, the steadiest, 
quietest, and most serviceable youth that ever 
bore the steady name of John ; the other, an 
urchin called Ben, some two years younger, a 
stunted dwarf, or rather a male fiiiry — Puck, 
or Robin Goodfellow, for instance — full of 
life and glee, and good-humour, and innocent 
mischief — a tricksy spirit, difficult to manage, 
but kindly withal, and useful after his own 
fashion, though occasionally betrayed into 
mistakes by over-shrewdness, just as other 
boys blunder from stupidity. Instead of con- 
veying a message word for word as delivered, 
according to the laudable practice of the errand 
gods and goddesses, the Mercurys and Irises 
in Homer's immortal poems,* master Ben 
hath a trick of thinking for his master, and 
clogging his original missive with certain 
amendments and additional clauses hatched 
in his own fertile brain. 

Occasionally, also, he is rather super-subtle 
in his rigid care of his master's interest, and 
exercises an over-scrupulous watchfulness in 
cases where less caution would be more 
agreeable. At this very last fair, for instance, 
we had a horse to sell, which was confided to 
a neighbouring farmer to dispose of, with the 
usual charges against being overreached in 
his bargain, or defrauded of the money when 
sold. "I'll see to that," responded Ben, 
taking the words out of the mouth of the 
slow, civil farmer Giles, — " I '11 see to that ; 
I 'm to ride the mare, and nobody shall get 
her from me without the money." OiT they 
set accordingly, and the horse, really a fine 
animal, was speedily sold to a neighbouring 
baronet, a man of large estate in the county, 
who sent his compliments to my father, and 
that he would call and settle for him in a day 
or two. This message perfectly satisfied our 
chapman the farmer, but would, by no means, 
do for Ben, who insisted on receiving the 
money before delivering the steed : and after 
being paid by a check on a county banker, 
actually rode to the bank to make sure of the 
cash before he would give up his charge, 
either to the amazed Sir Robert or his won- 
dering groom. " I suppose, Ben, you did 
not know Sir Robert]" inquired his master, 
rather scandalized, when Ben, finding him 
out in the fair, handed him the money tri- 
umphantly, and told his story. " Why, sir," 
rejoined Ben, " I knew him as well as I know 



*" The schoolmaster is abroad !" If ever he arrive 
at the point of leaching (J reek to the future inmates 
of the kitchen, the siable, and the servants' hall, 
which reallv seems not unlikely, [ hope he will direct 
their particular attention to those parts of the Iliad 
and Odyssey. 



THE TAMBOURINE, 



349 



you; bat sjreat people's money is sometimes 
as hard to get as poor ones'; besides, this Sir 
Robert is a prodigal chap, dresses as smart 
and talks as line as his valet — 'twas best to 
secure the money if he were ten times over a 
baronet. You can tell him, thoug^h, that I did 
not know him, if you like, sir, the next time 
you meet." And the white fib was told, ac- 
cordinofly, and the affront happily got over. 

This fact, however illustrative of Master 
Ben's general character, has nothing to do 
with our present story, though, as the denoue- 
ment of the tambourine adventure took place 
on the same day, the two legends may be con- 
sidered as in some small degree connected. 

Amongst Ben's other peculiarities was a 
strong faculty of imitation, which he possess- 
ed in common with monkeys, magpies, and 
other clever and mischievous animals, but 
which, in his particular case, applied as it 
generally was to copying so correct a model 
as John, served as a sort of counterpoise to 
his more volatile propensities, something like 
the ballast to the ship, or the balance-wheel 
to the machinery. The point to which this 
was carried was really ludicrous. If you saw 
John in the garden carrying a spade, you were 
pretty sure to see Ben following him with a 
rake. When John watered my geraniums 
after the common fashion of pouring water 
into the pots, Ben kept close behind him, 
with a smaller implement, pouring the re- 
freshing element into the pans. Whilst John 
washed one wheel of mj^ pony phaeton, Ben 
was, at the self-same moment, washing an- 
other. Were a pair of shoes sent to be black- 
ed, so sure as John assumed the brush to 
polish the right shoe, Ben took possession of 
the left. He cleaned the forks to John's 
knives ; and if a coat were to be beaten, you 
were certain to hear the two boys thumping 
away at once, on different sides. 

Of course," if this propensity were observa- 
ble in their work, it became infinitely more so 
in their amusements. If John played mar- 
bles, so did Ben ; if cricket, there, in the 
same g^me, on the same side, was Ben. If 
the one went a-nutting, you were sure, in the 
self-same copse, to find his faithful adherent; 
and when John, last winter, bought a fiddle, 
and took to learning music, it followed, as a 
matter of necessity, that Ben should become 
musical also. The only difficulty was the 
choice of an instrument. A fiddle was out of 
the question, not only because the price was 
beyond his finances, and larger than any pro- 
bable sum out of which he could reasonably 
expect to coax those who, wrongfully enough, 
were accused of spoiling him — the young gen- 
tleman being what is vulgarly called spoiled, 
long before he came into their hands — but be- 
cause Master Ben had a very rational and 
well-founded doubt of his own patience, (John, 
besides his real love of the art, being natur- 
ally of a plodding disposition, widely differ- | 

30 



ent from the mercurial temperament of his 
light-hearted and light-headed follower,) and 
desired to obtain some implement of sound, 
(for he was not very particular as to its sweet- 
ness,) on which he might, with all possible 
speed, obtain sufficient skill to accompany his 
comrade in his incessant, and, at first, most 
untunable practice. 

Ben's original trial was an old battered 
flageolet, bestowed upon him by the ostler at 
the Rose, for whom he occasionally performed 
odd jobs, which, at first, was obstinately mute, 
in spite of all his blowings, and when it did 
become vocal, under his strenuous efforts, 
emitted such a series of alternate shrieks, and 
groans, and squeaks, as fairly frightened the 
neighbourhood, and made John stop his ears. 
So Ben found it convenient to put aside that 
instrument, which, in spite of the ostler's pro- 
ducing from it a very respectable imitation of 
" Auld Lang Syne," Ben pronounced to be 
completely good for nothing. 

His next attempt was on a flute, which 
looked sufficiently shapeable and glittering to 
have belonged to a far higher performer, and 
which was presented to him by our excellent 
neighbour, Mr. Murray's smart footman, who 
being often at our house with notes and mes- 
sages from his mistress, had become capti- 
vated, like his betters, by Ben's constant 
gaiety and good-humour — the delightful fes- 
tivity of temper and fearless readiness of wit, 
which rendered the poor country-boy so inde- 
pendent, so happy, and so enviable. Mr. Tho- 
mas presented his superb flute to Ben — and 
Ben tried for three whole days to make it 
utter any sound — but, alas! he tried in vain. 
So he honestly and honourably returned the 
gift to Mr. Thomas, with a declaration " that 
he had no doubt but the flute was an excellent 
flute, only that he had not breath to play on 
it; he was afraid of his lungs." Ben afraid 
of his lungs ! whose voice could be heard, of a 
windy day, from one end of the village street 
to the other — ay, to the very hill-top, rising 
over all the din of pigs, geese, children, car- 
riages, horses, and cows ! Ben in want of 
breath ! Ben ! whose tongue during the whole 
four-and-twenty hours, was never still for a 
moment, except when he was asleep, and who 
even stood suspected of talking in his dreams ! 
Ben in want of breath ! However, he got out 
of the scrape, by observing, that it was only 
common civility to his friend, Mr. Thomas, to 
lay the fault on himself rather than on the 
flute, which, as Ben sagaciously, and, I think, 
truly observed, was like the razors of the 
story, " made for sale and not for use." 

The next experiment was more success- 
ful. 

It so happened that a party of gipsies had 
pitched their tent and tethered their donkeys 
in Kibes-lane, and fowls were disappearing 
from the henroost, and linen vanishing from 
the clothesline, as is usual where an encamp- 



350 



BELFORD REGIS. 



ment of that picturesque* but slippery order 
of vagabonds takes place. The party in ques- 
tion consisted as usual of tall, lean, suspicious- 
looking men, an aged sibyl or two of fortune- 
telling aspect, two or three younger women 
with infants at their backs, and children of all 
ages and sizes, from fifteen downwards. One 
lad, apparently about our hero's age, but con- 
siderably larger, had struck up an acquaint- 
ance with Ben, who used to pass that way to 
fetch a dole of milk from our kind neighbours 
the Murrays, and usually took his master's 
greyhounds with him for company : and had 
made sufficient advances towards familiarity 
to challenge him to a coursing expedition, 
promising that their curs should find hares, 
provided the greyhounds would catch them ; 
and even endeavouring to pique him on the 
point of honour (for Ben was obviously proud 
of his beautiful and high-bred dogs,) by in- 
sinuating that the game might be more easily 
found than caught. Ben, however, too con- 
versant with the game-laws to fall into the 
snare, laughed at the gipsy-boy, and passed 
quietly on his way. 

The next day, Dick (for such was the name 
of his new acquaintance) made an attack upon 
Ben, after a different fashion, and with a more 
favourable result. 

Perched on a knoll, under a fine clump of 
oaks, at a turning of the lane, stood the gipsy- 
boy, beating the march in Bluebeard, v^'ith the 
most approved flourishes, on a tambourine of 
the largest size. Ben was enchanted. He 
loitered to listen, stopped to admire, proceeded 
to question Dick as to the ownership of the 
instrument, and on finding that this splendid 
implement of noise was the lad's own proper- 
ty, and to be sold to the best bidder, com- 
menced a chaffering and bargaining, which in 
its various modifications of beating down on 
one side, and crying up on the other, and pre- 
tended indifference on both, lasted five days 
and a half, and finally became the happy pos- 
sessor of the tambourine for the sum of four 
shillings — half a guinea having been the price 
originally demanded. 

Who now so triumphant as Ben ! The 
tambourine (though greatly the worse for 
wear) was still a most efficient promoter of 

* Besides their eminent picturesqiieness, there is a 
poetical feeling about these wandering tribes, that 
can hardly fail to interest. The following anecdote, 
illustrative of this fact, is new to me, and may be so 
to my readers: — One fine spring morning, a friend of 
mine saw a young gipsy-girl jumjiiiig and clapping 
her hands, and shouting to an elderly female, " 1 have 
done itl I have done it!" — "Done what ?" inquired 
my friend. — "Set my foot on nine daisies at once, 
ma'am," was the reply ; and then she and an elder 
one began chanting a song, the burden of which was, 
as near as the audiiress could recollect, as follows: 
" Summer is come! 

With the daisy bud, 
To gladden our tents 

By the merry green wood ; 
Summer is come ! Summer is come !" 



din, and for four-and-twenty hours (for I really 
believe that during the first night of its be- 
longing to hiin the boy never went to bed) it 
was one incessant tornado of beating, jingling, 
and rumbling — the whole house was deafened 
by the intolerable noise which the enraptured 
tainbourinisl was pleased to call music. At 
the end of that time the parchment (already 
pretty well worn) fairly cracked, as well it 
might, under such unmerciful pommelling, 
and a new head, as Ben called it, became ne- 
cessary. It had been warranted to wear for 
six months, under pain of forfeiting eighteen 
pence by the former possessor; but on repair- 
ing to Kibes-lane, Dick and his whole tribe, 
tents, donkeys, and curs, had disappeared, and 
the evil was so far without remedy. The 
purchaser had exhausted his funds; every 
body was too much out of humour with the 
noise to think of contributing money to pro- 
mote its renewal, and any other boy would 
have despaired. 

But Ben was a lad of resource. Amongst 
his various friends and patrons, he numbered 
the groom of an eminent solicitor in Belford, 
to whom he stated his case, begging him to 
procure for him some reversionary parchment, 
stained, or blotted, or discoloured, or what not 
— any thing would do, so that it were whole ; 
and the groom was interested, and stated the 
case to the head clerk ; and the clerk was 
amused, and conveyed the petition to his inas- 
ter; and the master laughed, and sent Ben 
forthwith a cancelled deed ; and the tambou- 
rine was mended ; and for another four and 
twenty hours we were stunned. 

At the end of that time, having laid down 
the instrument from pure weariness, his left 
arm being stiff from holding and tossing, and 
his right knuckles raw froin thumping, Ben 
deposited his beloved treasure in a nook which 
he had especially prepared for it in the stable ; 
and on going to pay it a visit the next morn- 
ing, the dear tambourine was gone — vanished 
— stolen — lost, as we all thought, for ever! 
and poor Ben was so grieved at the loss of his 
plaything, that, nuisance as the din had been, 
we could not help being sorry too, and had 
actually commissioned him to look out for 
another second-hand instrument, and promised 
to advance the purchase-money, when the as- 
pect of affairs was suddenly changed by the 
adventure before alluded to, which occurred 
at the great cheese-fair at Belford. 

After receiving the inoney from Sir Robert 
— or rather, after getting his check cashed at 
the bank, and delivering the horse to the 
groom, as 1 have before stated, — Ben having 
transferred the notes to his master, and re- 
ceived half-a-crown to purchase a fairing, pro- 
ceeded to solace himself by taking a leisurely 
view of the different shows, and having 
laughed at Punch, stared at the wild-beasts, 
and admired the horsemanship, was about to 
enter a booth, to enjoy the delight oi a three- 



MRS. MOLLIS, THE FRUITERER. 



351 



penny play, when, on a platform in front, 
where the characters, in full costume, were 
exhibiting themselves to attract an audience 
to the entertainment about to commence, he 
was struck by the apparition of a black boy 
in a turban, flourishinsr a tambourine, and in 
spite of the change of colour in the player, 
and a good deal of new g;ilding on the instru- 
ment, was instantly convinced that he beheld 
his quondam friend Dick the gipsy, and his 
own beloved tambourine ! 

Ben was by no means a person to suffer 
such a discovery to pass unimproved ; he 
clambered on the railing that surrounded the 
booth, leaped on the platform, seized at one 
clutch the instrument and the performer, and 
in spite of the resistance offered by a gentle- 
man in a helmet and spangles, a most Ama- 
zonian lady in a robe and diadem, and a per- 
sonage, sex unknown, in a pair of silver wings, 
gold trousers, and a Brutus wig, he succeeded 
in mastering the soi-disant negro-boy, and 
raising such a clamour as brought to his as- 
sistance a troop of constables and other offi- 
cials, and half the mob of the fair. 

Ben soon made known his grievance. 
"He's no blackamoor!" shouted the lad, 
dexterously cleaning with a wetted finger 
part of the cheek of the simulated African, 
and discovering the tanned brown skin under- 
neath. "He's a thief and a gipsy! And 
this is my tambourine! I can prove the fact!" 
roared Ben. " I can swear to the parchment, 
and so can lawyer Lyons," added Ben (dis- 
playing the mutilated but clerk-like writing, 
by which Simon Lackland, Esq., assigned 
over to Daniel Holdfast, Gent, the manor and 
demesnes, woods and fisheries, parklands and 
pightles, of Flyaway, in consideration, and so 
forth.) "I can swear to my tambourine, and 
so can my master, and so can the_ lawyer ! 
Take us to the bench ! Carry us before the 
Mayor ! I can swear to the tambourine, and 
the thief who is playing it, who is no more a 
negro than I am !'' pursued Ben, sweeping off 
another streak of the burnt cork from the sun- 
burnt face of the luckless Dick. " I 'm Doc- 
tor M's. boy," bawled Ben, "and he'll see 
me righted, and the tambourine 's mine, and 
I'll have it!" 

And have it he did ; for the lawyer and his 
master both happened to be within hearing, 
and bore satisfactory testimony to his veracity ; 
and the mob, who love to administer summary 
justice, laid hold of the culprit, whom Ben, 
having recovered his property, was willing to 
let off scot-free, and amused themselves with 
very literally washing the blackamoor white 
by means of a sound ducking in the nearest 
horse-pond. And the tambourine was brought 
home in triumph ; and we are as much stunned 
as ever 



MRS. HOLLIS, THE FRUITERER. 

At the corner of St. Stephen's church- 
yard, forming a sort of angle at the meeting 
of four roads, stands a small shop, the front 
abutting on the open space caused by the 
crossing of the streets, one side looking into 
the Butts, the other into the church-yard, and 
one end only connected with other houses; a 
circumstance which, joined to the three open 
sides being, so to say, glazed — literally com- 
posed of shop-windows, gives an agreeable 
singularity to the little dwelling of our fruit- 
erer. By day it looks something like a green- 
house, or rather like the last of a row of stove- 
houses ; and the resemblance is increased by 
the contents of the shop-windows, consisting 
of large piled-up plates of every fruit in sea- 
son, interspersed with certain pots of plants 
which, in that kind of atmosjjhere, never blow, 
— outlandish plants, names unknown, whose 
green, fleshy, regular leaves, have a sort of 
fruity-look with them, seem as if intended to 
be eaten, and assort wonderfully well with 
the shaddocks, dates, cocoa-nuts, pine-apples, 
and other rare 'and foreign fruits, amongst 
which they stand. By night it has the air of 
a Chinese lantern, all light and colour; and 
whether by night or by day, during full eight 
months of the year, that ever-open door sends 
forth the odours of countless chests of oranges, 
with which, above all other productions of the 
earth, the little shop is filled, and which comes 
steaming across the pavement like a perfume. 
I have an exceeding affection for oranges 
and the smell of oranges in every shape : the 
leaf, the flower, the whole flowering tree, with 
its exquisite elegance,* its rare union of rich- 
ness and delicacy, and its aristocratic scarcity 
and unv^illingness to blossom, or even to grow 
in this climate, without light and heat, and 
shelter and air, and all the appliances which 
its swe.etness and beauty so well deserve. I 
even love that half-evergreen, flexible honey- 



*So elegant is it, that the very association connect- 
ed with it will sometimes confer a grace not its own. 
For instance, an indifferent play called Elvira, taken 
from the Spanish some two hundred years ago by 
George Digby, Earl of Bristol, is really made tasteful 
by the scene being laid partly amongst the orange- 
groves of a Spanish garden, and partly in the "per- 
fuming room," a hall, or laboratory, where the flowers 
were distilled, and in which the mistress sets one of 
her attendants, a lady in disguise, the pretty task of 
gathering and changing the flowers. No one can 
conceive the effect of this tasteful fixing of the scene, 
in heightening and ennobling the female characters. 
Our own grc^n-houses were originally b\iilt for ten- 
der evergreens, chiefly oranges and myrtles ; and an 
orangery is still one of the rarest and most elegant 
appurtenances to a great house. Some of my hap- 
piest days were spent in that belonging to Belford 
Manor-house, looking out from amid orange-trees, 
second only to those at Hampton Court, on gay 
flowers, green trees, and a bright river, in the sunny 
month of June, and enjoying society worthy of the 
scenery. 



352 



BELFORD REGIS. 



suckle, with the long wreaths of flowers, 
which does condescend to spread and flourish, 
and even to blow for half the year, all the 
better, because its fragrtince approaches nearer 
to that of the orang-e blossom than any other 
that I know : and the golden fruit with its 
golden rind, I have loved both for the scent 
and the taste from the day when a tottering 
child, laughinor and reaching after the prize 
which I had scarcely words enough to ask for, 
it was doled out to me in quarters, through 
the time when, a little older, I was promoted 
to the possession of half an orange to my own 
share, and that still prouder hour when I at- 
tained the object of my ambition, and had a 
whole orange to do what I liked with, up to 
this very now, when, if oranges were still 
things to sigh for, I have only to send to Mrs. 
Hollis's shop, and receive in return for one 
shilling, lawful money of Great Britain, more 
of the golden fruit than I know what to do 
with. Every body has gone through this 
chapter of the growth and vanity of human 
wishes — has longed for the fruit, not only for 
its own sweetness, but as a mark of property 
and power which vanish when possessed — 
great to the child, to the woman nothing. 
But I still love oranges better and care for 
them more than grown people usually do, and 
above all things I like the smell ; the rather, 
perhaps, that it puts me in mind of the days 
when, at school in London, I used to go to the 
play so often, and always found the house 
scented with the quantity of orange-peel, in 
the pit, so that to this hour that particular 
fragrance brings John Kemble to my recollec- 
tion. I certainly like it the better on that ac- 
count, and as certainly, although few jiersons 
can be less like the great tragedian — glorious 
John! — as certainly I like it none the worse 
for recalling to my mind, my friend Mrs. Hol- 
lis.* 

As long as I can recollect, Mrs.Hollis has 
been the inhabitant of this grand depot of 
choice fruits, the inmate not so much of the 
house as the shop. I never saw her out of 
that well-glazed apartment, or heard of any 
one that did, nor did I ever see the shop with- 
out her. She was as much a fixture there as 
one of her flovverk^ss plants, and seemed as 
little subject to change or decay in her own 
person. From seven o'clock, when it was 
opened, till nine, when the shutters were 
closed, there she sat in one place, from whence 
she seldom stirred, a chair behind the right- 
hand counter, where she could conveniently 
reach her most tempting merchandise, and 
hold discourse with her friends and customers, 
(terms which in her case were nearly synony- 
mous,) even although they advanced no nearer 



*My friend, Mr. Jerrold, has added still another 
theatrical association by his inimitable creation of 
Orange Moll — a pleasant extravagance worthy of 
Middleton. 



towards the sanctum than the step at the door. 
There she has presided, the very priestess of 
that temple of Pomona, for more years than I 
can well reckon, — from her youth (if ever she 
were young,) to now, when, although far from 
looking so, she must, I suppose, according to 
the register, be accounted old. What can 
have preserved her in this vigorous freshness, 
unless it be the aroma of the oranges, nobody 
can tell. There she sits, a tall, stout, square, 
upright figure, surmounted by a pleasant come- 
ly face, eyes as black as a sloe, cheeks as 
round as an apple, and a complexion as ruddy 
as a peach, as fine a specimen of a healthy, 
hearty English tradeswoman, the feminine of 
"John Bull," as one would desire to see on a 
summer day. 

One circumstance which has probably con- 
tributed not a little to that want of change in 
her appearance, which makes people who 
have been away from Belford for twenty years 
or more declare, that every thing was altered 
except Mrs. HoUis, but that she and her shop 
were as if they had left it only yesterday, is 
undoubtedly her singular adherence to one 
style of dress — a style which in her youth 
must have had the effect of making her look 
old, but which now, at a more advanced period 
of life, suits her exactly. Her costume is 
very neat, and, as it never can have been at 
any time fashionable, has the great advantage 
of never looking old-fashioned. Fancy a dark 
gown, the sleeves reaching just below the 
elbow, cotton in suinmer, stuff or merino in 
winter, with dark mittens to ineet the sleeves ; 
a white double muslin handkerchief outside of 
the gown, and a handsome shawl over that, 
pinned so as not to meet in front; a white 
apron, a muslin cap with a highish formal 
crown, a plaited muslin border trimmed with 
narrow edging, (I dare say she never wore 
such a gewgaw as a bit of net in her life,) a 
plaited chinnum to match fastened to the cap 
at either ear, and a bit of sober-coloured satin 
riband pinned round without bow or any other 
accompaniment; imagine all this delicately 
neat and clean, and you will have some notion 
of Mrs. Hollis. There is a spice of coquetry 
in this costume — at least, there would be, if 
adopted with malice prepense, it is so becom- 
ing. But as she is, probably, wholly uncon- 
scious of its peculiar allurement, she has the 
advantage without the sin, the charm " with- 
out the illness should attend it." 

Nobody that knew Mrs. Hollis would sus- 
pect her of coquetry, or of any thing implying 
design or contrivance of any sort. She was a 
thoroughly plain and simple-minded woman, 
honest and open in word and deed, with an 
uncompromising freedom of speech, and a di- 
rectness and singleness of purpose, which an- 
swer better, even as regards worldly pros- 
perity, than the cunning or the cautious would 
allow themselves to believe. There was not 
a bolder talker in all Belford than Mrs. Hollis, 



MRS. HOLLIS, THE FRUITERER. 



353 



who saw iti the course of the day people of all 
ranks, from my lord in his coronet carria<je, to 
the little boys who came for ha'portlis or 
penn'orths of inferior fruits (judiciously pre- 
ferring- the liberality and civility of a great 
sho]) to the cheatery and insolence of the infe- 
rior chapwoman, who makes money by the 
poor urchins, and snubs them all the while :) 
from the county member's wife to the milk- 
woman's daughter, every body dealt with 
Mrs. HoUis, and with all of them did Mrs. 
Hollis chat with a mixture of good-humour 
and good spirits, of perfect ease and perfect 
respectfulness, which made her one of the 
most popular personages in the town. As a 
gossip she was incomparable. She knew 
every body and every thing, and every thing 
about every body ; her reports, like her plums, 
had the bloom on them, and she would as 
much have scorned to palm upon you an old 
piece of scandal as to send you strawberries 
that had been two days gathered. Moreover, 
considering the vast quantity of chit-chat of 
which she was the channel, (for it was com- 
puted that the whole gossip of Belford passed 
through her shop once in four-and-twenty 
hours, like the blood through the heart,) it 
was really astonishing how authentic, on the 
whole, her intelligence was ; mistakes and 
mis-statements of course there were, and a 
plentiful quantity of exaggeration ; but of ac- 
tual falsehood there was comparatively little, 
and of truth, or of what approached to truth, 
positively much. If one told a piece of news 
out of Mrs. Hollis's shop, it was almost an 
even wager that it was substantially correct. 
And of what other gossip-shop can one say so 
much ? 

Chit-chat, however, eminently as she ex- 
celled in it, was not the sort of discourse 
which our good fruiterer preferred. Her taste 
lay in higher topics. She was a keen politi- 
cian, a zealous partisan, a red-hot reformer, 
and to declaim against taxes and tories, and 
poor-rates and ministers — subjects which she 
handled as familiarly as her pippins — was the 
favourite pastime of our fruiterer. Friend or 
foe made little difference with this free-spokjen 
lady, except that perhaps she preferred the 
piquancy of a good-humoured skirmish with a 
political adversary to the flatness of an agree- 
ment with a political ally ; and it is saying not 
a little for tory good-humour, that her antago- 
nists listened and laughed, and bought her 
grapes and oranges just as quietly after a dia- 
tribe of her fashion as before. I rather think 
that they liked her oratory better than the 
whigs did — it amused them.* 



* As an illustration both of her passion for politics, 
and oi the way in which one is oneself possessed by 
the subject that happens to be the point of interest at 
the moment, I cannot help relating an equivoque 
which occurred between Mrs. Hollis and myself. I 
had been to London on theatrical business, and called 
at the shop a day or two after my return, and ourhttle 



A contested election turns her and her shoj) 
topsy-turvy. One wonders how she lives 
through the excitement, and how she contrives 
to obtain and exhibit the state of the poll al- 
most as it seems before the candidates them- 
selves can know the nuinbers. It even puts 
her sober-suited attire out of countenance. 
Green and orange being the colours of her 
party, she puts on two cockades of that livery, 
which suit as ill with her costume as they 
would with that of a Quaker ; she hoists a gay 
flag at her door, and sticks her shop all over 
with oranges and laurel-leaves, so that it vies 
in decoration with the member's chair; and in 
return for this devotion, the band at an elec- 
tion time, make a halt of unusual duration be- 
fore her door, (to the great inconvenience of 
the innumerable stage-coaches and other ve- 
hicles which pass that well-frequented corner, 
which by the way is the high road to Lon- 
don,) and the mob, especially that part of it 
which consists of little boys and girls, with 
an eye to a dole of nuts or cherries, bestow 
upon her almost as many cheers as they would 
inflict upon the candidate himself. 

At these tiines, Mr. Hollis (for there was 
such a personage, short and thick, and very 
civil) used to make his appearance in the shop, 
and to show his adhesion to the cause by giv- 
ing a plumper to its champion ; on other occa- 
sions he was seldom visible, having an exten- 
sive market-garden to manage in the suburbs 
of the town, and being for the most part en- 
gaged in trotting to and fro between Mount 
Pleasant and the Church-yard corner, the faith- 
ful reporter of his wife's messages and orders. 
As you might be certain at any given hour to 
find Mrs. Hollis at her post behind the counter 
— for little as she looked like a person who 
lived without eating, she never seemed to re- 
tire for the ordinary purposes of breakfast or 
dinner, and even managed to talk scandal 
without its usual accompaniment of tea — so 
sure were you to see her quiet steady husband 
(one of the best-natured and honestest men in 
the place) on the full trot from the garden to 
the shop, or the shop to the garden, with a 
huge fruit-basket on one arm, and his little 
grand-daughter, Patty, on the other. 

Patty Hollis was the only daughter of our 



marketing being transacted, and civil inquiries as to 
the health of the family made and answered, I was 
going away, when Mrs.IJollis stopped me by asking, 
" how they were getting on at the two great houses 
in London ?" " Badly enough, I am afraid, Mrs. Hol- 
lis," said L "No doubt, ma'am," responded the lady 
of the orange-shop; "but what can be expected from 
such management ?" Just then fresh customers en- 
tered, and i walked off] wondering what Mrs. Hollis 
could have heard of Drury Lane and Covent Garden, 
and their respective mismanagements, and how she 
came to know that 1 had been tossing in those trou- 
bled waters, when all on a sudden it occurred to me, 
that strange as it seemed f()r people to talk to me of 
polities, she must have meant the Houses of Lords and 
Commons. And so she did. 



30* 



2U 



354 



BELFORD REGIS. 



good fruiterers' only son ; and her parents 
iiavinor died in her infancy, she had been reared 
with the tenderness which is usually bestowed 
on the onl}?^ remaining scion of a virtuous and 
happy family in that rank of life. Her trrand- 
father especially idolized her; made her the 
constant companion of his many walks to the 
garden on the side of Mount Pleasant, and in- 
stalled her, before she was twelve years of 
age, leader of the fruit-pickers, and superin- 
tendent of the gardeners: offices in which she 
so conducted herself as to give equal satisfac- 
tion to the governors and the governed, the 
prince and the people. Never was vice-queen 
more popular, or more fortunate, both in her 
subjects and her territory. 

It would have been difficult to find a pret- 
tier piece of ground than this market-garden, 
with its steep slopes and romantic hollows, 
its groves of fruit-trees, its thickets of berry- 
bushes, and its carpets of strawberries. Quite 
shut out from the town by the sudden and pre- 
cipitous rise of the hill, it opened to a charm- 
ing view of the Kennet, winding through green 
meadows, and formed, in itself, with its troop 
of active labourers, men, women, and girls, a 
scene of great animation ; and during the time 
of the pearly pear-blossom, the snowy cherry, 
and the rosy apple-blossom, and, again, in the 
fruit season, (for, next to flowers, fruit is the 
prettiest of all things,) a scene of great beauty. 
There was one barberry-bush, standing by it- 
self, on the top of a knoll of strawberries, 
which was really a picture. 

But by far the most beautiful part of that 
pleasant scene, was the young fruit-gatherer, 
Patty Hollis. Her complexion, a deep rich 
brown, with lips like the fruit of her favourite 
barberry-tree, and cheeks coloured like damask 
roses, suited her occupation. It had a sweet 
sunniness that might have beseemed a vinta- 
ger, and harmonized excellently with the rich 
tints of the cherries and currants with which 
her baskets were so often over-brimmed. She 
had, too, the clear black eye, with its long 
lashes, and the dark and glossy hair, which 
give such brightness to a brown beauty. But 
the real charm of her countenance was its ex- 
pression. The smiles, the dimples — the look 
of sweetness, of innocence, of perfect content, 
which had been delightful to look upon as a 
child, were still more delightful, because so 
much more rare, as she advanced towards wo- 
manhood. They seemed, and they were, the 
result of a character equally charming, frank, 
gentle, affectionate, and gay. 

_ When about seventeen, this youthful hap- 
piness, almost too bright to last, was over- 
clouded by a great misfortune — the death of 
her kind grandfather. Poor Patty's grateful 
heart was almost broken. She had lost one 
who had loved her better than he had loved 
any thing in the world, or all the world put 
together ; and she felt (as every body does feel 
on such an occasion, though with far less cause 



than most of us,) that her own duty and affec- 
tion had never been half what his fondness for 
her deserved, — that she had lost her truest and 
most partial friend, and that she should never 
be happy again. So deep was her affliction, 
that Mrs. Hollis, herself much grieved, was 
obliged to throw aside her own sorrow to 
comfort her. It was no comfort, but seemed 
rather an accession of pain, to find that she 
was what, considering her station, might be 
called an heiress, — that she would be entitled 
to some hundreds on her marriaire or her 
coming of age, and that the bulk of the pro- 
perty (accumulated by honest industry and a 
watchful, but not mean, frugality) was secured 
to her after the death of her grandmother. 

The trustees to the property and executors 
of the will, who were also joined with Mrs. 
Hollis in the guardianship of her grand- 
daughter, were our old friend Stephen Lane, 
his near neighbour and political allj', and 
another intimate acquaintance, who, although 
no politician, was a person of great and de- 
served influence with all those of his own 
rank who had come in contact with his acute- 
ness and probity. 

Andrew Graham* was a Scotch gardener, 
and one of the very best specimens of a class 
which unites, in a remarkable degree, honesty, 
sobriety, shrewdness, and information. An- 
drew had superadded to his northern education, 
and an apprenticeship to a duke's gardener, 
the experience of eight years passed as fore- 
man in one of the great nurseries near Lon- 
don: so that his idiom, if not his accent,")" 
was almost entirely Anglicised ; and when he 
came to Belford to superintend the garden 
and hothouses of a very kind and very intel- 
ligent gentleman, who preferred spending the 

* Of a northern clan, I fancy — not one of those 
Grahams of the " land debateable," to whom I have 
the honour of being distantly related, and of whom 
the Great Minstrel tells, that they stole with a laud- 
able impartiality from lx)lh sides of the Iwrder. Speak- 
ing of the old harper, Albert Grsme, Sir Walter says, 

" Well friended, too, this hardy kin, 
Whoever lost, were sure to win ; 
They sought the beeves that made their broth 
In Scotland and in England b<ith." 

Laij nf the Last Minst.rel. 

tThe accent is not so easily got quit of. A true- 
born Scot rarely loses that mark of his country, let 
him live ever so long on this side of the 'J'weed ; and 
even a Southern sometimes finds it sooner learned 
than unlearned. A gardener of my acquaintance, 
the head man in a neighbouring nursery-ground, 
who spoke as good Scotch as heart could desire, and 
was universally known among the frequenters of the 
garden by the title of the " Scotchman," happened 
not only to have been lx)rn in [lertfurdshire, but 
never to have travelled farther north than that coun- 
tv. lie had worked under a gardener from Aber- 
deen, and had pickeit up the dialect. Some people 
do catch peculiarities of lone. I myself once returned 
from a visit to Northumberland, speaking the Doric 
of Tynedale like a native, and, from love of "the 
north countrio," was really sorry when I lost the 
pretty im(3erfection. 



MRS. HOLLIS, THE FRUITERER. 



3r)5 



superfluities of a large income on horticultural 
pursuits, rather than in showier and less ele- 
gant ways, he brought into the town as long 
a head and as sound a heart as could be found 
in the country. To Mr. Hollis (who had iiim- 
self begun life as a gentleman's gardener, and 
who thoroughly loved his art) his society was 
exceedingly welcome ; and he judgfed, and 
judged rightly, that to no one could he more 
safely confide the important trust of advising 
and protecting two comparatively helpless 
females, than to the two friends whom he had 
chosen. 

Andrew vindicated his good opinion by ad- 
vising Mrs. Hollis to resign the garden (which 
was held on lease of our other good friend, 
Mr. Howard,) dispose of the shop (which 
was her own,) take a small house in the sub- 
urbs, and live on her property ; and he urged 
this the rather as he suspected her foreman of 
paying frequent visits to a certain beer-house, 
lately established in the neighbourhood of 
Mount Pleasant, and bearing the insidious 
sign of "The Jolly Gardener;" and because, 
as he observed, " when an Englishman turned 
of fifty once takes to the national vice of tip- 
pling, you may as well look to raise pine- 
apples from cabbage-stocks, as expect him to 
amend. He'll go to the Jolly Gardener, and 
the rest of the lads will follow him, and the 
garden may take care of itself. Part with 
the whole concern, my good lady, and ye are 
safe — keep it, and ye '11 be cheated." 

Now this was good advice; and it had the 
usual fate of good advice, in '^being instantly 
and somewhat scornfully rejected. Mrs. Hol- 
lis had a high opinion of her forenian, and 
could not and would not live out of her shop ; 
and as even Patty pleaded for the garden, 
though she intimated some suspicion of its 
manager, the whole concern remained in statu 
quo; and Andrew, when he saw the smiles 
return to her lips, and the bloom to her cheeks, 
and found how much her health and happiness 
depended on her spending her days in the 
open air, and in the employments she loved, 
ceased to regret that his counsel had not been 
followed, more especially as the head-man, 
having more than verified his prediction, had 
been discharged, and replaced, according to 
his recommendation, by a young and clever 
labourer in the garden. 

Sooner than Patty had thought it possible, 
her cheerfulness came back to her ; she half 
lived at Mount Pleasant, did all she could to 
assist the new head-man, who, although mere- 
ly a self-taught lad of the neighbourhood, did 
honour to Andrew's discrimination, and was 
beginning to discover (the god of love only 
knows how) that to be, in a small way, an 
heiress was no insupportable misfortune, when 
a vexation arising from that very cause almost 
made her wish herself really the " wild wan- 
dering gipsy" which her poor grandfather had 
delighted to call her. 



The calamity in question was no trifle. \ 
Poor Patty was unfortunate enough to be 
courted by Mr. Samuel Vicars, hair-dresser 
and perfumer, in Bristol-street; and, to add 
to the trial, the suitor was the especial favour- 
ite of her grandmother, and his addresses were 
supported by all her influence and authority. 

Mr. Samuel Vicars was one of those busy- 
bodies who are the pests of a country town. 
To be a gossip is perhaps permitted to the 
craft, as inheritors of those old privileged dis- 
seminators of news and scandal, the almost 
extinct race of barbers ; but to be so tittle-tat- 
tlinrr, so mischief-making, and so malicious 
as Mr. Samuel Vicars, is not allowed to any 
body; and the universal ill-will which such 
a style of conversation indicates is pretty cer- 
tain to be returned in kind. Accordingly, the 
young gentleman had contrived to gather 
around himself as comfortable a mixture of 
contempt and hatred as one would desire to 
see on a summer's day. 

It was a little, pert, dapper personage, as 
slight and flimsy as his white apron or his 
linen jacket, with a face in which all that was 
not curl and whisker was simper and smirk, 
a sharp conceited voice, and a fluency, which 
as it might be accounted a main cause of the 
thousand and one scrapes into which he was 
perpetually getting, was almost as unlucky 
for himself as for his hearers. He buzzed 
about one like a gnat, all noise and sting and 
fmotion, and one wondered, as one does in the 
case of that impertinent insect, how any thing 
so insignificant could be so troublesome. 

Besides the innumerable private quarrels 
into which his genius for "evil-speaking, ly- 
ing, and slandering," could not fail to bring 
him, — quarrels the less easily settled, because 
having a genuine love of litigation, an actual 
passion for the importance and excitement of 
a law-suit, he courted an action for damages, 
in which he could figure as defendant on the 
one hand, and blessed his stars for a horse- 
whipping, in which he shone as plaintiff, on 
the other; besides these private disputes, he 
engaged with the most fiery zeal and the 
fiercest activity in all the public squabbles of 
the place, and being unhappily, as Stephen 
Lane used to observe, of his party, and a par- 
tisan whom it was morally impossible to keep 
quiet, contrived to be a greater thorn in the 
side of our worthy friend than all his oppo- 
nents put together. Woe to the cause which 
he advocated I The plainest case came out 
one mass of confusion from the curious infe- 
licity of his statements, and right seemed 
wrong when seen through the misty medium 
of his astounding and confounding verbiage. 
Stephen's contempt for his adherent's orations 
was pretty much such as a stanch old hound 
might evince, W'hen some young dog, the bab- 
bler of the pack, begins to give tongue; — 
"But, dang it," cried the good butcher, "he 
brings the cause into -contempt too ! It's 



356 



BELFORD REGIS. 



enousfh to make a man sell himself for a 
slave," added the poor patriot, in a paroxysm 
of weariness and indignation, " to hear that 
chap jabber for three hours about freedom. 
And the whole world can't stop him. If he 
would but rat now !" exclaimed the ex-butch- 
er. And, doubtless, Samuel would have rat- 
ted, if any body would have made it worth 
his while; but the other party knew the value 
of such an opponent, and wisely left him in 
the ranks of opposition, to serve their cause 
by speaking against it; so Mr. Samuel Vicars 
continued a Reformer. 

It was this circumstance that first recom- 
mended him to the notice of Mrs. Hollis, who, 
herself a perfectly honest and true-hearted 
woman, took for granted that Samuel was ve- 
racious and single-rninded as herself, believed 
all his puffs of his own speeches, and got 
nearer to thinking him, what he thought him- 
self, a very clever fellow, than any other per- 
son whom he had ever honoured by his ac- 
quaintance. Besides the political sympathy, 
they had one grand tie in a common antipathy. 
A certain Mrs. Deborah Dean, long a green- 
grocer in the Butts, and even then taking 
higher ground than Mrs. Hollis thought at all 
proper, had recently entered into partnership 
with a nursery-man, and had opened a mag- 
nificent store for seeds, plants, fruit, and vege- 
tables, in Queen-street; and, although the in- 
creasing size of Belford, and the crowded po- 
pulation of the neighbourhood, were such a^ 
really demanded another shop, and that at the 
corner of the church-yard continued to have 
even more customers than its mistress could 
well manage, yet she had reigned too long 
over all the fruitage of the town to " bear a 
j sister near the throne ;" and she hated Mrs. 
Deborah (wlio, besides, was a "blue") with 
a hatred truly feminine — hot, angry, and abus- 
ive ; and tlie offending party being, as it hap- 
pened, a mild, civil, unoffending woman, poor 
Mrs. Hollis had had the misfortune to find 
nobody ready to join in speaking ill of her, 
until she encountered Samuel Vicars, who 
poured the whole force of his vituperative 
eloquence on the unfortunate dame. Now, 
Samuel, who had had some pecuniary deal- 
ings with her whilst she lived in his neigh- 
bourhood — certain barterings of cabbages, cel- 
ery, carrots, and French beans, against combs 
and tooth-brushes, and a Parisian front, which 
had led first to a disputed account, and then 
to the catastrophe in which he most delighted, 
a law-suit, — was charmed, on his side, to meet 
with what seldom came in his way, a sympa- 
thizing listener. He called every day to de- 
scant on the dear subject, and feed Mrs. Hol- 
lis's hatred with fresh accounts of her rival's 
insolence and prosperity; and, in the course 
of his daily visits, it occurred to him that she 
was well to do in the world, and that he could 
not do a better tliintr liran to cast the eyes of 
affection on her pretty grand-daughter. 



Samuel's own affairs were exceedingly in 
want of a rich wife. What with running 
after la chose publi que, and neglecting his own 
affairs, — what with the friends that he lost 
and the enemies that he gained by the use of 
that mischievous weapon, his tongue — to say 
nothing of the many law-suits in which he 
was cast, and those scarcely less expensive 
that he won — his concerns were in as much 
disorder as if he had been a lord. A hair- 
dresser's is, at the best, a meagre business, 
especially in a country town, and his had de- 
clined so much, that his one apprentice, an 
idle lad of fourteen, and the three or four 
painted figures, on which his female wigs 
were stuck in the windows, had the large 
showy shop, with its stockof glittering trump- 
ery, pretty much to themselves ; so that 
Samuel began to pay most assiduous court, 
not to his fair intended, — for, pretty girl as 
Patty was, our Narcissus of the curling- 
irons was far too much enamoured of himself 
to dream of falling in love with a pair of 
cherry cheeks, — but to her grandmother; and 
having picked up at the .Tolly Gardener cer- 
tain rumours of Mount Pleasant, which he 
related to his patroness with much of bitter- 
ness and exaggeration, awakened such a tem- 
pest of wrath in her bosona, that she wrote a 
letter to IMr. Howard, giving him notice that 
in six months she should relinquish the gar- 
den, discharged her new foreman on the spot, 
and ordered Patty to prepare to marry the 
hairdresser without let or delay. 

Poor Patty ! her only consolation was in 
her guardians. Her first thought was of An- 
drew, but he was sure to have the evil tidings 
from another quarter; besides, of him there 
could be no doubt; her only fear was of Ste- 
phen Lane. So, as soon as she could escape 
from the Padrona's scolding, and wipe the 
tears from her own bright eyes, she set forth 
for the great shop in the Butts. 

" Well, my rosebud !" said the good butcher, 
kindly chucking his fair ward under the chin ; 
" what 's the news with you 1 Why, you are 
as great a stranger as strawberries at Christ- 
mas ! I thought you had taken root at Mount 
Pleasant, and never meant to set foot in the 
town again." ' 

" Oh, Mr. Lane !" — began poor Patty, and 
then her courage failed her, and she stopped 
suddenly and looked down abashed ; — " Oh ! 
Mr. Lane !" 

"Well, what's the matter ]" inquired her 
kind guardian ; " are you going to be married, 
and come to ask my consent V 

"Oh, Mr. Lane!" again sighed Patty. 

" Out with it, lass ! — never fear !" quoth 
Stephen. 

" Oh, Mr. Lane !" once more cried the dam- 
sel, stopping as if spell-bound, and blushing 
to her fingers' ends. 

" Vv^ell, Patty, if you can't speak to a friend 
that has dandled you in his arms, and your 



MRS. HOLLIS, THE FRUITERER. 



357 



father before you, you'd best send the lad to 
see what he can say for himself. I shan't be 
cruel, I promise you. Though you micrht do 
better in the way of money, I would rather 
look to character. That 's what tells in the 
lonof run, and I like the chap." 

" Oh, Mr. Lane, God forbid !" exclaimed 
Patty ; " my <jrandmother wants me to marry 
Samuel Vicars !" 

" Sam Vicars ! the woman 's mad !" ejacu- 
lated Stephen. 

"She cannot be other than demented," ob- 
served Andrew, who had just entered the 
shop, "for she has discharged William Reid, 
— the steadiest and cleverest lad that ever 
came about a garden, a lad who might be 
taken for a Scotchman, — and wants to marry 
Miss Patty to a loon of a hairdresser." 

" Whom any body would take for a French- 
man," interrupted the butcher; and having 
thus summed up the characters of the two 
rivals in a manner that did honour no less to 
their warm feelings than to their strong pre- 
judices, the two guardians and their fair ward, 
much comforted by the turn the conversation 
had taken, began to consult as to their future 
proceedings. 

" She must give up the garden, since she 
has given notice," quoth Andrew; "but that 
won't much signify. This is only the begin- 
ning of January, but Christmas being passed, 
the notice will date only from Lady-day, so 
that she'll keep it till Michaelmas, and will 
have plenty of opportunity to miss William 
Reid's care and skill, and honesty — " 

" But poor William, what will become of 
him r' inter|)0sed his fair mistress : "William 
to be turned away at a day's warning, like a 
drunkard or a thief! What will he do'?" 

" Just as a very industrious and very clever 
gardener always does. He'll prosper, de- 
pend upon it. And, besides, my dear, to tell 
ye a bit of a secret, your good friend Mr. 
Howard, who likes William so well, has 
I given him an acre and a half of his cottage 
allotments, in capital order, and partly stocked, 
which happened to fall vacant just as it was 
wanted. And you must wait quietly, my 
bonny lass, and see what time will do for ye. 
William 's three-and-twenty, and ye are nine- 
teen. — ye have along life before ye — wait and 
see what '11 turn up. Mr. Howard is one of 
the best men in the world, although he has 
the ill-luck to be a tory," pursued Andrew, 
with a sly glance at Stephen. 

" Never a better, although he had the ill 
luck to be born on the south of the Tweed," 
responded Stephen, returning the glance. 

" Mr. Howard is your stanch friend," pur- 
sued Andrew; "and as for your grandmother, 
she's a good woman too, and will soon be sick 
of that jackanapes, if she be only left to find 
him out herself. So go home, my bonny doo, 
and be comforted," said the kind-hearted 
Scotchman, patting the round cheek to which 



the colour and the dimples were returning 
under the reviving influence of hope. 

"Ay, get along home, rosebud," added the 
equally kind Englishman, chucking her under 
the chin, and giving her a fatherly kiss, " get 
along home, for fear they should miss you. 
And, as to being married to that whipper- 
snapper with his curls and his whiskers, why, 
if I saw the slightest chance of such a thing, 
1 'd take him up between my finger and thumb, 
and pitch him up to the top of St. Stephen's 
tower before you could say Jack Robinson ! 
Get along, rosebud ! I '11 not see thee made 
unhapjiy, I promise thee." 

And, much consoled by these kind promises, 
poor Patty stole back to the little shop at the 
corner of the church-yard. 

The winter, the spring, and the summer, 
crept slowly by, bringing with them a gradual 
melioration of prospect to our nutbrown inaid. 
Time, as Andrew had predicted, had done 
much to sicken Mrs. Hollis of the proposed 
alliance. Her honest and simple nature, and 
her real goodness of heart, soon revolted at 
bis bitterness and malice, and enduring en- 
mities. Her animosities, which vanished 
almost as she gave them utterance, had no 
sympathy with such eternity of hatred. Even 
her rival and competitor, Mrs. Dean, had been 
forgiven, as soon as she discovered that the 
world (even the little world of Belford) had 
room enough for both, and that, by adding the 
,£uperior sorts of vegetables to her stock, with 
the very finest of which she was supplied 
through the medium of Andrew Graham, she 
had even increased the number of her cus- 
tomers and the value of her business, which, 
in spite of her having given notice of quitting 
the garden, (a measure which Patty »!uspected 
her of regretting,) she had determined to con- 
tinue. She was wear5s too, of his frivolit}^ 
his idleness, and his lies, and having taken 
upon her to lecture him on his several sins of 
gadding-, tattling, meddle-making, and so forth, 
even intimating some distrust of his oratorical 
powers and his political importance, Mr. 
Samuel began to be nearly as tired of his 
patroness as his patroness was of him; so 
that, although no formal breach had taken 
place, Patty felt herself nearly rid of that 
annoyance. 

In th^ mean while, a new attraction, par- 
ticularly interesting to the gardening world, 
had arisen in Belford. in the shape of a Hor- 
ticultural Society. Nothing could be more 
beautiful than the monthly shows of prize 
flowers, fruits, and vegetables, in the splpndid 
Town-hall. All the county attended them, 
and our country belles never showed to so 
much advantage as side bj' side by their rivals 
the flowers, giving themselves up with their 
whole hearts to a delighted admiration of the 
loveliest productions of Nature. Andrew 
Graham was of course one of the most suc- 
, cessful competitors, and. Mr. Howard one of 



358 



BELFORD REGIS. 



the most zealous and intellio;ent patrons of 
the society, whilst even our friend Stephen 
took some concern in the matter, declarintr 
that good cabbatje was no bad accompaniment 
to good beef, and that all .the wearers of blue 
aprons, whether butcher or gardener, had a 
claim to his affection — a classification at which 
Andrew, who had a high veneration for the 
dignity of his art, was not a little scandalized. 
Patty from the first had been an enthusiastic 
admirer of the whole plan, and Mrs. Mollis 
had been bribed into liking it, (for old people 
do not spontaneously take to novelties, espe- 
cially in their own pursuits,) by the assurance 
of Andrew that the choice fruit and vegetables, 
the rare Carolina beans and green Indian- 
corn — the peas and strawberries so very early 
and so very late, so large of size and delicate 
of flavour — the lettuces and cauliflowers un- 
matched in whiteness and firmness, and a 
certain new melon which combined all the 
merits of all the melons hitherto known, 
came exclusively from one of the prize ex- 
hibitors of the horticultural meeting, and 
should be reserved exclusively for her, if she 
desired to purchase them. Farther Mrs. Hol- 
lis was too discreet to inquire. There are 
secrets in all trades, and none are more de- 
licate than those regarding the su])ply of a 
great fruit-shop. She knew that they did. not 
come from Andrew, for his character set sus- 
picion at defiance; but all his friends might 
not be equally scrupulous. Silence was 
safest. 

So much had Patty been delighted with the 
prize-shows, all of which she attended, as 
was permitted to respectable trades-people in 
the afternoon when the gentry had returned 
home to dinner, that she had actually excited 
in Mrs. Hollis a desire to go with her, and at 
every meeting the expedition had been threat- 
ened, but had gone off, on the score of wea- 
ther, or of illness, or of business — or, in short, 
any one of the many excuses which people 
who seldom go out make to themselves to 
avoid the exertion, so that the last day arrived 
and " Yarrow" was still "unvisited." But 
that it was the last was a powerful plea with 
Patty, whose importunity, seconded by a 
bright sunshiny September evening, and by 
the gallantry of Mr. Lane, who arrived dressed 
in his best blue coat and red waistcoat on pur- 
pose to escort her, ])roved irresistible ; and 
Mrs. Hollis, leaving the shop in charge of a 
trusty maid-servant, an alert shophoy, and a 
sedate and civil neighbour, (a sort of triple 
guardianship which she considered necessary 
to supply her own single presence,) gave to 
the inhabitants of Belford the great and un- 
precedented novelty of seeing her in the 
streets on a week-day. The people of Thibet 
would hardly be more astonished at the sight 
of the Dalai Lama. 

On reaching the Town-hall, she was struck 
even as much as she intended to be with the 



fragrance and beauty of the hothouse plants, i 
the pines, grapes, peaches, and jars of flowers I 
from the gardens of the gentlemen's seats in | 
the neighbourhood, shown as they were with \ 
all the advantages of tasteful arrangement ! 
and the magical effect of the evening light, ' 
" What a many flowers have been invented 
since I was young !" was her natural thought, 
clothed in the very words in which it passed 
through her mind. 

She turned, however, from the long rows in 
which the contributions of the members had 
been piled, to some smaller tables at the top 
of the room, filled with the productions of 
cottage exhibitors. One of these standing a 
little apart was understood to be appropriated 
to an individual of this description, a half- 
taught labourer tilling his own spot of ground, I 
who had never in his life worked in any thing 
beyond a common market-garden, but who 
had won almost every prize for which he had i 
contended — had snatched the prizes not only ; 
from competitors of his own class, but from j 
the gardeners of the nobility and gentry — had, 
in short, beaten every body, even Andrew Gra- ! 
ham. To this table Mrs. Hollis turned with ' 
peculiar interest — an interest not diminished 
when she beheld there piled with a pictur- 
esqueness that looked as if copied from Van 
Huysum ; the identical green Indian-corn, 
Carolina beans, the lettuces and cauliflowers, 
the late peas and autumnal strawberries, and 
the newest and best of all possible melons, 
with which she had been so mysteriously 
supplied, flanked by two jars of incomparable 
dahlias, and backed by a large white rose, 
delicate and regular as the rose de Jleaitx, and 
two seedling geraniums of admirable beaut}-, 
labelled ' Tlie Mount Pleasant' and 'The 
Patty.' By the side of the table stood An- 
drew Graham, Mr. Howard, and William 
Reid. 

"The lad has beaten me, Mrs. Hollis, but 
I forgive him," quoth our friend Andrew, 
smiling; "I told ye that his wares were the 
best in the market." 

"And you must forgive me, Mrs. Hollis, 
for having made him your successor in the j 
Mount Pleasant garden," said Mr. Howard. 
"I have been building a pretty cottage there 
for him and his wife, when he is fortunate ' 
enough to get one; and now that I see you do j 
get out sometimes, if you would but come and j 
see it — " 

"And if you would but let me give away 
the bride" — added honest Stephen, seizing 
Patty's hand, while the tears ran down her 
cheeks like rain. 

" And if you would but let me manage the 
garden for you, Mrs. Hollis, and be as a son 
to you" — said William, pleadingly. 

And vanquished at once by natural feeling 
and professional taste — for the peas, melons, 
and strawberries, had taken jtossession of her 
very heart, — IMrs. Hollis yielded. In less than 



BELLES OF THE BALL-ROOM. 



359 



a month the young couple were married, and 
the very next day Mr. Samuel Vicars ran 
away from his creditors, whom till then he 
had pacified by the expectation of his making 
a wealthy match, and was never heard of in 
Belford ao-ain. 



BELLES OF THE BALL-ROOM. 

THE WILL. 

I NOAV proceed to record some of the most 
aristocratic belles of the Belford assemblies, 
the young ladies of the neighbourhood, who, 
if not prettier than their compeers of the town, 
were at least more fashionable and more ad- 
mired. 

Nothing in the whole routine of country life 
seems to me more capricious and unaccount- 
able than the choice of a county beauty. 
Every shire in the kingdom, from Brobdig- 
naggian York to Lilliputian Rutland, can boast 
of one. The existence of such a personage 
seems as essential to the well-being of a pro- 
vincial community as that of the queen-bee in 
a hive; and except by some rare accident, 
when two fair sisters, for instance, of nearly 
equal pretensions appear in similar dresses at 
the same balls and the same archery meetings, 
you as seldom see two queens of Brentford in 
the one society as the other. Both are elec- 
tive monarchies, and both tolerably despotic ; 
but so far I must say for the little winged 
people, that one comprehends the impulse 
which guides them in the choice of a sove- 
reign far better than the motives which influ- 
ence their brother-insects, the beaux: and the 
reason of this superior sagacity in the lesser 
swarms is obvious. With them the election 
rests in a natural instinct, an unerring sense 
of fitness, which never fails to discover with 
admirable discriiuination the one only she 
who suits their purpose; whilst the other set 
of voluntary subjects, the plumeless bipeds, 
are unluckily abandoned to their own wild 
will, and, although from long habits of imita- 
tion almost as unanimous as the bees, seem 
guided in their admiration by the merest ca- 
price, the veriest chance, and select their god- 
dess, tlie goddess of beauty, blindfold — as the 
Bluecoat boys draw, or used to draw, the tick- 
ets in a lottery. 

Nothing is so difficult to define as the cus- 
tomary qualification of the belle of a country 
assembly. Face or figure it certainly is not; 
for take a stranger into the room, and it is at 
least two to one but he will fix on twenty 
damsels prettier than the county queen; nor, 
to do the young gentlemen justice, is it for- 
tune or connexion ; for, so as the lady come 
within the prescribed limits of county gentili- 
ty, (which, by the way, are sufficiently arbi- 
trary and exclusive,) nothing more is required 



in a beauty — whatever might be expected in 
a wife ; fortune it is not, still less is it rank, 
and least of all accomplishments. In short, 
it seems to me equally difficult to define what 
is the requisite and what is not; for, on look- 
ing back through twenty years to the succes- 
sive belles of the Belford balls, I cannot fix 
on any one definite qualification. One dam- 
sel seemed to me chosen for gaiety and good- 
humour, a merry, laughing girl ; another for 
haughtiness and airs; one because her father 
was hospitable, another because her mother 
was pleasant ; one became fashionable because 
related to a fashionable poet, whilst another 
stood on her own independent merits as one 
of the boldest riders in the hunt, and earned 
her popularity at night by her exploits in the 
morning. 

Among the whole list, the one who com- 
manded the most universal admiration, and 
seemed to me to approach nearest to the com- 
mon notion of a pretty woman, was the high- 
born and graceful Constance Lisle. Besides 
being a tall, elegant figure, with finely chi- 
selled features and a pale but delicate com- 
plexion, relieved by large dark eyes, full of 
sensibility, and a profusion of glossy black 
hair, her whole air and person were emi- 
nently distinguished by that undefinable look 
of fashion and high breeding, that indispu- 
table stamp of superiority, which, for want 
of a better word, we are content to call style. 
Her manners were in admirable keeping with 
her appearance. Gentle, gracious, and self- 
possessed ; courteous to all and courting none, 
she received the flattery, to which she had 
been accustomed from her cradle, as mere 
words of course, and stimulated the ardour of 
her admirers by her calm non-notice, infinitely 
more than a finished coquette would have 
done by all the agaceries of the most consum- 
mate vanity. 

Nothing is commoner than the affectation 
of indifference. But the indifference of Miss 
Lisle was so obviously genuine, that the most 
superficial coxcomb that buzzed around her 
could hardly suspect its reality. She heeded 
admiration no more than that queen of the 
garden, the lady lily, whom she so much re- 
sembled in modest dignity. It played around 
her as the sunny air of June around the snow- 
white flower, her common and natural atmo- 
sphere. 

This was, perhaps, one reason for the num- 
ber of beaux who fluttered round Constance. 
It puzzled and piqued them. They were un- 
used to be of so little consequence to a young 
lady, and could not make it out. Another 
cause might, perhaps, be found in the splendid 
fortune which she inherited from her mother, 
and which, independently of her expectations 
from her father, rendered her the greatest 
match and richest heiress in the county. 

Richard Lisle, her father, a second son of 
the ancient family of Lisle of Lisle-End, had 



360 



BELFORD REGIS. 



been one of those men born, as it seems, to 
fortune, with whom every undertakinnr pros- 
pers throiitrh a busy life. Of an ardent and 
enterprisiii<r temper, at once impetuous and 
obstinate, he had mortally offended his father 
and elder brother by refusing to take orders, 
and to accept, in due season, tlie family liv- 
ings, which, time out of mind, had been the 
provision of the second sons of their illus- 
trious house. Rejected by his relations, he 
had gone out as an adventurer to India, had 
been taken into favour by the head-partner of 
a great commercial house, married his daugh- 
ter, entered the civil service of the Company, 
been resident at the court of one native prince 
and governor of the forfeited territory of an- 
other, had accumulated wealtli through all the 
various means by which, in India, money has 
been found to make money, and finally returned 
to England a widower, with an only daughter, 
and one of the largest fortunes ever brought 
from the gorgeous East. 

Very different had been the destiny of the 
family at home. Old Sir Rowland Lisle, (for 
the name was to be found in one of the earliest 
pages of the Baronetage,) an expensive, os- 
tentatious man, proud of his old ancestry, of 
his old place, and of his old English hospi- 
tality, was exactly the person to involve any 
estate, however large its amount; and, when 
two contests for the county had brought in 
their train debt and mortgages, and he had 
recourse to horse-racing and hazard to deaden 
the sense of his previous imprudence, nobody 
was astonished to find him dying of grief and 
shame, a heart-broken and alii>ost ruined man. 

His eldest son, Sir Everard, was perfectly 
free from either of these destructive vices ; 
but he, besides an abundant portion of irrita- 
bility, obstinacy, and family ])ride, had one 
quality quite as fatal to the chance of redeem- 
ing his embarrassed fortimes as the election- 
eering and gambling propensities of his father 
— to wit, a love of litigation so strong and 
predominant that it assumed the form of a 
passion. 

He plunged at once into incessant law-suits 
with creditor and neighbour, and, in despite of 
the successive remonstrances of his wife, a 
high-born and gentle-spirited woman, who 
died a few years after thfiir marriage, — of his 
daughter, a strong-minded girl, who, mode- 
rately provided for by a female relation, mar- 
ried at eighteen a respectable clergyman, — 
and of his son, a young nrtan of remarkable 
promise still at college, — he had contrived, by 
the time his brother returned from India, not 
only to mortgage nearly the whole of his 
estate, but to get into dispute or litigation 
with almost every gentleman for ten miles 
round. 

The arrival of the governor afforded some 
ground of hope to the few remaining friends 
of the family. He was known to he a man 
of sense and probity, and by no means defi- 



cient in pride after his own fashion ; and no 
one doubted but a reconciliation would take 
place, and a part of the nabob's rupees be 
applied to the restoration of the fallen glories 
of Lisle-End. With that object in view, a 
distant relation contrived to produce a seem- 
ingly accidental interview at his own house 
between the two brothers, who had had no sort 
of intercourse, except an interchange of cold 
letters on their father's death since the hour 
of their separation. 

Never was mediation more com])letely un- 
successful. They met as cold and reluctant 
friends; they parted as confirmed and bitter 
enemies. Both, of course, were to blame; 
and equally, of course, each laid the blame on 
the other. Perhaps the governor's intentions 
might be the kindest. Undoubtedly his man- 
ner was the worst: for, scolding, haranguing, 
and laying down the law, as he had been ac- 
customed to do in India, he at once offered to 
send his nephew abroad with the certainty of 
accumulating an ample fortune, and to relieve 
his brother's estate from mortgage, and allow 
him a handsome income on the small condition 
of taking possession himself of the family 
mansion and the family property — a proposal 
coldly and stiffly refused by the elder brother, 
who, without deigning to notice the second 
proposition, declined his son's entering into 
the service of a commercial company, much 
in the spirit and almost in the words of Jiob 
Roy, when the good Baillie Nicol Jarvie pro- 
posed to apprentice his hopeful offspring to 
the mechanical occupation of a weaver. The 
real misfortune of the interview was, that the 
parties were too much alike, both proud, both 
irritable, both obstinate, and both too much ac- 
customed to deal chiefly with their inferiors. 

The negotiation failed completely ; but the 
governor, clinging to his native place with a 
mixed feeling, compounded of love for the 
spot and hatred to its proprietor, purchased at 
an exorbitant price an estate close at hand, 
built a villa, and laid out grounds with the 
usual magnificence of an Indian, bought every 
acre of land that came under sale for miles 
around, was shrewdly suspected of having se- 
cured some of Sir Everard's numerous mort- 
gages, and, in short, proceeded to invest Lisle- 
End just as formally as the besieging army 
sat down before the citadel of Antwerp. He 
spared no pains toannny hisenemj'; defended 
all the actions brougiit by his brother, the lord 
of many manors, against trespassers and pf)ach- 
ers ; dis|)uted his motions at the vestry ; quar- 
relled with his decisions on the bench ; turned 
whig because Sir Everard was a tory; and 
set the v\hole parish and half the county by 
the ears by his incessant squal)hles. 

Amongst the gentry, his S|)lendid hospital- 
ity, his charming daughter, and the exceeding 
unpopularity of bis adversary, who, at one 
time or other, had been at law witli nearly all 
of them, coiTimanded many partisans. But 



BELLES OF THE BALL-ROOM. 



361 



the common people, frequently o^reat sticklers 
for hereditary rin^ht, adhered for the most part 
I to the cause of their landlord — ay, even those 
I with whom he had been disputing all his life 
j long. This miorht be partly ascribed to iheir 
universal love for the young squire Henry, 
\ whose influence among the poor fairly bal- 
1 anced that of Constance among the rich ; but 
I the chief cause was certainly to be found in 
I the character of the governor himself. 
I At first it seemed a fine thing to have ob- 
j tained so powerful a champion in every little 
1 scrape. They found, however, and pretty 
I quickly, that in gaining this new and magnifi- 
! cent protector they had also gained a master. 
i Obedience was a necessary of life to our In- 
i dian, who, although he talked about liberty 
j and equality, and so forth, and looked on them 
abstractedly as excellent things, had no very 
j exact practical idea of their operation, and 
' claimed in England the same "awful rule and 
ijust supremacy" which he had exercised in 
the East, Every thing must bend to his 
: sovereign will and pleasure, from the laws 
■ of cricket to the laws of the land ; so that the 
j sturdy farmers were beginning to grumble, 
and his proteges, the poachers, to rebel, when 
the sudden death of Sir Everard put an im- 
mediate stop to his operations and his enmity. 
For the new Sir Henry, a young man be- 
loved by every body, studious and thoughtful, 
but most amiably gentle and kind, his uncle 
had always entertained an involuntary respect 
— a respect due at once to his admirable con- 
duct and his high-toned and interesting cha- 
racter. They knew each other by sight, but 
had never met until a few days al'ter'the fune- 
ral, when the governor repaired to Lisle-P]nd 
in deep mourning, shook his nephew heartily 
by the hand, condoled with him on his loss, 
begged to know in what way he could be of 
service to him, and finally renewed the offer 
to send him out to India, with the same ad- 
vantages that would have attended his own 
son, which he had previously made to Sir 
Everard, The young heir thanked him with 
that smile, rather tender than glad, which 
gave its sweet expression to his countenance, 
sighed deeply, and put into his hands a letter 
'which he had found,' he said, 'amongst his 
poor father's papers, and which must be taken 
for his answer to his uncle's generous and too 
tempting offers,' 

" You refuse me, then 1" asked the governor. 
"Read that letter, and tell me if I can do 
otherwise. Only read that letter," resumed 
Sir Henry; and his uncle, curbing with some 
difficulty his natural impatience, opened and 
read the paper. 

It was a letter from a dying father to a be- 
loved son, conjuring him by the duty he had 
ever shown to obey his last injunction, and 
neither to sell, let, alienate, nor leave Lisle- 
End; to preserve the estate entire and undi- 
minished so long as the rent sufficed to pay 



the interest of the mortgages; and to live 
among his old tenantry in his own old halls 
so long as the ancient structure would yield 
him shelter. "Do this, my beloved son," 
pursued the letter, " and take your father's 
tenderest blessing; and believe that a higher 
blessing will follow on the sacrifice of interest, 
ambition, and worldly enterprise, to the will 
of a dying parent. You have obeyed my in- 
junctions living — do not scorn them dead. 
Again and again 1 bless you, prime solace 
of a life of struggle — my dear, my dutiful 
son !" 

" Could I disobey ]" inquired Sir Henry, 
as his uncle returned him the letter; "could 
it even be a question ]" 

"No!" replied the governor, peevishly, 
" But to mew you up with the deer and phea- 
sants in this wild oak park, to immure a fine 
spirited lad in this huge old mansion along 
with family pictures and suits of armour, and 
all lor a whim, a crotchet, which can answer 
no purpose upon earth — it's enough to drive 
a man mad !" 

" It will not be for long," returned Sir 
Henry, gently. " Short as it is, my race is 
almost run. And then, thanks to the unbroken 
entail — the entail which I never could prevail 
to have broken, when it might have spared 
him so much misery — the park, mansion, and 
estate, even the old armour and the family 
pictures, will pass into much better hands — 
into yours, Lisle-End will once more flourish 
in splendour and in hospitality." 

The young baronet smiled as he said this ; 
but the governor, looking on his tall, slender 
figure, and pallid cheek, felt that it was likely 
to be true, and, wringing his hand in silence, 
was about to depart, when Sir Henry begged 
him to remain a moment longer, 

" I have still one favour to beg of you, my 
dear uncle — one favour which I may beg. 
When last I saw Miss Lisle at the house of 
my sister Mrs. Beauchamp, (for I have twice 
accidentally had the happiness to meet her 
there,) she expressed a wish that you had 
such a piece of water in your grounds as that 
at the east end of the park, which luckily 
adjoins your demesne. She would like, she 
said, a pleasure-vessel on that pretty lake. 
Now, I may not sell, or let, or alienate — but 
surely I may lend. And if you will accept 
this key, and she will deign to use as her 
own the Lisle-End mere, I need not, I trust, 
say how sacred from all intrusion from me or 
mine the spot would prove, or how honoured 
I should feel myself if it could contribute, 
however slightly, to her pleasure. Will you 
tell her this 1" 

"You had better come and tell her your- 
self," 

"No! Oh no!" 

" Well, then, I suppose I must." 

And the governor went slowly home whis- 
tling, not " for want of thought," but as a fre- 



31 



2V 



362 



BELFORD REGIS. 



qnent custom of his when any thing vexed 
him. 

About a month after this conversation, the 
father and danirhter were walking^ throutrh a 
narrow piece of woodland, which divided the 
highly ornamented gardens of the jrovernor, 
with their miles of <>ravel-walks and acres of 
American borders, from the magnificent park 
of Lisle-End. The scene was beautiful, and 
the weather, a sunny day in early May, showed 
the landscape to an advantage belonging, per- j 
haps, to no other season : on the one hand, j 
the gorgeous shrubs, trees, and young planta- j 
tions of the new place, the larch in its tender- 
est green, lilacs, laburnums, and horse-chest- 
nuts, in their flowery glory, and the villa, with 
its irregular and oriental architecture, rising 
above all ; on the other, the magnificent oaks 
and beeches of the park, now stretching into 
avenues, now clumped on its swelling lawns, 
(for the ground was remarkable for its ine- 
quality of surface,) now reflected in the clear 
water of the lake, into which the woods some- 
limes advanced in mimic promontories, re- 
ceding again into tiny bays, by the side of 
which the dappled deer lay in herds beneath 
the old thorns; whilst, on an eminence, at a 
considerable distance, the mansion, a magnifi- 
cent structure of Elizabeth's day, with its 
gable-ends and clustered chimneys, stood si- 
lent and majestic as a pyramid in the desert. 
The spot on which they stood had a character 
of extraordinary beauty, and yet different from 
either scene. It was a wild glen, through 
wliich an irregular footpath led to the small 
gate in the park, of which Sir Henry had 
sent Constance the key; the shelving banks 
on either side clothed with furze in the fullest 
blossom, which scented the air with its rich 
fragrance, and would almost have dazzled the 
eye with its golden lustre but for a few scat- 
tered firs and hollies, and some straggling 
clumps of the feathery birch. The nightin- 
gales were singing around, the wood-pigeons 
cooing overhead, and the father and daughter 
passed slowly and silently along, as if en- 
grossed by the sweetness of the morning and 
the loveliness of the scene. 

They were thinking of nothing less; as 
was proved by the first question of the go- 
vernor, who, always impatient of any pause 
in conversation, demanded of his daughter 
" what answer he was to return to the oflfer of 
Lord Fitzallan." 

"A courteous refusal, my dear father, if you 
please," answered Constance. 

'• But I do not please," replied her father, 
with his crossest whistle. " Here you say 
No! and No! and No! to every body, in- 
stead of marrying some one or other of these 
young men who flock round you, and giving 
me the comfort of seeing a family of grand- 
children about me in my old age. No to this 
lord I and No to that ! I verily believe, Con- 
stance, that you mean to die an old maid." 



" I do not expect to live to be an old maid," 
sighed Constance ; " but nothing is so unlike- 
ly as my marrying." 

" Whew !" ejaculated the governor. "So 
she means to die as well as her cousin ! 
What has put that notion into your head, 
Constance'? Are you ill ]" 

"Not particularly," replied the daughter. 
" But yet I am persuaded that my life will be 
a short one. And so, my dear father, as you 
told me the other day that now that I am of 
age I ought to make my will, I have just been 
following your advice." 

" Oh ! that accounts for your thinking of 
dying. Every body after first making a will 
expects not to survive above a week or two. 
I did not, myself, I remember, some forty 
years ago, when, having scraped a few hun- 
dreds together, I thought it a duty to leave 
them to somebody. But I got used to the 
operation as I became richer and older. Well, 
Constance! you have a pretty little fortune to 
bequeath — about three hundred thousand 
pounds, as I take it. What have you done 
with your money ] — not left it to me, 1 hope "J" 
" No, dear father, you desired me not." 
"That's right. -But whom have you made 
your heirl Your maid, Nannette ] or your 
lap-dog, Fido "? — they are your prime pets — or 
the County Hospital 1 or the Literary Fund 1 
or the National Gallery 1 or the British Mu- 
seum 1 — eh, Constance'?" 

" None of these, my dear father. I have 
left my property where it will certainly be 
useful ; and, I think, well used — to my cousin 
Henry of Lisle-End." 

"Her cousin Henry of Lisle-End'?" re- 
echoed the father, smiling, and then sending 
forth a short loud whistle, eloquent of pleasure 
and astonishment. " So, so ! Her cousin 
Henry !' 

" But keep my secret, I conjure you, dear 
father '?" pursued Constance, eagerly. 

" Her cousin Henry !" said the governor to 
himself, sitting down on the side of the bank 
to calculate : " her cousin Henry ! And she 
may be queen of Lisle-End as this key proves, 
queen of the lake, and the land, and the land's 
master. And the three hundred thousand 
pounds will more than clear away the mort- 
gages, and I can take care of her jointure and 
tlie younger children. I like your choice ex- 
ceedingly, Constance," continued her father, 
drawing her to him on the bank. 

" Oil, my dear father, I beseech you keep 
my secret !" 

" Yes, yes, we '11 keep the secret quite as 
long as it shall be necessary. Don't blush 
so, my charmer, for you have no need. Let 
me see — there must be a six months' mourn- 
ing — but the preparations maybe going on 
just the same. And in spite of my foolish 
brother and his foolish will, my Constance 
will be lady of Lisle-End." 
I And within six months the wedding did 



THE GREEK PLAYS. 



363 



lake place ; and if there could be a happier 
person than the young bridegroom or his lovely 
bride, it was the despotic but kind-hearted 
povernor. 



THE GREEK PLAYS. 

After speaking of the excellent air and 
healtliy situation of Belford, as well as its 
central position with reorard to Bath, South- 
ampton, Brighton, and Oxford, and its con- 
venient distance from the metropolis, the fact 
of its abnundinor in boarding-schools might 
almost be assumed ; since in a country-town 
with these recommendations you are as sure 
to find a colony of schoolmasters and school- 
mistresses, as you are to meet with a rookery 
in a grove of oaks. It is the natural habita- 
tion of the species. 

Accordingly, all the principal streets in 
Belford, especially the different entrances to 
the town, were furnished with classical, com- 
mercial, and mathematical academies foryoung 
gentlemen, or polite seminaries for young la- 
dies. Showy and spacious-looking mansions 
they were for the most part, generally a little 
removed from the high road, and garnished 
with the captivating titles of Clarence House, 
Sussex House, York House, and Gloucester 
House; it being, as every one knows, the 
approved fashion of the loyal fraternity of 
schoolmasters to call their respective resi- 
dences after one or other of the princes, dead 
or alive, of the royal House of Brunswick. 
Not a hundred yards could you walk, without 
stumbling on some such rural academy ; and 
you could hardly "proceed half a mile on any 
of the main roads, without encountering a 
train of twenty or thirty prim misses, arranged 
in orderly couplets like steps in a ladder, be- 
ginning with the shortest, and followed by 
two or three demure and neatly-arrayed go- 
vernesses ; or some more irregular procession 
of straggling boys, for whom the wide foot- 
path w'as all too narrow, some loitering behind, 
some scampering before — some straying on 
one side, some on the other — dirty, merry, 
untidy and unruly, as if Eton,* or .Westmin- 
ster, or the London University itself had the 
honour of their education ; nay, if you chanced 
to pass the Lancasterian School, or the Na- 
tional School, towards four in the evening, or 
twelve at noon, you might not only witness 
theturbulentoutpouringof that most boisterous 
mob of small people, with a fair prospect of 
being yourself knocked down, or at best of 
upsetting some urchin in the rush, (the chance 
of playing knocker or knockee being almost 



* Every body remembers the poet Gray's descrip- 
tion of the youthful members of the aristocracy, the 
future peers and incipient senators at Eton: "dirty 
hoys playing at cricket." 



even ;) but imight also, if curious in such mat- 
ters, have an opportunity of deciding whether 
the Dissentersunder Mr. Lancaster's system, 
or the Church of England children under Dr. 
Bell's, succeeded best in producing a given 
quantity of noise, and whether the din of 
shouting hoys or the clamour of squalling 
girls, in the ecstatic uproariousness of their 
release from the school-room, be the more in- 
tolerable to ears of any delicacy. 

Besides these coinparatively modern estab- 
lishments for education, Belford boasted two 
of those old picturesque foundations, a blue- 
coat school for boys, and a green-school for 
girls, — proofs of the charity and piety of our 
ancestors, who, on the abolition of inonaste- 
ries, so frequently bestowed their posthumous 
bounty on endowments for the godly bringing 
up of poor children, and whose inunificence, 
if less extended in the numbers taught, was 
so much more comprehensive and complete 
with regard to the selected objects; including 
not only bed and board, and lodging and cloth- 
ing during the period of instruction, but even 
ap|)rentice fees for placing them out when 
they had been taught the simple and useful 
knowledge which their benefactors thought 
necessary. For my own part, I confess my- 
self somewhat old-fashioned in these matters, 
and admitting the necessity of as wide a dif- 
fusion of education as possible, cannot help 
entertaining a strong predilection for these 
liiTiited and orderly charity-schools, where 
good principles and good conduct, and the 
value of character, botn in the children and 
their teachers, form the first consideration. I 
certainly do not like thein the less for the 
pleasant associations belonging to their pic- 
turesque old-fashioned dress — the long-waist- 
ed bodies and petticoat-like skirt of the blue- 
coat lioys, their round tasselled caps, and 
monkish leathern girdles; or the little green 
stuff gowns of the girls, with their snow-white 
tippets, their bibs and aprons, and mobs. I 
know nothing prettier than to view on a Sun- 
day morning the train of these primitive-look- 
ing little maidens, (the children of "Mr. 
West's charity") pacing demurely down the 
steps of their equally picturesque and old- 
fashioned dwelling, on their way to church, 
the house itself a complete relique of the do- 
mestic architecture of Elizabeth's day, in ex- 
cellent preservation, and the deep bay-win- 
dows adorned with geraniums (the only mo- 
dern things about the place,) which even my 
kind friend, Mr. Fosterf need not be ashamed 



t Edward Foster, Esq. of Clevver. — Mr. Foster is, 
perhaps, I may say certainly, the greatest geranium 
grower in England. That his gardener wins the head 
prizes, wherever his master deems the competition 
worthy of his notice, is little; — his commonest gerani- 
ums would bear away the meed froin any of his rivals 
— although commonest is the wrong word, since his 
flowers are all, so to say, original — being seedlings 
raised by himself, or by his brother Captain Foster. 



364 



BELFORD REGIS. 



to own. I doubt if any body else in the county 

could surpass tliern. 

But the school of schools in Belford, 
that which was pre-eminently called Belford 
School, of which the town was justly proud, 
and for which it was justly famous, was a 
foundation of a far higher class and character, 
but of nearly the same date with the endow- 
ments for boys and girls which I have just 
mentioned. 

Belford School was one of those free gram- 
mar-schools which followed almost as a mat- 
ter of course upon the Reformation, wiien edu- 
cation, hitherto left chiefly to the monks and 
monasteries, was taken out of their hands, and 
placed under the care of the secular clergy; — 
the master, necessarily in orders, and provided 
with testimonials and degrees, being chosen 
! by the corporation, who had also tlie power 
of sending a certain number of boys, the sons 
of poor townsmen, for ofratuitous instruction, 
and the privilege of electing off a certain num- 
' ber of boys to scholarships and fellowships at 
I various colleges in Oxford. The master's 
I salary was, as usual, small, and his house 
large, so that the real remuneration of the 
gentlemen who conduct these grammar schools 
— one of which is to be found in almost every 

Although so thdroiifhly independent of any adventi- 
tious nid in his own cdlipelioii, he is yet ir.osl kind and 
generous in the dif^lrihiilion of his own plants, as I 
can well lestity. People are very kind to me in every 
way, and in nothing kinder than in supplying my lit- 
tle garden with flowers: one kind Iriend sends me 
roses, another dahlias, a third henrt's ease. Every 
hwly is knid to me. but Mr. Foster is kindest of all. 
Perhaps 1 may be permitted to transcribe here some 
triflina lines, aecompanied by a stdl more trifling book, 
in v\hich I endeavoured, not to repay, but to acknow- 
ledge, my obligation l()r his inruiinerable favours — 
favours greatly enhanced by the circum.stance of my 
being personally unknown to ray kind and liberal 
friend. 

TO EDWARD FOSTER ESQ. 

OF CLEWER LODGE, SEPT. 163!. 

Rich as the lustrous gems which line 

With ruddv light the Indian mine; 

Bright as the gorgeous birds which fly 

Glittering across the Tropic sky; 

And various as the beams which pass 

To (Joihic fanes through storied glass; 

In such distinct yet mingling glow, 

Foster, thy famed geraniums show. 

That scarce Aladdin's magic bowers. 

Where trees were gold, and gems were flowers, 

(That vision dear to Fancy's eye,) 

Can match thy proud reality. . 

And bounteous of thy flowery store, 
My little garden burnished o'er 
With thy rich gifts, seems lo express 
In each bright bloom its ihankfiilness, — 
'I'he usance nature gives (or (bod, 
A nmte but smiling gratitude! 

Ill payment for thy splendid flowers, 
This sober-suited b<H)k of ours: 
And yet in homely guise it shows 
Deep love of every flower thai blows, 
And with kind thanks may hapiv blend 
Kind wishes from an unknown friend. 



great town in England, where the greater part 
of our professional men and country gentry 
have been educated, and from whence so many 
eminent persons have been sent forth — de- 
pends almost wholly upon the boarders and 
day-scholars not on the foundation, whilst the 
number of boarders is, of course, contingent 
on the character and learning of the master. 

And it was to the high character, the exten- 
sive learning, and the well-merited popularity 
of the late venerable master, that Belford 
School was indebted for being at one period 
next, perhaps, to Rugby in point of numbers, 
and second to none in reputation. 

The school was the first thing shown to 
strangers. Prints of the school hung up in 
the shops, and engravings and drawings of 
the same cherished spot might be met in 
many noansions far and near. East and west, 
north and south, — in London, in India, abroad 
and at home, were these pictures seen — fre- 
quently accotTipanied by a fine engraving of 
the master, whose virtues had endeared to his 
pupils those boyish recollections which, let 
poets talk as they will, are but too often re- 
collections of needless privation, repulsed 
affection, and unrewarded toil. 

Belford school was in itself a pretty object 
— at least, I, who loved it almost as much as 
if I had been of the sex that learns Greek 
and Latin, thought it so. It was a spacious 
dwelling, standing in a nook of the pleasant 
green called the Forbury, and parted from the 
church-yard of St. Nicholas by a row of tall 
old houses, in two or three of which the un- 
der-masters lived, and, the Doctor's mansion 
being overflowing, received boarders, for the 
purpose of attending the school. There was 
a little court before the door with four fir-trees, 
and, at one end, a projecting bay-window, be- 
longing to a very long room, or, rather, gal- 
lery, lined with a noble collection of books, 
several thousand volumes, rich, not inerely in 
classical lore, but in the best editions of the 
best authors in almost every language. 

In the sort of recess formed by this win- 
dow, the dear Doctor, (the Doctor par excel- 
lence') generally sat out of school-hours. There 
he held his levees, or his drawing-rooms (for 
ladies were by no means excluded,) — finding 
time, as your very busy (or, in other words, 
your very ac/ivt') people so often do, to keep 
up with all the topics of the d;iy, from the 
gravest politics (and the good Doctor w-as a 
keen politician) to the lightest pleasantry. In 
that long room, too, which would almost have 
accommodated a mayor's feast, his frequent 
and numerous dinner-parties were generally 
held. It was the only aparlnnent in that tem- 
ple of hospitality large enough to satisfy his 
owtt open heart. The guests who had a gen- 
eral itivitation to his table would almost have 
filled it. 

His person had an importance and slate- 
liness which answered to the popular notion ; 



THE GREEK PLAYS. 



365 



of a schoolmaster, and certainly contributed 
to the influence of his manner over his pupils. 
So most undoubtedly did his fine countenance. 
It must have been a real punishment to have 
disturbed the serenity of those pale placid 
features, or the sweetness of that benevolent 
smile. 

Benevolence was, after all, his prime charac- 
teristic. Full of knowledge, of wisdom, and 
of learning, an admirable schoolmaster,* and 
exemplary in every relation of life, his singu- 
lar kindness of heart was his most distinguish- 
ing quality. Nothing could ever warp his 
candour — that candour which is so often the 
wisest justice, or stifle his charity; and his 
pardon followed so immediately an oflTence, or 
an injury, that people began to think that 
there was no great merit in such placability — 
that it was an affair of temperament, and that 
he forgave because he could not help forgiving 
— ^just as another man might have resented. 
His school was, of course, an unspeakable 
advantage to the town ; but of all the benefits 
which he daily conferred upon his neighbours, 
his friends, his pupils, and his family, by very 
far the greatest was his example. 

If he were beloved by his pupils, his sweet 
and excellent wife was almost idolized. Love- 
lier in middle age than the lovely daughters 
(a wreath of living roses) by whom she was 
surrounded, pure, simple, kind, and true, no 
human being ever gathered around her more 
sincere and devoted affection than the charm- 
ing lady of Belford School. Next to his own 
dear mother, every boy loved her ; and her 
motherly feeling, her kindness, and her sym- 
pathy seemed inexhaustible ; she had care and 
love for alLf There is a portrait of her, too ; 
but it does not do her justice. The pictures 
that are really like her, are the small Madon- 
nas of Raphael, of which there are two or 
three in the Stafford Gallery : they have her 
open forehead, her divine expression, her sim- 
ple grace. Raphael was one of the few even 
of the old masters who knew how to paint 
such women ; who could unite such glowing 
be'auty with such transparent purity ! 

Perhaps, one of the times at which the Doc- 

* " He teacheth best who knoweth best." — Gary's 
Pindar. 

t The following lines were written on the lamented 
dealh of this most charming and excellent woman : — 
Heavy each heart and clouded every eye, 
And meeting friends turn half away to sigh; 
For she is gone beftire whose soft control 
Sadness and sorrow fled the troubled soul, 
For she is gone, whose cheering smiles had power 
To speed on pleasure's wing the social hour; 
Long shall her thought with friendly greeting blend, 
For she is gone who was of all a friend ! 
Such were Tier charms as Raphael loved to trace, 
Repeat, improve, in each Madonna's face : 
The broad lair forehead, the full modest eye, 
Cool cheeks, but of the damask rose's dye, 
And coral lips that breathed of purity. 
Such, but more lovely; far serenely bright 
Her sunny spirit shone with living light, 

31* 



tor was seen to most advantage was on a Sun- 
day afternoon in his own school-room, where, 
surrounded by his lovely wife, his large and 
promising family, his pupils and servants, and 
occasionally by a chosen circle of friends and 
guests, he was accustomed to perform the 
evening service, two of the elder boys reading 
the lessons, and he himself preaching, with an 
impressiveness which none that ever heard 
him can forget, those doctrines of peace and 
good-will, of holiness, and of charity, of which 
his whole life was an illustration. 

It is, however, a scene of a different nature 
that I have undertaken to chronicle; and I 
nnust hasten to record, so far as an unlettered 
woinan may achieve that presumptuous task, 
the triumphs of Sophocles and Euripides on 
the boards of Belford School. 

The foundation was subject to a triennial 
visitation of the Heads of soine of the Houses 
at Oxford, for the purpose of examining the 
pupils, and receiving those elected to scholar- 
ships in their respective colleges; and the ex- 
amination had been formerly accompanied, as 
is usual, by Greek and Latin recitations, prize- 
poems, speeches, &c. ; but about thirty years 
back it occurred to the good Doctor, who had 
a strong love of the drama, knew Shakspeare 
nearly as well as he knew Homer, and would 
talk of the old actors, Garrick, Henderson,| 
Mrs. Yates, and Miss Farren, until you could 
fancy that you had seen them, that a Greek 

Far, far beyond the narrow bounds of art, — 
Hers was the very beauty of the heart. 
Beauty that must be loved. The weeping child. 
Home-sick and sad, has gazed on her and smiled — 
Has heard her voice, and in its gentle sound 
Another home, another mother found. 
And as she seemed she was : from day to day 
Wisdom and virtue marked her peaceful way. 
Large was her circle, but the cheerful breast 
Spread wide around her happiness and rest. 
She had sweet words and pleasant looks for all, 
And precious kindness at the mourner's call ; 
Charity, quick to give and slow to blame. 
And lingering still in that unfaded frame. 
The fairest, the most fleeting charms of youth. 
Bloom of the mind, simplicity and truth ; 
And, pure Religion, thine eternal light. 
Beamed round that brow in mortal beauty bright, 
Spake in that voice, soft as the mother-dove. 
Found in that gentle breast thy home of love. 
So knit she friendship's lovely knot. How well 
She filled each tenderer name, no verse can tell; 
That last best praise lives in her husband's sigh, 
And floating dims her children's glistening eye, 
Embalming with fond tears her memory. 

t Henderson was his favourite. So, from MS. let- 
ters in my possession, I find him to have been, with 
Captain Jephson, the author of the " Count de Nar- 
bonne," the " Italian Lover," &c., and the friend both 
of Garrick and of John Kemble. Intellect seems to 
have been his remarkable characteristic, and that 
quality which results from intellect, but does not al- 
ways belong to it — taste. What an arlist must that) 
man have been who played Hamlet and FalstafT on 
following nights, beating his young competitor, Kem- 
ble, in the one part, and his celebrated predecessor, 
Quin, in the other! His early death was, perhaps, the 
greatest loss that the stage ever sustained. 



866 



BELFORD REGIS. 



drama, well got up, would improve the boys 
both in the theory and practice of elocution, 
and in the familiar and critical knowledge of 
the lanfTuagre; that it would fix their attention 
and stimulate their industry in a manner far 
beyond any common tasks or examinations; 
that it would interest their parents and amuse 
their friends ; that the purity of the Greek 
trao^edies rendered them (unlike the Latin co- 
medies which time has sanctioned at West- 
minster) unexceptionable for such a purpose; 
and that a classical exhibition of so hicrh an 
order would be worthy of his own name in the 
world of letters, and of the high reputation of 
his establishment. 

Hence arose the Greek plays of Belford 
School. 

Every thing conduced to the success of the 
experiment. It so happened that the old 
schoo'-room — not then used for its original 
destination, as the Doctor had built a spacious 
apartment for that purpose, closer to his own 
library — was the very place that a manager 
would have desired for a theatre ; being a very 
long and large room, communicating at one 
end with the school-house, and opening at the 
other into the entrance to the Town-hall, un- 
der which it was built. The end next the 
house, excellently fitted up with scenery and 
properties, and all the modern accessories of 
the drama, formed the stage, whilst the rest 
of the room held the audience; and a prettier 
stage, whether for public or private theatricals, 
hath seldom been seen. It was just the right 
size, just a proper frame for the fine tragic 
pictures it so often exhibited. If it had been 
larger, the illusion which gave the appearance 
of men and women to the young performers 
would have been destroyed, and the effect of 
the grouping much diminished by the com- 
parative unimportance which space and va- 
cancy give to the figures on the scene. That 
stage would be the very thing for the fashion- 
able amusement of tableaux ;* but even then 
they would want the presiding genius of our 
great master, who, although he pretended to 
no skill in the art, must have had a painter's 
eye, for never did I see such grouping. "Oh 
for an historical painter !" was Mr. Bowles, 
the poet's, exclamation, both at the death and 
the unveiling of Alcestis; and I never saw 
any one of the performances in which a young 
artist would not have found a series of models 
for composition and expression. 



*The usual tableaux, mere copies of pictures by 
living people — a pretty retaliation on Art, who, it is 
to be presumed, herself copied (rom Nature — are, 
with all their gracefulness, rather insipid ; but some 
fair young friends of mine, girls of great taste and 
talent, have been introducing a very pretty innova- 
tion on tlie original idea, by presenting, in dumb show, 
some of the most striking scenes of Scott's poems, 
" Marmiou" and "The Lay," thus superadding the 
grace of motion to that of attitude, and forming a new 
and graceful amusement, halfway between play and 
picture, for the affluent and the iiiir. 



Besides the excellence of the theatre, the 
audience, another main point in the drama, 
was crowded, intellijent and enthusiastic. 
The visiters from Oxford, and the Mayor and 
Corporation of Belford, (in their furred gowns, 
— poor dear aldermen, I wonder they survived 
the heat ! — but I suppose they did, for I never 
remember to have heard of any coroner's in- 
quest at Belford, of which the verdict was 
"Died of the Greek plays,") these, the gran- 
dees of the University and the Borough, at- 
tended ex-fifficio ; the parents and friends of 
the performers were drawn there by the plea- 
santer feelings of affection and pride, and the 
principal inhabitants of the town and neigh- 
bourhood crowded to the theatre for a double 
reason — they liked it, and it was the fashion. 

Another inost delighted part of the audience 
consisted of the former pupils of the school, 
the Doctor's old scholars, who had formed 
themselves into a sort of club, meeting in the 
winter in London, and in the autumn at one 
of the principal inns at Belford, whither they 
thronged from all parts of England, and where, 
especially at the time of the triennial plays, 
they often stayed days and weeks, to assist at 
rehearsals and partake of the social gaiety of 
that merry time. For weeks before the plays, 
the Doctor's ever-hospitable house was crowd- 
ed with visiters ; his sons stealing a short 
absence from their several professions, with 
sometimes a blushing bride (for, in imitation 
of their father, they married early and happi- 
ly) ; fair young friends of his fair daughters; 
distinguished foreigners; celebrated scholars; 
nephews, nieces, cousins, and friends, with- 
out count or end. It was one scene of bustle 
and gaiety ; the gentle mistress smiling through 
it all, and seeming as if she had nothing to do 
but to make her innumerable guests as happy 
and as cheerful as she was herself. No one 
that entered the house could doubt her sincer- 
ity of welcome. However crowded the apart- 
ments might be, the gentle hostess had heart- 
room for all. 

A pleasant scene it was for weeks before 
the play, since of all pleasures, especially of 
theatrical pleasures, the preparation is the 
tnost delightful ; and in these preparations 
there was a more than common portion of 
amusing contrasts and diverting difficulties. 
Perhaps the training of the female characters 
was the most fertile in fun. Fancy a quick 
and lively boy learning to tread mincingly, 
and carry himself demurely, and move gently, 
and curtsy modestly, and speak softly, and 
blush, and cast down his eyes, and look as 
like a girl as if he had all his life worn petti- 
coats. Fancy tlie vain attempt, by cold cream 
and chicken-skin gloves to remove the stain 
of the summer's sun, and britig the coarse red 
paws into a semblance of feminine delicacy ! 
Fancy the rebellion of the lad, and his hatred 
of stays, and his horror of paint, and the 
thousand droll incidents that, partly from acci- 



PETER JENKINS, THE POULTERER. 



3(57 



dent and partly from desiofn, were sure to hap- 
pen at each rehearsal, (the rehearsal of an 
Ens;lish trao'edy at a real theatre is comical 
enouo-h, Heaven knows !) and it will not be 
astonishinsj that, in spite of the labour required 
by the study of so many long speeches, the 
performers as well as the guests behind the 
scenes were delighted with the getting-up of 
the Greek plays. 

And in spite of their difficulties with the 
feminine costume, never did I see female cha- 
racters more finely represented than by these 
boys. The lads of Shakspeare's days who 
played his Imogenes, and Constances, and 
Mirandas, could not have exceeded the Alces- 
tises, and Electras, and Antigones of Belford 
School. And the male characters were almost 
equally perfect. . The masterpieces of the 
Greek stage were performed not only with a 
critical accuracy in -the delivery of the text, 
but with an animation and fervour which 
marked all the shades of feeling, as if the 
young actors had been accustomed to think 
and to feel in Greek. The effect produced 
upon the audience was commensurate wUh 
the excellence of the performance. The prin- 
cipal scenes were felt as truly as if they had 
been given in English by some of our best 
actors. Even the most unlettered lady was 
sensible to that antique grace and pathos, and 
understood a beauty in the words, though not 
the words. 

Another attraction of these classical per- 
formances was the English prologue and epi- 
logue by which they were preceded and fol- 
lowed. These were always written by old 
pupils of the school, and I cannot resist the 
temptation of transcribing one from the pen of 
the most remarkable person, the most learned, 
the most eloquent, and the most amiable which 
that school has ever produced — Mr. Serjeant 
Talfourd, It is a trifle, for a great lawyer has 
no time to dally with the Muse; but if one or 
two stray copies of these desultory volumes 
should chance to survive the present geneia- 
tion, they will derive a value not their own 
from possessing even the lightest memorial of 
a man whose genius and whose virtues can 
never be forgotten, whilst the writer will find 
her proudest ambition gratified in being al- 
lowed to claim the title of his friend. 

PROLOGUE TO THE HECUB^. OF 
EURIPIDES. 

SPOKEN OOTOBEK, 1827. 

"Kind friends, with genial plaudits may we close 
Our feeble miniature of mighty woes? 
Or think you that we aim to strike, too late. 
With crimes antique, and passions out of date? 
No : altered but in form life's stage they fill. 
And all our characters are extant still. " 

First, Hecuba : — nay, there my scheme 's too bold, 
I grant — no lady in these times grows old ; 
But not in vain you '11 seek the ancient rage 
In some starch vixen of ' a certain age.' 



Thus if you chance, though fair in her regards. 
At whist her partner, to forget the cards, 
Stop scandal's torrent with a word of peace. 
Offend her cat, or compliment her niece ; 
Beneath her rouge when deeper colours rise, 
Remember Hecuba — and mind your eyes. 

Still would the mild Ulysses win the town. 
His armour barter'd for a Counsel's gown : 
Severest truths he never practised, teach. 
And be profuse of wealth and life — in speech. 
Or on the hustings gain th' inspiring cheer; 
But hold ! we own no politicians here. 
The radiant colours Iris wreathes in heaven 
May but be foes at most one year in seven, 
And mingling brighter from the generous strife 
Shed rainbow hues on passion-wearied hie. 

What! if the Thracian's guilt we rarely see — 
Thousands for gain were lately mad as he ; 
When Trade held strange alliance with Romance, 
And Fancy lent delusive shades to Chance — 
Bade golden visions hover o'er the Strand, 
And made 'Change-alley an enchanted land. 
There the rapt merchant dreamt of Sindbad's vale, 
And catalogued in thought its gems for sale ; 
There dived to Vigo's tiuie-unalter'd caves 
And ransom'd millions from the courteous waves. 
Still might some daring band their arts employ, 
To search for Priam's treasures hid in Troy — 
For gold, which Polymnestor did not find. 
But only miss'd, because the rogue was blind. 
Or, since our classic robbers dote on Greece, 
Set paper-sails lo win her Golden Fleece; 
And bid her hopes, revived by civic pitj', 
Flash in a loan to fade in a conimitlee. 

Nor need we here Imagination's aid 
To own the virtue of the Trojan maid. 
Would any ask where courage meek as hers 
Truth's saddest tests to garish joy prefers, 
Whei-e Love earth's fragile Clav to heaven allies. 
And life prolong'd is one sweet sacrifice — 
Where gentlest wisdom waits to cheer and guide ye ;- 
Husbands and lovers, only look beside ye! 

And if our actors gave but feeble hints 

Of the old Bard's imperishable lints. 

Yet, if with them some classic grace abide, 

And bid no British thought or throb subside. 

Right well we know your fondest wish you gain, 

We have nottoil'd, nor you approved in vain." 



PETER JENKINS, THE POULTERER. 

As I prophesied in the beginning of this 
book, so it fell out : Mr. Stephen Lane be- 
came parish-officer of Sunham. I did not, 
however, foresee that the matter would be so 
easily and so speedily settled ; neither did he. 
Mr. .Jacob Jones, the ex-ruler of that respect- 
able hamlet, was a cleverer person than we 
took him for; and, instead of staying to be 
beaten, sagely preferred to "evacuate Flan- 
ders," and leave the enemy in undisputed 
possession of the field of battle. He did not 
even make his appearance at the vestry, nor 
did any of his partisans. Stephen had it all 
his own way; was appointed overseer, and 
found himself, to his great astonishment, car- 
rying all his points, sweeping away, cutting 
down, turning out, retrenching, and reforming 



368 



BELFORD REGIS. 



so as never reformer did before ; — for in the 
good town of Belford, although eventually 
triumphant, and pretlj' generally successful in 
most of his operations, he had been accustom- 
ed to play the part, not of a minister who 
originates, but of a leader of opposition who 
demolishes measures ; in short, he had been 
a sort of check, a balance-wheel in the bo- 
rough machinery, and never dreamt of being 
turned into a main-spring; so that, when 
called upon to propose his own plans, his 
success disconcerted him not a little. It was 
so unexpected, and he himself so unprepared 
for a catastrophe which took from him his 
own dear fault-finding ground, and placed 
him in the situation of a reviewer who should 
be required to write a better book than the 
one under dissection, in the place of cutting 
it up. 

Our good butcher was fairly posed, and, 
what was worse, his adversary knew it. Mr. 
Jacob Jones felt his advantage, returned with 
all his forces (consisting of three individuals, 
like "a three-tailed bashaw") to the field 
which he had abandoned, and commenced a 
series of skirmishing guerilla warfare — affairs 
of posts, as it were — which went near to make 
his ponderous, and hitherto victorious enemy, 
in spite of the weight of his artillery and the 
number and discipline of his troops, withdraw 
in his turn from the position which he found 
it so painful and so difficult to maintain. Mr. 
Jacob Jones was a great man at a quibble. 
He could not knock down like Stephen Lane, 
but he had a real talent for that sort of pulling 
to pieces which, to judge from the manner in 
which all children, before they are taught bet- 
ter, exercise their little mischievous fingers 
upon flowers, would seem to be instinctive in 
human nature. Never did a spoilt urchin of 
three years old demolish a carnation more 
completely than Mr. Jacob Jones picked to 
bits -Mr. Lane's several propositions. On the 
broad question, the principle of the thing pro- 
posed, our good ex-butcher was pretty sure to 
i)e victorious; but in the detail, the clauses 
of the different measures, Mr. Jacob Jones, 
who had a wonderful turn for perplexing and 
puzzling whatever question he took in hand, 
a real genius for confusion, generally contrived 
(for the gentleman was a " word-catcher who 
lived on syllables") by expunging half a sen- 
tence in one place, and smuggling in two or 
three words in another — by alterations that 
were any thing but amendments, and amend- 
ments that overset all that had gone before, to 
produce such a mass of contradictions and 
nonsense, that the most intricate piece of 
special pleading that ever went before the 
Lord Chancellor, or the most addle-headed 
bill that ever passed through a Committee of 
the whole House, would have been common 
sense and plain English in the comparison. 
The man had eminent qualities for a debater, 
too, especially a debater of that order, — incor- 



rigible pertness, intolerable pertinacity, and a 
noble contempt of right and wrong. Even in 
that matter which is most completely open to 
proof, a question of figures, he was wholly in- 
accessible to conviction ; show iiim the fact 
fifty times over, and still he returned to the 
charge; still was his shrill squeaking treble 
heard above and between the deep sonorous 
bass of Stephen ; still did his small narrow 
person whisk and flitter around the " huge ro- 
tundity" of tliat ponderous and excellent parish- 
officer, buzzing and stinging like some active 
hornet or slim dragon-fly about the head of | 
one of his own oxen. There was no putting i 
down Jacob Jones. ' 

Our good butcher fretted and fumed, and * 
lifted his hat from his head, and smoothed | 
down his shining hair, and wiped his honest | 
face, and stormed, and thundered, and vowed 
vengeance against Jacol> Jones ; and finally | 
threatened not only to secede with his whole 
party from the vestry, but to return to the 
13utts, and leave the management of Sunham, 
workhouse, poor-rates, high-ways, and all, to 
his nimble competitor. One of his most trusty 
adherents indeed, a certain wealthy yeoman 
of the name of Alsop, well acquainted with 
his character, suggested that a very little flat- 
tery on the part of Mr. Lane, or even a few 
well-directed bribes, would not fail to dulcify 
and even to silence the worthy in question ; 
but Stephen had never flattered any body in 
his life — it is very doubtful if he knew how ; 
and held bribery of any sort in a real honest I 
abhorrence, very unusual for one who had had | 
so much to do with contested elections ; — and | 
to bribe and flatter Jacob Jones ! Jacob, whom 
the honest butcher came nearer to hating than } 
ever he had to hating any body ! His very j 
soul revolted against it. So he appointed 
Farmer A'-sop, who understood the manage- 1 
ment of " the chap," as he was wont to call 
his small opponent, deputy overseer, and be- i 
took himself to his private concerns, in the | 
conduct of his own grazing farm, in oversee- 
ing the great shop in the Butts, in attending 
his old clubs, and mingling with his old as- 
sociates in Belford; and, above all, in sitting 
in his sunny summer-house during the sultry 
evenings of July and August, enveloped in the 
fumes of his own pipe, and clouds of dust 
from the high-road, — which was his manner 
of enjoying the pleasures of the country. 

Towards autumn, a new and a different in- 
terest presented itself to the mind of Stephen 
Lane, in the shape of the troubles of one of 
his most intimate friends and most faithful and 
loyal adherents in the loyal borough of Bel- 
ford Regis. 

Peter Jenkins, the poulterer, his next-door 
neighbour in the Butts, formed exactly' that 
sort of contrast in mind and body to the gi- 
gantic and energetic butcher which we so often 
find amongst ])ersons strongly attaclied to each 
other. Each was equally good and kind, and 



PETER JENKINS, THE POULTERER. 



369 



honest and true ; but strength was the distin- 
guishing characteristic of the one man, and 
weakness of the othei". Peter, much younger 
than his friend and neighbour, was pale and 
fair, and slender and delicate, with very light 
hair, very light eyes, a shy timid manner, a 
small voice, and a general helplessness of 
aspect. " Poor fellow !" was the internal ex- 
clamation, the unspoken thought of every body 
that conversed with him ; there was something 
so pitiful in his look and accent : and yet Pe- 
ter was one of the richest men in Belford, 
having inherited the hoards of three or four 
miserly uncles, and succeeded to the weil-ac- 
customed poultry-shop in the Butts, a high 
narrow tenement, literally stuffed with geese, 
ducks, chickens, pigeons, rabbits, and game 
of all sorts, which lined the door and windows, 
and dangled from the ceiling, and lay ranged 
upon the counter in every possible state, dead 
or alive, plucked or unplucked, crowding the 
dark, old-fashioned-shop, and forming the 
strongest possible contrast to the wide ample 
repository next door, spacious as a market, 
where Stephen's calves, and sheep, and oxen, 
in their several forms of veal, and beef, and 
mutton, hung in whole carcasses from the 
walls, or adorned in sejiarate joints the open 
windows, or filled huge trays, or lay scatter- 
ed on mighty blocks, or swung in enormous 
scales, strong enough to have weighed Stephen 
Lane himself in the balance. Even that stu- 
pendous flesh-bazaar did not give greater or 
truer assurance of affluence than the high, 
narrow, crowded menagerie of dead fowl 
next door. 

Yet still was Peter justly called " Poor 
fellow !" In the first place, because he was, 
for a man, far over-gentle, much too like the 
inhabitants of his own feathery den, — was 
not only " pigeon-livered and lacked gall," 
hut was actually chicken-hearted; — in the 
next, because he was, so to say, chicken- 
pecked, and, although a stranger to the com- 
forts of matrimony, was comfortably under 
petticoat government, being completely do- 
mineered over by a maiden sister. 

Miss Judith Jenkins was a single woman 
of an uncertain age, lean, skinny, red-haired, 
exceedingly prim and upright, slov,- and for- 
mal in her manner, and, to all but Peter, re- 
markably smooth-spoken. To him her accent 
was invariably sharp, and sour, and peevish, 
and contradictory. She lectured him when 
at home, and rated him for going abroad. 
The very way in which she called him, though 
the poor man flew to obey her summons, the 
method after which she pronounced the inno- 
cent dissyllable " Peter," was a sort of taking 
to task. Having been his elder sister, (al- 
though nothing now was less palatable to her 
than any allusion to her right of primogeni- 
ture,) and his mother having died whilst he 
was an infant, she had been accustomed to 
exercise over him, from the time that he was 

~ 2W 



in leading-strings, all the privileges of a nurse 
and gouvernante, and still called him to ac- 
count for his savings and spendings, his com- 
ings and goings, much as she used to do 
when he was an urchin in sh'ort coats. Poor 
Peter never dreamt of rebellion; he listened 
and he endured ; and every year as it passed 
over their heads seemed to increase her power 
and his submission. The uncivil world, al- 
ways too apt to attribute any faults of temper 
in an old maid to uie feet of her old-maidism, 
(whereas there really are some single women 
who are not more ill-humoured than their 
married neighbours,) used to attribute this 
acidity towards poor Peter, of which, under 
all her guarded upper manner, they caught 
occasional glimpses, to her maiden condition. 
I, for my part, believe in the converse reason. 
I hold that, which seemed to them the elfect 
of her single state, to have been, in reality, 
its main cause. And nobody who had hap- 
pened to observe the change in !\liss Judith 
Jenkins' face, at no time over-heautiful, when, 
from the silent, modest, curtsying, shop- 
woman-like civility with which she had been 
receiving an order for a fine turkey poult, a 
sort of " butter won't melt in her mouth " ex- 
pression was turned at once into a " cheese 
won't choke her" look and voice as she de- 
livered the order to her unlucky brother, could 
be much astonished that any of the race of 
bachelors should shrink from the danger of 
encountering such a look in his own person. 
Add to this, that the damsel had no worldly 
goods and chattels, except what she might 
have saved in Peter's house, and, to do her 
justice, she was, I believe, a strictly honest 
woman ; that the red hair was accompanied 
by red eye-brow-s and red eye-lashes, and 
e5'es that, especially when talking to Peter, 
almost seemed red too; that her face was un- 
usually freckled ; and that, from her exceed- 
ing meagreness, her very fairness (if mere 
whiteness had been called such) told against 
her by giving the look of bones starting- 
through the skin ; and it will be admitted 
that there was no immediate chance of the 
unfortunate poulterer, getting rid, by the plea- 
sant and safe means called matrimony, of an 
encumbrance under which he groaned and 
bent, like Sindbad the Sailor, when bestridden 
by that he-tormentor the Old Man of the Sea. 
Thus circumstanced, Peter's only refuge 
and consolation was in the friendship and 
protection of his powerful neighbour, before 
whose strength and firmness of manner and 
character (to say nothing of his bodily prow- 
ess, which, although it can never he exerted 
against them, does yet insensibly influence all 
women) the prim maiden quailed amain. 
With Stephen to back him, Peter dared at- 
tend public meetings and private clubs ; and, 
when sorelj'' put to it by Judith's lectures, 
would slip through the back way into Mrs. 
Lane's parlour, basking in the repose of her 



370 



BELFORD REGIS. 



gentleness, or excited by her good husband's 
merriment, vintil all the evils of his home were 
fairly fortrotten. Of course, the kind butcher 
and his sweet wife loved the kind harmless 
creature whom they, and they alone, had tiie 
power of raising into comfort and happiness ; 
and he repiid their affection by the most true 
and faithful devotion to Stephen in all afTiiirs, 
whether election contests or squabbles of the 
corporation or the vestry. Never had leader 
of a party a more devoted adiierent; and 
abating his one fault of weakness, a fault 
which brought its own punishment, he was a 
partisan who would have done honour to any 
cause, — honest, open, true, and generous, — 
and one who would have been thoroughly 
hospitable, if his sister would but have let 
him. 

As it was, he was a good fellow when she 
was out of the way, and had, like the renown- 
ed Jerry Sneak, his own moments of half- 
afraid enjoyment, on club-nights, and at Christ- 
mas parties, when, like the illustrious pin- 
maker, he sang his song and told his story 
with the best of them, and laughed, and rub- 
bed his hands, and cracked liis joke, and 
would have been quite happy, but for the 
clinging thought of his reception at home, 
where sat his awful sister, for she would sit 
up for him, 

"Gathering her brows like gatherincf storm, 
Nursing iier wrath to keep it warm." 

However, Stephen generally saw him in, 
and broke the first fury of the tempest, and 
sometimes laughed it off altogether. With 
Stephen to back him, he was not so much 
afraid. He even, when unusually elevated 
with punch, his favourite liquor, would de- 
clare that he did not mind her at all; what 
harm could a woman's scolding do? And 
though his courage would ooze out somewhat 
as he approached his own door, and ascended 
the three steep steps, and listened to her sharj), 
angry tread in the passage, (for her very foot- 
steps were, to Peter's practised ear, the pre- 
cursors of the coming lecture,) yet, on the 
whole, whilst shielded by his champion and 
protector, the jolly butcher, he got on pretty 
well, and was, perhaps, as happy as a man 
linked to a domineering- woman can well ex- 
pect to be. 

Mr. Lane's removal was a terrible stroke to 
Peter. The distance, it was true, was only 
half a mile ; but the every-day friend, the 
next-door neighbour, was gone; and the poor 
poulterer fretted and pined, and gave up his 
club and his parish-meetings, grew thinner 
and thinner, and paler and paler, and seemed 
dwindling away into nothing. He avoided 
his old friend during his frequent visits to the 
Butts, and even refused Mrs. Lane's kind and 
pressing invitations to come and see them at 
Sunham. His sister's absence or presence 
had ceased to make any difference in him; his 



spirits were altogether gone, and his very 
heart seemed breaking. 

Affairs were in this posture, when, one fine 
afternoon in the beginning of October, Stephen 
was returning across Sunham Common from 
a walk that he had been taking over some of 
bis pastures, which lay at a little distance 
from his house. He was quite unaccompa- 
nied, unless, indeed, his pet dog, Smoker, 
might be termed his companion — an animal 
of high blood and great sagacity, but so dis- 
guised by his insupportable fatness, that I, 
myself, who have generally a tolerable eye 
when a greyhound is in question, took him 
for some new-fangled quadruped from foreign 
parts, — some monstrous mastiff from the Ai>- 
thropophagi, or Brobdignaggian pointer. — 
Smoker and his master were marching lei- 
surely up Sunham Common, under the shade 
of a noble avenue of oaks, terminating at one 
end by a spacious open grove of the same 
majestic tree ; the sun at one side of them, 
just sinking beneath the horizon, not making 
his usual " golden set," but presenting to the 
eye a ball of ruddy light; whilst the vapoury 
clouds on the east were suffused with a soft 
and delicate blush, like the reflection of roses 
on an alabaster vase ; — the bolls of the trees 
stood out in an almost brassy brightness, and 
large portions of the foliage of the lower 
branches were bathed, as it were, in gold, 
whilst the upper boughs retained the rich rus- 
set brown of the season ; — the green turf be- 
neath was pleasant to the eye and to the tread, 
fragrant with thyme and aromatic herbs, and 
dotted here and there with the many-coloured 
fungi of autumn ; — the rooks were returning 
to their old abode in the oak-tops, children of 
all ages were gathering acorns underneath ; 
and the light smoke was curling from the pic- 
turesque cottages, with their islets of gardens, 
wliich, intermingled with straggling horses, 
cows, and sheep, and intersected by irregular 
pools of water, dotted the surface of the vil- 
lage-green. 

It was a scene in which a poet or a painter 
would have delighted. Our good friend Ste- 
phen was neither. He paced along, support- 
ing himself on a tall, stout hoe, called a pad- 
dle, which, since he had turned farmer, he had 
assumed instead of his usual walking-stick, 
for the purpose of eradicating docks and this- 
tles : — now beheading a weed — now giving a 
jerk amongst a drift of fallen leaves, and send- 
ing them dancing on the calm autumnal air; — 
now catching on the end of his paddle an 
acorn as it fell from the tree, and sending it 
back amongst the branches like a shuttlecock ; 
— now giving a rough but hearty caress to his 
faithful attendant Smoker, as the affectionate 
creature poked his long nose into his hand ; — 
now whistling the beginning of one tune, now 
humming tlie end of another ; wiiilst a train 
of thoughts, pleasant and unpleasant, merry 
and sad, went whirling along his brain. Who 



PETER JENKINS, THE POULTERER. 



371 



can describe or remember the visions of half 
an hour, the recollections of half a mile 1 
First, Stephen began gravely to calculate the I 
profits of those upland pastures, called and 
known by the name of the Sunham Crofts; 
the number of tons of hay contained in the 
ricks, the value of the grazing, and the de- 
duction to be made for labour, manure, tithe, 
and poor-rate, — the land-tax, thought Stephen 
to himself, being redeemed ; — then poor little 
Dinah Keep crossed his path, and dropped her 
modest curtsy, and brought to mind her bed- 
ridden father, and his night-mare, Jacob Jones, 
who had refused to make this poor cripple the 
proper allowance ; and Stephen cursed Jacob 
in his heart, and resolved to send Dinah a bit 
of mutton that very evening; — then Smoker 
went beating about in a patch of furze by the 
side of the avenue, and Stephen diverged from 
his path to help him, in hopes of a hare; — 
then, when that hope was fairly gone, and 
Stephen and Smoker had resumed their usual 
grave and steady pace, a sow, browsing among 
the acorns, with her young family, caught his 
notice and Smoker's, who had like to have 
had an affiiir with her in defence of one of the 
little pigs, whilst his master stopped to guess 
her weight. " Full fourteen score," thought 
Stephen, " as she stands ; what would it be if 
fatted 1 — twenty, at least. A wonderful fine 
animal ! I should like one of the breed." 
Then he recollected how fond Peter Jenkins 
used to be of a roast pig ; — then he wondered 
what was the matter with poor Peter ; — and 
just at that point of his cogitations, he heard 
a faint voice cry, " Stephen !" — and turning 
round to ascertain to whom the voice belonged, 
found himself in front of Peter himself, look- 
ing more shadowy than ever in the deepening 
twilight. 

Greetings kind and hearty, passed between 
the sometime neigiibours, and Smoker was, 
by no means, behindhand in expressing his 
pleasure at the sight of an old friend. They 
sat down on a bank of turf, and moss, and 
thyme, formed by a water-channel, which had 
been cut to drain the avenue in winter; and 
the poor poulterer poured his a^riefs into the 
sympathizing ear of his indignant friend. 

"And now she's worse than ever," quoth 
Peter ; " I think soon that she'll want the key 
of the till. She won't let me go to the club, 
or the vestry, or the mayor's dinner; and the 
Tories have got hold of her, and if there 
should happen to be an election, she won't let 
me vote." 

"Marry, and be rid of her, man ! — that's 
my advice," shouted Stephen. " Dang it ! if 
I 'd be managed by any woman that ever was 
born. Marry, and turn her out of doors!" 
vociferated Stephen Lane, striking his paddle 
into the bank with such vehemence, that that 
useful implement broke in the effort to pull 
it out again. "Marry, I say '."shouted Ste- 
phen. 



"How can I?" rejoined the meek man of 

chickens ; " she won't let me." 

"Won't let him !" ejaculated the ex-butcher, 
with something like contempt. " Won't let 
him ! Afore I'd let any woman dare to hin- 
der me — Howsomever, men are not all alike. 
Some are as vicious as a herd of wild bulls, 
and some as quiet as a flock of sheep. Every 
man to his nature. Is there any lass whom 
you could fancy, Peter, provided a body could 
manage this virago of a sister of yours ] 
Does any pretty damsel run in your head 1" 

" Why, I can't but say," replied Peter, 
(and, doubtless, if there had been light enough 
to see him, Peter, whilst saying it, blushed 
like a young girl,) " I can't but confess," said 
the man of the dove-cot, " that there is a little 
maiden — Did you ever see Sally Clements 1" 

" What !" rejoined the hero of the cleaver, 
" Sally Clements ! Did I ever see her ! Sally 
Clements — the dear little girl that, when her 
father first broke, and then died broken-hearted, 
refused to go and live in ease and plenty in 
Sir John's family here, (and I always respect- 
ed my lady for making her the offer) as 
nursery governess, because she would not 
leave her sick grandmother, and who has 
stayed with her ever since, waiting on the 
poor old woman, and rearing poultry " 

" She's the best fattener of turkeys in the 
country," interrupted Peter. 

"Rearing poultry," proceeded Stephen, 
"and looking after the garden by day, and 
sitting up half the night at needlework ! Sally 
Clements — the prettiest girl within ten miles, 
and the best! Sally Clements — whom my 
mistress (and she's no bad judge of a young 
woman) loves as if she was her own daughter. 
Sally Clements ! dang it, man ! you shall 
have her. But does Sally like you "?" 

" I don't think she dislikes me," answered 
Peter, modestly. " We 've had a deal of talk 
when I have been cheapening her poultry, — 
buying, I should say ; for God knows, even 
if I had not liked her as I do, I never could 
have had the heart to bate her down. And 
1 'm a great favourite with her good grand- 
mother; and you know what a pleasure it 
would be to take care of her, poor old lady ! 
as long as she lives, and how comfortably we 
could all live together in the Butts. — Only 
Judith " 

"Hang Judith! — you shall have the girl, 
man !" again ejaculated Stephen, thumping 
the broken paddle against the ground — "you 
shall have her, I say !" 

" But think of Judith ! And then, since 
Jacob Jones has got hold of her " 

"Jacob Jones!" exclaimed Stephen, in 
breathless astonishment. 

" Yes. Did I not tell you that she was 
converted to the Tories'? Jacob Jones has 
got hold of her ; and he and she both say that 
I 'm in a consumption, and want me to quar- 
rel with you, and to make my will, and leave 



372 



BELFORD REGIS 



all to her, and make him executor ; and then 
I do believe they would worry me out of my 
life, and marry before I was cold in my coffin, 
and d^mce over my grave," sighed poor Peter. 

" Jacob Jones !" muttered Stephen to him- 
self, in soliloquy; "Jacob Jones!" And 
tlien, after ten minutes' hard musing, during 
which he pulled off his hat, and wiped his face, 
and smoothed down his shining hair, and broke 
the remains of his huge paddle to pieces, as if 
it had been a willow twig, he rubbed his hands 
with a mighty chuckle, and cried, with the 
voice of a Stentor, " Dang it, I have it !" 

" Harkye, man !" continued he, addressing 
Peter, who had sat pensively on one side of 
his friend, whilst Smoker reposed on the 
other — "Harkye, man! you shall quarrel 
with me, and you shall niake your will. Send 
Lawyer Davis to me to-night; for we must 
see that it shall bo only a will, and not a con- 
veyance or a deed of gift; and you shall also 
take to your bed. Send Thomson, the apothe- 
cary, along with Davis ; they 're good fellows 
both, and will rejoice in humbugging Miss 
Judith. And then you shall insist on Jacob's 
marrying Judith, and shall give her five hun- 
dred pounds down, that's a fair fortune, as 
times go; I don't want to cheat the woman; 
besides it's worth any thing to be quit of her ; 
and then they shall marry. Marriages are 
made in heaven, as my mistress says ; and if 
that couple don't torment each other's heart 
out, my name's not Stephen. And when 
they are fairly gone off on their bridal excur- 
sion, — to Windsor, may be; ay, Mistress 
Judith used to want to see the Castle, — off 
with them to Windsor from the church-door; 
— and then for another will, and another wed- 
ding — hey, Peter! and a handsome marriage- 
settlement upon little Sally. We'll get her 
and her grandmother to my house to-morrow, 
and my wife will see to the finery. Off with 
you, man ! Don't stand there, between laugh- 
ing and crying: but get home and set about 
it. And mind you don't forget to send Thom- 
son and Lawyer Davis to me this very even- 
ing." 

And home went Stephen, chuckling; and, 
as he said, it was done, — ay, within a fort- 
night from that very day; and the two couples 
were severally as happy and as uidiappy as 
their several ([ualities could make them — Mr. 
and Mrs. Jones finding so much employment 
in plaguing (sach otiier, that the good poulterer 
and ills pretty wife, and Stephen, and the ham- 
let of Sunham, were rid of them altogether. 



THE SAILOR'S WEDDING. 

Besides Mrs, Martin, her maid Patty, and 
her cat, there was one inmate of the little toy- 
shop in the market-place, who immediately 
attracted Mr. Singleton's attention, and not 



only won, but secured, the warm and constant 
affection of the kind-hearted bachelor. It was 
a chubby, noisy, sturdy, rude, riotous elf, of 
some three years old, still petticoated, but so 
self-willed, and bold, and masterful, so strong, 
and so conscious of his strength, so obstinate 
and resolute, and, above all, so utterly con- 
temptuous of female objurgation, and rebel- 
lious to female rule, (an evil propensity that 
seems born with the unfair sex,) that it was 
by no means necessary to hear his Christian 
name of Tom, to feel assured that the urchin 
in question belonged to the masculine half of 
the species. Nevertheless, daring, wilful, 
and unruly as it was, the brat was loveable, 
being, to say the truth, one of the merriest, 
drollest, best-natured, most generous, and most 
affectionate creatures that ever bounded about 
this work-a-day world ; and Mr. Singleton, 
who, in common with many placid quiet per- 
sons, liked nothing so well as the reckless 
ligbt-heartedness which supplied the needful 
impetus to his own tranquil spirit, took to the 
boy the very first evening, and became, from 
that hour, his most indulgent patron and pro- 
tector, his champion in every scrape, and re- 
fuge in every calamity. There was no love 
lost between them. Tom, who would have 
resisted Mrs. Martin or Patty to the death ; 
who, the more they called him, the more he 
would not come, and the more they hade him 
not do a thing the more he did it ; who, when 
cautioned against wetting his feet, jumped up 
to his neck * in the water-tub, and when de- 
sired to keep himself clean, solaced himself 
and the tabby cat with a game at romps in the 
coal-hole; who, in short, whilst under female 
dominion, played every prank of which an 
unruly boy is capable — was amenable to the 
slightest word or look from Mr. Singleton, 
came at his call, went away at his desire; 
desisted at his command from riding the un- 
fortunate wooden steed, who, to say nothing 
of two or three dangerous falls, equally peril- 
ous to the horse and rider, ran great risk of 
being worn out by Master Tom's passion for 
eq\iestrian exercise; and even under his orders 
abandoned his favourite exercise of parading 



* I remember an imp, the son of a dear friend of 
mine, of some four or five years old, of very delicale 
frame, but of n most sturdy and masterful spirit, who 
one (lay slaniiina; on the lawn without a hat, in tlie 
midst of a hard rain, said to his mother, who, afler 
nurses and nursery-maids had striven in vain with 
the sereaminp, kicking, striifigliiiEt urchin, tried her 
{rentier indiionce to prevail on him to come in doors 
for fear of catching cold: — "I won't go in! I will 
stand here ! I choose to catch cold I 1 like to be ill ! 
and if you plague me much longer, I'll die I" This 
ho|iefiil young gentleman has outlived the perils of 
his childhooil, (1 suppose his self-will was druhhcd 
out of him l)v stronger and eqiiallv determined com- 
rades at a public school.) and he is now nn aspirant 
of some eminence in the literary and political world. 
I have not seen him these twenty years: hut if this 
note should meet his eye, and he should happen to 
recognize his own |.x)rtrait, he would be amused by 
my lender recollection of his early days. 



THE SAILOR'S WEDDING. 



373 



before the door beating a toy-drum, or blowing 
a penny-trumpet, and producing from those 
noisy implements a din more insupportable 
than ever sueh instruments have been found 
capable of making, before or since. 

Mr. Singleton did more: not content with 
the negative benefit of restraining Master 
Tom's inclination for idleness, he undertook 
and accomplished the positive achievement of 
commencing his education. Under his aus- 
pices, at a cost of many cakes and much gin- 
gerbread, and with the great bribe of being 
able to read for himself the stories of fairies 
and giants, of Tom Thumb, and Blue Beard, 
and Cinderella, and Sindbad the Sailor, which 
he was now fain to coax his aunt and her maid 
Patty into telling him, did Tom conquer the 
mysteries of the alphabet and spelling-book, 
in spite of the predictions of the dame of a 
neighbouring day-school, who had had the 
poor boy at her academy, as she was pleased 
to call it, for half a year, during which time 
she and her birch, put together, had not been 
able to teach him the difference between A 
j and B, and who now, in the common spirit of 
prophecy in which " the wish is father to the 
thought," boldly foretold that "all the Mr. 
Singletons in England would never make a 
scholar of Tom Lyndham; she, for her part, 
had no notion of a child, who not only stole 
her spectacles, but did not mind being whipt 
for it when he had done. She wished no ill 
to the boy, but he would come to no good. 
All the world would see that." 

Strange as it may seem, this effusion of 
petty malice had its effect in stimulating the 
efforts of our good curate. The spirit of con- 
tradiction, that very active principle of our 
common nature, had its existence even in him ; 
but, as bees can extract wax and honey from 
poisonous plants, so in his kind and benevo- 
lent temper it showed itself only in an extra- 
ordinary activity in well-doing. " Tom Lynd- 
ham shall be a scholar," thought and said Mr. 
Singleton ; and as his definition of the word 
was something different from that of the peev- 
ish old sibyl, whose notion of scholarship 
reached no farther than the power of reading 
or rather chanting, without let or pause, a 
chapter of crabbed names in the Old Testa- 
ment, with such a comprehension of the sense 
as it pleased Heaven, and such a pronuncia- 
tion as would have made a Hebraist stare, he 
not only applied himself earnestly to the task 
of laying a foundation of a classical education, 
by teaching the boy writing, ciphering, and 
the rudiments of the Latin grammar, but ex- 
erted all his influence to get him admitted, at 
as early an age as the rules would permit, to 
the endowed grammar-school of the town. 

The master of the school, a man who united, 
as we have before said, great learning to a sin- 
gular generosity of character and sweetness of 
temper, received with more than common kind- 
ness the fine open-countenanced boy, whom 



Mr. Singleton recommended so strongly to his 
notice and protection. But after he had been 
with him about the same time that he had 
passed with the dame of the day-school, he, 
in answer to his patron's anxious inquiries, 
made a prophecy nearly resembling hers, — to 
wit, that Tom Lyndham, spirited, intelligent, 
and clever as he undoubtedly was, seemed to 
him the most unlikely boy of his form to be- 
come an eminent scholar. 

And as time wore away, this persuasion 
only became the more rooted in the good 
Doctor's mind. " He may, to be sure, take to 
Greek, as you say, Mr. Singleton, and go off 
to Oxford on the archbishop's foundation; 
things that seem as impossible do sometimes 
happen; nevertheless, to judge from proba- 
bilities, and from the result of a pretty long 
experience, I should say that to expect from 
Torn Lyndham any thing beyond the learning 
that will bear him creditably through the 
school and the world, is to demand a change 
of temper and of habit not far from miraculous. 
I don't say what the charms of the Greek 
Grammar may effect, but, in my mind, the 
boy who is foremost in every sport, and first 
in every exercise; who swims, and rows, and 
dances, and fences better than any lad of his 
inches in the county; and who, in defence of 
a weaker child, or to right some manifest 
Avrong, will box, ay, and beat into the bar- 
gain, a youth half as big again as himself; 
and who moreover is the liveliest, merriest, 
pleasantest little fellow that ever came under 
my observation — is far fitter for the camp than 
the college. Send him into the world : that's 
the place for him. Put him into the army, 
and I '11 answer for his success. For my own 
part, I should not wonder to find him enlisting 
some day; neither should I care; for if he 
went out a drummer, he 'd come back a gene- 
ral ; nothing can keep down Tom Lyndham :" 
and with this prognostic, at once pleasant and 
puzzling, (for poor Mr. Singleton had not an 
acquaintance in the arm}"^, except the succes- 
sive recruiting-officers who had at various 
times carried off the heroes of Belford,) the i 
worthy Doctor marched away. 

Fortune, however, who seems to find amuse- ; 
ment in sometimes disappointing the predic- I 
tions of the wise, and sometiines bringing [ 
them to pass in the most unexpected manner, 
and by totally opposite means, had a different '' 
destiny for our friend Tom. j 

It so happened that one of the principal 
streets of our good town of Belford, a street | 
the high road through which leading west- i 
ward, bore the name of Bristol-street, boasted I 
a bright red mansion, retired from the line of j 
houses, with all the dignity of a dusty shrub- 
bery, a sweep not very easy to turn, a glaring 
bit of blank wall, and a parte cochere. Now/ 
the wall being itselt somewhat farther back 
than the other houses in the street, and the 
space between that and the ordinary pavement 



374 



BELFORD REGIS. 



being regularly flagged, an old sailor without 
his legs had taken possession of the interval, 
for the sake of writing, with white and co- 
loured chalks, sundry loyal sentences, such as 
" God save the King," " Rule Britannia," and 
so forth, by way of excitement to the passers- 
by to purchase one from a string of equally 
loyal sea-ballads that hung overhead, inter- 
mixed with two-penny portraits of eminent 
naval commanders, all very much alike, and 
all wearing very blue coats and very red faces. 
At first, the two respectable ladies of the 
mansion (dowager spinsters, Morris by name) 
objected greatly to the use made of their wall 
and their pavement by the crip|)led veteran in 
question, who was commonly known through- 
out Belford by the name of " Poor Jack ;" 
piobably from his attachment to the well- 
known sailor's ditty, which happened to form 
his first introduction to the younger of the two 
ladies in question : 

" Here am I, poor Jack, 

Just come home from sea, 
With shiners in my sack, — 

Pray what d'ye think of me?" 

" I think you a very saucy person," replied 
Miss Arabella Morris to this question, not said 
but sung by the sailor in a most stentorian 
voice, as he lay topping and tailing the great 
I in " God save great George our King," just 
on one side of their gate. " I think you are 
a very saucy person," quoth Miss Arabella, 
" to sit begging here, just at our door." 

" Begging !" rejoined poor Jack ; " I 'm no 
beggar, I hope. I 've lost my precious limbs, 
when I fouffht under Admiral Rodney ; I've 
a pension, bless his Majesty, and have no call 
to disparage the service by begging like a 
land-lubber, 

" Sailors to forget their duty, 
Must not come for to go — " 

chanted Jack. 

" I must really apply to the Mayor," said 
Miss Arabella. 

" Go," said Jack, continuing his work and 
resuming his stave. 

" When the captain he heard of it, 

He very much applauded what she had done, 
And he made her the first lieutenant 
Of the gallant Thunder bomb." 

"Made me a first lieutenant!" exclaimed 
the atfronted Arabella. " Was ever any thing 
so impertinent] Pray, if you are not a beg- 
gar, what may you be ?" 

" My name, d' ye see, 's Tom Tough, 
Oh, I 've seen a little sarvice. 
Where the foaming billows roar and the winds do 

blow ; 
I 've sailed with noble Howe, 
And I 've sailed with gallant Jervis, 
And only lost an eye, and got a timber toe; 
And more, if you 'd be knowing, 
I've sailed with old IJoscawen:" 

again shouted (for singing is hardly the word 



to express his sort of music) the incorrigible 
Jack. 

" Well, I must go to the Mayor," said Miss 
Arabella ; and Jack again uplifted his voice : — 

"Then in Providence I trust. 
For you know what musi be, must ;" 

and, consoled by this philosophical strain, he 
tranquilly continued his occupation, which, 
after a little persuasion from the mayor, and 
something like an apologry from Jack himself, 
(to whose looks and ways they bejran to get 
accustomed,) the good ladies permitted him 
to pursue in peace and quietness under their 
sheltering wall. 

The above conversation will have sbown 
that poor Jack was something of a humorist; 
but his invincible good-humour was his dis- 
tinguishing qualification. I doubt if there 
was in all England a more contented person 
than the poor cripple who picked up a preca- 
rious livelihood by sellino- loyal ballads in 
Bristol-street in Belford. Maimed as he was, 
there was something in his round bullet-head, 
and rouijli sun-burnt countenance, — in his nod, 
his wink, his grin, (for it would not do to call 
such a contortion a smile,) in the snap of his 
fingers, and the roll of his short athletic body 
— more expressive of fun and merriment than 
I ever beheld in any human being. Call him 
poor Jack, indeed ! Why, if happiness be 
wealth, he was the richest Jack in Christen- 
dom ! 

So thought Tom Lyndham, whose road to 
and from school passed the lair of the sailor, 
and who having stood one evening to hear 
him go through the whole ballad, 
"On board of the Arethusa," 

and finally joined in the refrain with much of 
Jack's own spirit, fell into conversation with 
him on the battles he had fought, the ships he 
had served in, and the heroes he had served 
under, (and it was remarkable that Jack talked 
of the ships with the same sort of personal 
affection which he displayed towards their 
captains,) and from that evening made up his 
mind that he would be a sailor too. 

Sooth to say, the enthusiasm with which 
Jack spoke of Keppel and Rodney, and Parker 
and Howe, as well as of the commanders of 
his youth, Havvke and " old Boscawen ;" his 
graphic description of the sea-fights in which 
the English flag did really seem to be the en- 
sign of victory ; the rough, bold, manly tone 
of the ballads which he sung, and the personal 
character of the narrator — were in themselves 
enough to work such an efiect on a lively, 
spirited, ambitious boy, whose bravery of 
mind and hardihood of body made him ac 
count toil and danger rather as elements of 
enjoyment, like the bright frosty air of winter, 
than as evils to shrink from; whilst his love 
of distinction made him covet glory for its 
own sake, and his grateful and affectionate 
temper rendered the prospect of wealth (for 



THE SAILOR'S WEDDING. 



375 



of course he was to be a second Rodney) de- 
lightful- as the means of Tepa}'inff to his aunt 
and Mr. Singleton the benefits which he had 
derived from their kindness. 

Besides this, he had alwaj'S had an innate 
passion for the water. His earliest pranks of 
dabbling in kennels, and plunging in pools, 
had shown his duck-like propensities; and 
half his scrapes at school had occurred in a 
similar way : — bathing before the appointed 
day, swimming in dangerous places, rowing 
and fishing at forbidden hours; he had been 
caught half-a-dozen times boat-building at the 
wharf, and had even been detected in substi- 
tuting Robinson Crusoe for the Greek Gram- 
mar, — from which Mr. Singleton expected 
such miracles. In short, Tom Lyndham was 
one of those boys whose genius may fairly be 
called semi-aquatic. 

That he would be a sailor was Tom's firm 
resolution. His only doubt was whether to 
accomplish the object in the regular manner 
by apprizing Mrs. Martin and Mr. Singleton 
of his wishes, or to embrace the speedier and 
less troublesome method of running away. 
The latter mode offered the great temptation 
of avoiding remonstrances equally tedious 
(and the grateful boy would hardly allow 
himself to think hujjo tedious !) and unavailing, 
and of escaping from the persuasions of which 
his affectionate heart felt in anticipation the 
power to grieve, though not to restrain ; be- 
sides, it was the approved fashion of your 
young adventurer, — Robinson Crusoe had run 
away : and he consulted Jack seriously on the 
measure, producing, in answer to certain finan- 
cial questions which the experience of the tar 
suggested, a new half-crown, two shillings, a 
crooked sixpence, and sundry halfpence, as 
his funds for the expedition. 

" Five and threepence halfpenny !" ex- 
claimed the prudent mariner, counting the 
money, and shaking his head, — " 'Twont do, 
master! Consider, there's the voyage to 
Portsmouth, on board o' the what d' ye call 
'urn, the coach there; and then you'll want 
new rigging, and have to lie at anchor a short- 
ish bit may be, before you get afloat. I '11 
tell you what, messmate, leaves light; ax his 
honour the chaplain, the curate, or whatever 
you call him, and if so be he turns cantanker- 
ous, you can but cut and run, after all." 

And Tom agreed to take his advice; and 
after settling in his own mind, as he walked 
home, various ingenious plans for breaking 
the matter gradually and tenderly to his good 
old aunt, (on whom he relied for the still more 
arduous task of communicating this tremen- 
dous act of contumacy to his reverend patron,) 
he, from sheer nervousness and over-excite- 
ment, bolted into the house, and forgetting all 
his intended preparations and softenings, — a 
thing which has often happened, from the 
same causes, to older and wiser persons, — 
shouted out at once to Mrs. Martin, who hap- 



pened to be in the shop talking to Mr. Single- 
ton, " Aunt, I 'm determined to go to sea di- 
rectly ; and if you won't let me, I'll run 
away." 

Never were two people more astonished. 
And as the hitherto respectful and dutiful boy, 
who, with all his spirit, had never before con- 
tradicted a wish expressed by either, contin- 
ued to answer to all remonstrances, " I will 
go to sea; and if you won't let me, I'll run 
away," Mr. Singleton began to think it best 
to inquire into his own views, motives and 
prospects. 

Vague enough they were, to be sure ! Rob- 
inson Crusoe, and a crippled sailor, and half- 
a-dozen ballads for inducements, and a letter 
of introduction from poor Jack to a certain 
veteran of his own standing. Bob Griffin by. 
name, formerly a boatswain, and now keeping 
a public-house at Portsea, and commanding, 
according to him of the stumps, a chain of in- 
terest somewhat resembling Tom Bowling's 
famous ladder of promotion in Roderick Ran- 
dom, a scrawl directed in red chalk, in printed 
letters, half an inch long, to MISTUR BOB 
GRIFIN LANLURD SHIP AGRUND 
PORSEE, by way of introduction to the 
naval service of Great Britain ! However, 
there was in the earnestness of the lad, in the 
very slightness of the means on which he 
built, and in his bold, ardent, and manly cha- 
racter, that evidence of the bent of his genius, 
the strong and decided turn for one pursuit, 
and one only, which it is scarcely wise to re- 
sist. 

Mr. Singleton, remembering, perhaps, the 
prediction of the good Doctor, yielded. He 
happened to have a first cousin, a captain in 
the navy; and on visiting our friend Jack, 
whom he found repairing the chalking of 
" Rule Britannia," and chanting two lines of 
his favourite stave, 

" But the worst of it was when the Httle ones were 

siciiiy. 
Whether they would hve or die tiie doctor could not 

tell," 

he had the satisfaction to find that he had 
sailed with his relation when second lieuten- 
ant of a sloop called the Gazelle; and al- 
though relinquishing, with many thanks, the 
letter of introduction to " Mistur Bob Grifin," 
actually accepted one from the same hard ho 
nest fist to Captain Conyers ; and it is to be 
doubted whether poor Jack's recommendation 
of " the tight youngster," as the veteran called 
him, had not as much to do with the captain's 
cordial reception of his new midshipman, as 
the more elaborate praises of Mr. Singleton. 

A midshipman, however, he was. The war 
was at its height, and he had the luck (excel- 
lent luck as he thought it) to be in the very 
hottest of its fury. In almost every fight of 
the great days of our naval glory, the days of 
Nelson and his immediate successors, ■wa3 
Tom Lyndham, first of the first, bravest of the 



376 



BELFORD REGIS. 



brave, readiest of the ready. From the mo- 
ment that his age and rank allowed him to be 
officially noticed in the despatches, he was 
so; and it is to be questioned whether the 
very happiest moment of Mr. Singleton's life 
was not that in which he first read Tom's 
name in the Gazette. He cried like a child ; 
and then he read it to Mrs. Martin, and whilst 
trying to lecture her for crying, cried again 
himself. He took the paper round the town 
to every house of decent gentility, from the 
mayor's downwards; read it to the parish- 
clerk and the sexton; and finally relinquished 
an evening party to which he was engaged at 
the Miss Morrises', to carry the news and the 
newspaper to poor .Tack, who, grown too in- 
firm to face the weather, had been comfortably 
placed, through his kindness, in an almshouse 
about two miles off. It is even reported that, 
on this occasion, Mr. Singleton, although by 
no means noted for his skill in music, was so 
elated as to join poor Jack in the chorus of 

"On board of the Arethusa," 
in honour of Tom Lyndham. 

From this time all prospered with our gal- 
lant sailor, — except, indeed, a few glorious 
scars which he would have been ashamed to 
want, and one of which, just after he had been 
appointed first lieutenant to the Diana, gave 
him the opportunity of coming back to Bel- 
ford, for a short time, to regain his health, and 
revisit his old friends. Think of the delight 
of Mr. Singleton, of Mrs. Martin, of her maid 
Patty, and of poor Jack ! 

" Here am I, poor Jack!' 

shouted the veteran when Tom made his ap- 
pearance ; 

Here am I, poor Jack, 

Just come home from sea, 
With shiners in my sack, — 

Pray what d' ye think of me V 

And the above, as it happened, was highly 
appropriate ; for between battles and prizes, 
Mr. Lyndham, although still so young a man, 
was rich enough to allow him to display his 
frank and noble generosity of spirit in the 
most delicate way to Mr. Singleton and his 
aunt, and in the inost liberal to Jack and Patty. 
None who had been kind to him were forgot- 
ten ; and his delightful spirit and gaiety, his 
animated good-humour, his acuteness and in- 
telligence, rendered him the very life of the 
place. 

He was a singularly fine young man, too ; 
not tall, but strong, muscular, and well built, 
with a noble chest, and that peculiar carriage 
of the head, which gives so much of dignity 
to the air and figure. The head itself was 
full of manliness and expression. The short 
curling black hair, already givinsr token of 
early baldness, and exposing a high, broad 
polished forehead, whose fairness contrasted 
with the sun-burnt complexion of the rest of 
the face ; an eagle eye, a mouth combining 



firmness and sweetness, regular features and a 
countenance at once open, spirited, and amia- 
ble, — harmonized well with a character and 
reputation of which his fellow-townsmen al- 
ready felt proud. Tom Lyndham was the 
very pride of Belford ; happy was the damsel 
whom he honoured with his hand at the 
monthly assembly; and, when he rejoined his 
ship, he was said to have carried away, unin- 
tentionally, more hearts than had been won 
with care, and pain, and malice prepense, by 
any half-dozen flirting recruiting-officers in the 
last half-dozen years. 

No Belford beauty was, however, destined 
to captivate the brave sailor. Love and for- 
tune had prepared for him a very diflferent 
destiny. 

Returning home towards the end of the 
war, (I mean the great war, the war par emi- 
nence, the war with Napoleon,) into Ports- 
mouth harbour, or rather bringing in a prize, 
a frigate of many more guns and much greater 
force than his own, the gallant Captain Lynd- 
ham (for he had now been for some years 
posted) no sooner set foot on shore, than he 
encountered an old messmate. " Ha, Lynd- 
ham ! your old luck, I see ! You and the 
little Laodamia have peppered the Frenchmen 
as usual," said the brave Captain Manning. 
" Do you make any stay at Portsmouth 1" 

"Yes," replied Captain Lyndham; "I 
have sent my first lieutenant to London with 
despatches, and shall be fixed here for some 
days." 

" I am thoroughly glad to hear it," rejoined 
his friend ; " for I myself am rather awkward- 
ly situated. An old aunt of mine has just 
brought two of my cousins to see the lions, 
depending on me for their escort. Now 1 
must be off to the Admiralty immediately; 
dare not stay another hour for all the aunts 
and cousins in Christendom. They, poor 
souls, don't know a creature in the place ; and 
I shall be eternally obliged to you if you will 
take my turn of duty, and walk them over the 
dock-yards, and so forth. By the way, they 
are nice girls — not sisters, but cousins. One 
is an heiress, with above 3000/. a-year, and 
a sweet place by the side of the Wye ; the 
other is called a beauty. I don't think her 
so ; or rather, I prefer the heiress. But nice 
girls they are both. I have the honour to be 
their guardian, and if either should. hit your 
fancy, you have my free leave to win her and 
wear her. So now come with me, and I'll 
introduce you." 

And in five minutes more they were in one 
of the best rooms at the Fountain, and Captain 
Lyndham was introduced to Mrs. Lacy, and 
to. Miss Manning and Miss Sophia Manning. 

Mrs. Lacy was a lady-like elderly woman, 
a widow without a family, and very fond of 
her nieces, who had been brought up under 
her own eye, and seemed to sujiply to her the 
place of daughters. " This is the heiress !" 



THE SAILOR'S WEDDING, 



thought Captain Lyndham, as he glanced over 
a tall commanding figure, expensively and 
fashionably dressed, and with that decided air 
of consequence and self-importance which the 
habit of power is too apt to give to a person 
I in that unfortunate predicament. " This is 
I the heiress ! and this, I suppose, must be the 
beauty," thought Captain Lyndham, turning 
to a shorter, slenderer, fairer young woman, 
very simply dressed, but all blushes and 
smiles, and youthful animation. " This must 
be the beauty," thought the Captain, "and 
whatever Manning may say, beautiful she is 
— never saw a sweeter creature than this Miss 
Sophy." 

And if he thought Sophy Manning pretty 
then, the impression was far deepened when 
he had passed two or three days in her com- 
pany — had walked her over the wonders of 
that floating world, a man-of-war — had shown 
her the dock-yards, with their miracles of 
machinery ; and had even persuaded Mrs. 
Lacy, a timorous woman, the least in the 
world afraid of being drowned, and Miss 
Manning, a thorough fine lady, exceedingly 
troubled for her satin pelisse, first of all to 
take a dinner on board the dear Laodamia, 
and then to suffer themselves to be rowed 
round St. Helen's in the captain's own boat, 
gallantly manned by the officers of the ship. 

Small enjoyment had Mrs. Lacy, in fear of 
her life, or the stately Honoria, in care for her 
finery ; but Sophy, in a white gown and a 
straw bonnet, thinking nothing of herself or 
of her dress, but wholly absorbed by a keen 
and vivid interest in the detail of a sailor's 
life — in admiration of the order and cleanli- 
ness that everywhere met her eye, (always 
the first point of astonishment to a landswo- 
man,) and in a still more intense feeling of 
pleasure and wonder at the careless good-hu- 
mour of those lords of the ocean, — bold as 
lions to their enemies, playful as kittens to 
their friends, — was full of delight. Nothing 
could equal her enthusiasm for the navy. The 
sailors, who, like dogs and children and wo- 
men, and all other creatures who have not 
spoilt their fine natural instinct by an over- 
cultivation of the reasoning powers, are never 
mistaken in the truth of a feeling, and never 
taken in by its assumption, perceived it at 
once, and repaid it by the most unfeigned and 
zealous devotion. Tliey took all possible care 
of Mrs. Lacy and Miss Manning, as women, 
and ladies, and friends of their Captain ; but 
Miss Sophy was the girl for them. They 
actually preferred her pretty face to the figure- 
liead of the Laodamia. 

And Captain Lyndham, himself an enthusi- 
ast for his profession, what thought he of this 
enthusiasm for the sea, and the navy, and that 
frigate of frigates, the Laodamia 1 Did he 
like it the less because he might honestly 
suspect that some little reference to himself 
had strengthened and quickened this deep in- 



terest ] because she had drawn from him his 
own early history, and talked of the toy-shop 
in the market-place of Belford, and of poor 
Jack, and the maid Patty, and even of Mr. 
Singleton himself, (little as one would tiiink 
that good gentleman, now abroad with his 
third wife, was calculated to strike a young 
lady,) with almost as much affection as of 
his frigate and his prize, and his ship's crew, 
and the absent first lieutenant, his especial 
friend, and a little midshipman, his especial 
protege"? To any man of sensibility, this 
sensibility, shown by a woman, young, love- 
ly, animated, and artless, would have been 
dangerous : to a sailor just come ashore, it was 
irresistible. He made her talk in return of 
her own friends and pleasures and amuse- 
ments, of her home at Sanbury, where she 
had lived all her life with her aunt and her 
cousin, and where she hoped always to live; 
(" not always," thought our friend the Cap- 
tain ;) and how much more loveable those dear 
relations were in that dear home. " My aunt," j 
said Sophy, "is nervous and timid, so that 
you know nothing of her but that infirmity; 
and dear Honor does not love travelling, and 
does not like the sea, and has been all her life 
so much admired, that she is a little spoilt,, 
and does not always know what she would 
have; but you will love Honor when you see 
her at home." 

" I may like her," said the captain, " but I 
shall never love any woman but one ;" and- 
then followed in full form, the declaration and 
the acceptance. " I am so glad that you are 
not the heiress," added Captain Lyndham, 
after repeating to her her cousin's jesting per- 
mission to him to marry which of his wards 
he liked best ; " I am so glad that you are not 
the heiress !" 

"Are you]" said Sophy, quietly. "Now 
I should have thought that you, thorough 
sportsman as you are, for a sailor," added 
Sophy, slyly, " would have liked Sanbury 
Manor, wdth its right of shooting, coursing, 
and fishing, and its glorious Wye river. You 
would like Sanbury Manor." 

" Hang Sanbury Manor !" exclaimed the 
captain. 

" Nay," said Sophy, " it 's a pretty place, 
and a pretty house ; one of those old-fashion- 
ed houses that fall upon the eye like a picture. 
The very lodge at Sanbury is beautiful. You 
must not take an aversion to Sanbury." 

" I should like any place that had been 
your home, pretty or ugly," replied Captain 
Lyndham; "or, rather, I should think any 
house pretty that you lived in. But, never- 
theless, I am heartily glad that you are not the 
heiress of Sanbury, because I have been so 
fortunate with prizes, and you seem so simple 
in your tastes, that I have enough for both of 
us ; and now no one can even suspect me of 
being mercenary — of thinking of any thing or 
any body but your own dear self." 



32* 



2X 



378 



7" 



BELFORD REGIS. 



"/should not have suspected you," said 
Sophy, tenderly ; "hut you must go to San- 
bury, and look at tlie old place, my home for 
so many years ; you promise me that?" 

" Yes," replied the captain, " but it must 
be with Sophy Lyndham, and not with Sophy 
Manning;" — and, in spite of Soj)hy's blush- 
ing " must, indeed !" so it was settled ! 
They were all to go to London, to which the 
affairs of his ship and prize now called the 
captain. There they were to be married ; and 
on tlieir return from a bridal excursion to Bath, 
and Clifton, and Wales, were to pay a short 
visit to Mrs. Lacy and Honor, at the old 
manor-house, which had for so many years 
been the fair bride's only home. 

Mrs. Lacy, on being apprized of the intended 
marriage, began talking about money and set- 
tlements, and those affairs which, to persons 
not in love, seem so important; but Captain 
Lyndham stopped her, and Sophy stopped 
her; and as, in a letter to Captain Manning, 
the generous sailor desired that writings might 
be prepared, by which all that he was worth 
in the world should be settled on Sophy and 
her children — and as these settlements, read 
over by the lawyer in the usual unintelligible 
manner, were signed by the enamoured sea- 
man without the slightest examination, it was 
impossible for any guardian to object to con- 
duct so confiding and so liberal. 

" Oh, that poor Jack could see this day !" 
was Captain Lyndham's exclamation, as they 
were leaving London after the happy ceremony, 
in his own elegant new carriage, attended, 
somewhat to his surprise, by the lady's maid, 
whom he had thought exclusively devoted to 
the service of Miss Manning, — "Oh, that 
poor Jack could See this day! — you must 
make acquaintance with him, Sophy, and with 
my good aunt, and Mr. Singleton. You must 
know them, Sophy ; they will so adore you !" 
" And I shall so love the people whom you 
love," rejoined Sophy : but we have no room 
for bridal talk, and must hasten to the conclu- 
sion of our story. 

After a few days of rapid travelling, — short 
days they seemed to the married lovers, — after 
a very brief tour, for the bridegroom's time 
was limited, — they arrived at the beautiful 
village of Sanbury. 

"There it is — the dear manor-house!" ex- 
claimed Sophy, as they approached a fine old 
building, embosomed in its own venerable 
oaks, the silver Wye winding like a shining 
snake amid the woody hills and verdant 
lawns; — "There it is!" exclaimed the fair 
bride ; " mine own dear home ! and your 
home, too, my own dear husband ! for, being 
mine, il is yours," continued she, with a smile 
that would have made a man overlook a great- 
er misfortune than that of having married an 
heiress. " You are really the master of San- 
bury, think of it what you may," pursued the 
fair bride. " It is my first deceit, and shall 



be my last. But when I found that, because 
Honoria was the elder, you took her for the 
richer cousin, I could not resist the temptation 
of tliis little surprise; and if you are angry, 
there," pointing to the side of the road, " sits 
one who will plead for me." 

And suddenly, from the beautiful Gothic 
lodge, the gate belonging to which had been 
so arranged as to open with a pulh^y, arose the 
well-known sounds, 

" Here am I, poor Jack, 

Just oonie home from sea, 
With shiners in my sack, — 

Pray w hat d' ye think of me ?" 

And there sat poor Jack himself in all his 
glory, waving his hat over his grey head, with 
the tears streaming down his honest cheeks, 
absolutely tipsy with joy. 

And before Captain Lyndham had suffi- 
ciently recovered from his astonishment to 
speak a word — indeed, whilst he was still 
clasping his lovely wife to his own warm 
heart, the carriage had reached the mansion, 
on the steps of which stood, in one happy 
group, her people and his; Captain Manning, 
Mrs. Lacy, and Honor, (then really beautiful 
in her smiling sympathy,) Mr. Singleton, 
(who, by good-luck, had just returned to 
England,) Mrs. Martin, and the little maid 
Patty, standing behind on the upper step, and 
looking two inches taller in her joy and de- 
light. 

So much for the Sailor's W edding. There 
can be no need to say that the married life 
which sprang from such a beginning was as 
haj)py as it was prosperous. 



COUNTRY EXCURSIONS. 

SoMR celebrated writer (was it Addison?) 
cites, as a proof of the instinctive love of 
the country, which seems implanted in the 
human breast, the fact, that the poorest inha- 
bitants of great cities cherish in their wretched 
garrets or cellars some dusty myrtle or with- 
ering geranium, something that vegetates and 
should be green ; so that you shall see in the 
meanest window of the meanest street some 
flower or flowering plant stuck in a piece of 
broken crockery, — a true and goMiuin^ tribute 
to that inherent love of nature which makes a 
part of our very selves. I never see such a 
symptom of the yearning after green fields 
without recogtiising the strong tie of fellow- 
feeling with the poor inmate; and the more 
paltry the plant, the more complete and per- 
fect is the symjjathy. 

There is a character in one of the old plays, 
(I think " The Jovial Crew," by Ben Jonson's 
servant, Broome,) who conducts himself like 
a calm, sedate, contented justice's clerk all 
the winter, but who, at the first sign of spring, 



COUNTRY EXCURSIONS. 



379 



when the sap mounts into the trees, and the 
primrose hlossoms in the coppices, feels the 
impulse of the season irresistible, obeys lite- 
rally the fine stag-e-direction of the piece, 
"The nightintrale calls without," and sallies 
forth to join the gipsies, to ramble all day in 
the green lanes, and sleep at night under the 
hedges.* 

Now one of the greatest proofs of the truth 
of these delineations was to be found in the 
fact, that the quiet old ladies of Belford, the 
demure spinsters and bustling widows, to say 
nothing of their attendant beaux, were them- 
selves seized, two or three times in the course 
of the summer, with the desire of a country 
excursion. It is true that they were not 
penned up like the poor artisans of London, 
or even the equally pitiable official personage 
of the old dramatist — they were not literally 
caged birds, and Belford was not London : on 
the contrary, most of them had little slips of 
garden-ground, dusty and smoky, where cur- 
rants and gooseberries came to nothing, and 
even the sweet weed mignonette refused to 
blow; and many of them lived on the out- 
skirts of the town, and might have walked 
country-ward if they would ; but they were 
bound by the minute and strong chains of 
habit, and could turn no other way than to 
the street, — the dull, darksome, dingy street. 
Their feet had been so used to the pavement, 
that they had lost all relish for the elastic turf 
of the greensward. Even the road-side paths 
were too soft for their tread. Flagstones for 
them ; and turf, although smooth, and fine, and 
thick, and springy as a Persian carpet — al- 
though fragrant and aromatic as a bed of 
thyme, — turf for those who liked it! 

Two or three times in the year, however, 
even these street-loving ladies were visited 
with a desire to breathe a freer air, and be- 
come dames and damsel errants for the day. 
The great river that glided so magnificently 
under the ridge of the Upton hills, within a 
mile of the town, seemed to offer irresistible 
temptations to a water-party, the more so as 
some very fine points of river scenery were 
within reach, and the whole course of the 
stream, whether sweeping gradually along its 
own rich and ojien meadows, or shut in by 
steep woody banks, was marked with great 
and varied beauty. But, somehow or other, 
a water-party was too much for them. The 
river was navigable ; and in that strange and 
almost startling process of being raised or 
sunken in the locks, there was a real or an 

*A friend of mine, one of the most accomplished 
and eloquent preachers in London, says, ihat as the 
spring advances, he feels exactly the yearning for the 
country described by the old dramatist. -He does not 
join the gipsies; but he declares that it rei|uires all 
the force of his muid. as well as the irresistible claims 
of the most binding of all professions, to detain him 
in London. Talk of slavery! Are we not all the 
bondsmen of circumstances, the thralls of conscience 
and of duty ? Where is he that is free ? 



apparent danger that would have discomposed 
their nerves and their dignity. Ladies of a 
certain age should not squall if they can help 
it. The spinsters of Belford had an itistinc- 
tive perception of the truth of this axiom ; 
and although Mr. Singleton, who liked the 
diversion of gudgeon-fishing, (the only fish- 
ing, as far as I can perceive, which requires 
neither trouble, nor patience, nor skill, and in 
which, if you put the line in, you are pretty j 
sure within a few minutes to pnll a fish out) 
— although Mr. Singleton, who liked this quiet 
sport, often tried to tempt his female friends j 
into a sober water-frolic, he never could suc- 
ceed. Water-parties were reserved for the 
families of the neighbourhood. 

And perhaps the ladies of Belford were the 
wiser of the two. Far he it from me to 
depreciate the water! writing as I am at 4 
o'clock, P. M. on the twenty-sixth of this hot, 
sunny, droughty August, 1834, in my own lit- 
tle garden — which has already emptied two 
ponds, and is likely to empty the brook, — my 
garden, the watering of which takes up half 
the time of three people, and which, although 
watered twice a day, does j'et, poor thing ! 
look thirsty — and, for my garden, prematurely 
shabby and old ;f and wfio, dearly as I love 
that paradise of flowers, have yet, under the 
influence of the drought, and the heat, and the 
glare of the sunshine, been longing all day 
to be lying under the great oak by the pool, at 
our own old place, looking through the green 
green leaves, at the blue blue sky, and listen- 
ing to the cattle as they plashed in the water; 
or better still, to he in IMr. Lawson's little 
boat — that boat which is the very model of 
shape and make, rowed by that boatmen of 
boatmen, and companion of companions, and 
friends of friends, up his own Loddon river, 
from tlie fishing-house at Aberleigh, his own 
beautiful Aberleigh, under the turfy terraces 
and majestic avenues of the park, and through 
that world of still, peaceful and secluded wa- 
ter meadows, where even the shy kingfisher, 
who retires before cultivation and population 
with the instinct of the Red Indian, is not 
afraid to make her nest, until we approach as 
nearly as in rowing we can approach to the 
main spring head (for, like the Nile, the Lod- 
don has many sources,) of that dark, clear, 
and brimming river; — or, best perhaps of all, 
to be tossing about as we were last Wednes- 
day, on the lake at Gore Mount, sailing, not 
rowing — that was too slow for our ambition — 

t Besides the great evils of a drought in the flower- 
garden, of dwarfing the blossoms — especially of the 
autumnal plants, lobelias, dahlias, &(;., which may 
almost be called semi-aquatic, so fond are they of 
water — and robbing roses, honeysuckles, and even 
myrtles of their leaves, — the very watering, which is 
esseiUial to their life, brings a host of enemies above 
ground and beneath, in the shape of birds ol all sorts 
pecking after worms, and rroles out of number fol- 
lowing the watering-pot. We have caught four of 
these burrowing creatures to-day in my little garden. 



380 



BELFORD REGIS. 



sailing at the rate of ten knots an hour, under I 
tlie truidanoe of the gallant Captain Lninley, > 
revelling in the light breeze and the inspiring < 
motion, delighted with the petty difficulties i 
and the pleasant mistakes of our good-hu- 
moured crew — landsmen who did not even 
understand the language of their brave com- 
mander — now touching at an island, now 
weathering a cape, enjoying to its very height 
the varied loveliness of that loveliest spot, and 
only lamenting that the day would close, and 
we 7nust land. I, for my part, could have 
been content to have floated on that lake for 
ever. 

Far be it from me, who have been all the 
morning longing, panting as it were, for the 
water, for its freshness, its coolness, its calm 
repose, its vivid life, to depreciate water-par- 
ties ! And yet, in this fickle climate of ours, 
where a warm summer is one rarity, and a dry 
summer is another, they are not often found to 
answer. To have a boat and a river as Mr. 
Lawson has, and his own thews and sinews 
for rowing, and his own good-will for the 
choice of time; or to command, as they do at 
Gore Mount, lake and boat and boatmen,* and 
party, so as to catch the breeze and the sun- 
shine, and the humour and inclination of the 
company ; to have, in short, the power of 
going when you like and how you like, — is 
the true way to enjoy the water. In a set 
expedition, arrranged a week or ten days be- 
forehand, tlie weather is commonly wet, or it 
is cold, or it is showery, or it is thundery, or 
it threatens to be one or other of these had 
things : and the aforesaid weather having no 
great reputation, those of the party who pique 
theiriselves on prudence shake their heads, 
and tap their barometers, and hum and ha, 
and finally stay at home. Or even if the 
weather be favourable, and the people well- 
assorted, (which by the by seldom happens,) 
twenty accidents may hajipen to derange the 
pleasure of the day. One of the inost pro- 
mising parties of that kind which I remember, 
was entirely upset by the casualty of casting 
anchor for dinner in the neighbourhood of 
three wasps' nests. Moving afterwards did 
no good, though, in mere despair, move of 
course we did. The harpies had got scent of 
the food, and followed and ate, and buzzed 
and stung, and poisoned all the comfort of the 
festival. There was nothing for it but to fling 
the dinner into the river, and row ofi" home as 
fast as possible. And even if these sort of 
mishaps could be guarded against (which 
they cannot,) boatino; is essentially a youthful 
amusement. The gentlemen should be able 
to row upon occasion, and the ladies to si^g; 
and a dance on the s>reen is as necessary an 
accessory to a water-party as a ballet to an 
opera. 



• Not indeed the Captain : tiiat was an accidental 
felicity. 



Now, as in spite of some occasional youth- 
ful visiter, some unlucky god-daughter, or 
much-to-be-pitied niece, the good ladies of 
Belford — those who formed its most select 
and exclusive society — were, it must be con- 
fessed, mostly of that age politely called un- 
certain, but which is to every eye, practised 
or unpractised, one of the most certain in the 
world ; they did very wisely to eschew ex- 
cursions on the broad river. Nobody not very 
sure of being picked up, should ever put her- 
self in danger of falling overboard. No lady 
not sure of beintj listened to, should ever ad- 
venture the peril of a squall. Accordingly, 
they stuck firmly to terra firma. 

The selection of places for a land expedition 
presented, however, considerable difficulties. 
One would have thought that the fair garrison 
of Belford might have made a sortie through 
any gate of the town, pretty much as it hap- 
pened, sure of meeting everywhere good roads 
and pleasant spots in a country full of green 
pastoral valleys watered by clear winding 
streams, of breezy downs and shady wood- 
lands. There was, however, always consid- 
erable hesitation, doubt, and delay in fixing 
on the favoured scene of their tranquil amuse- 
ment. Perhaps this difficulty made a part of 
the pleasure, by prolonging the discussion and 
introducing those little interludes o^ tracmscrie, 
and canvassing, and opposition — those pretty 
mockeries of care, which they who have no 
real trout)le are often found to delight in, stir- 
ring the tranquil waters of a too calm exist- 
ence, and setting intentionally the puddle in a 
storm. 

" Why, if the castle be too far," grumbled 
Miss Arabella Morris to her sister, " why not 
go to the gardens at Wyndhurst ? I dare say 
we could have our dinner in the Fishing-seat; 
and any thing would be better than that tire- 
some Warren House, where we have been for 
the last half-dozen years, and where there is 
no reason on earth for our going, that I can 
discover, except that Mrs. Colby's maid's 
father keeps the lodge, and that Dr. Fenwick 
likes the stewed carp. Why should we be 
managed by Mrs. Colby, I wonder? For my 
part, I have a great mind not to join the 
party," 

" Only think of our going to the W^arren 
House again !" said Lady Dixon, the not over- 
rich widow of a corporation knight,- to her 
cousin Miss Bates, who lived with her as a 
sort of humble companion; only think of that 
odious Warren House, when the Ruins are 
but three miles farther, and so much more 
agreeable — a pic-nic in the old walls ! — how 
nice that would be this hot weatiier, among | 
the iv)' and ash trees, instead of being stewed | 
up in the Warren House, just to please Mrs. j 
Colby ! It would serve her right if we were ; 
all to stay at home." ! 

And Miss Bates gave, as usual, a dutiful 
assent ; and yet Mrs. Colby had her way, and j 



COUNTRY EXCURSIONS. 



381 



to the Warren House they went — the two 
Misses Morris, Miss Blackall, Miss Bates, 
Lady Dixoii, Mrs. Colby herself, and the 
beaux of tlie party. 

Mrs. Colby was one of those persons whose 
indomitable self-will does contrive to carry all 
before it. She was a little, biistlingj woman, 
neitlier yonn^norold, neither pretty nor ufjly ; 
not lady-like, and yet by no means vulo^ar; 
certainly not well-read, but gettingr on all the 
better for her want of information, — not, as is 
the usual way, by pleadintr igrnorance, and ex- 
ajjgeratino; and lamentinoc her deficiency — but 
by a genuine and masterful contempt of ac- 
quirement in others, which made educated 
people, if tliey happened to be modest, actually 
ashamed of their own cultivation : " 1 'm no 
musician, thank God ! Heaven be praised, I 
know nothing of poetry !" exclaimed Mrs, 
Colby ; and her abashed hearers fell they had 
nothing to do but to "drown their books," and 
shut up the piano. 

For this influence she was indebted entirely 
to her own force of character and her natural 
shrewdness of mind ; since, so far were her 
pretensions to superiority from being borne 
out by fortune or position, that, moderately 
endowed with the gifts of fortune as her com- 
panions were, she was probably, by very 
much, the poorest amongst them, living in 
paltry lodgings with one solitary maid-servant ; 
whilst upon the very ticklish points of birth 
and gentility, her claims were still more 
equivocal, she having now resided ten years 
at Beiford without any one having yet dis- 
covered more of her history than that she was 
a widow : what her husband had been, or who 
was her father — whether she came from the 
east, the west, the north, or the south, still 
remained a mystery. Nobody had even been 
lucky enough to find out her maiden name. 

Of one thing her acquaintances were pretty 
sure, — that if her family and connexions had 
been such as to do her credit in society, Mrs. 
Colby was not the woman to keep them con- 
cealed. Another fact ap|)ears to me equally 
certain, — that if any one of the gossiping sis- 
terhood who applied themselves to the ex- 
amination of her history, had been half as 
skilful in such inquiries as herself, the whole 
story of her life — her birth, parentage, and 
education — would have been laid open in a 
month. But they were simple inquisitors, 
bunglers in the great art of meddling with 
other people's concerns, and Mrs. Colby baffled 
their curiosity in the best of all ways — by 
seeming perfectly unconscious of having ex- 
cited such a feeling. 

So completely did she evade speaking of 
her own concerns, (a subject which most peo- 
ple find particularly agreeable,) tlrat the fact 
of her widowhood had been rather inferred 
from the plain gold circlet on the third finger 
of the left hand, and a very rare and very 
slight mention of " poor Mr. Colby," than 



from any direct communication even to those 
with whom she was most intimate. Another 
fact was also inferred by a few shrewd ob- 
servers, who found amusement in watching 
the fair lady's manoeuvres, — namely, that al- 
thouofh when occasionally speaking of " poor 
Mr, Colby's" tastes and habits — such as his 
love of 'schalots with his beef-steak, and his 
predilection for red mullet — she had never 
failed to accompany those tender reminiscences 
with a decorous accompaniment of sighs and 
pensive looks, yet that she was by no means 
so devoted to the memory of her first husband, 
as to render her at all averse to the notion of 
a second. On the contrary, she was ap- 
parently exceedingly well-disposed to pay that 
sort of compliment to the happiness she had 
enjoyed in one marriage, which is comprised 
in an evident desire to try her fate in another. 
Whatever might have been her original name, 
it was quite clear to nice observers, that she 
would not entertain the slightest objection to 
change that which she at present bore, as 
soon as might be, provided always, that the 
exchange were, in a pecuniary point of view, 
sufficiently advantageous. 

Nice observers, as I have said, remarked 
this; but we are not to imagine that Mrs. 
Colby was of that common and vulgar race 
of husband-hunters, whose snares are so ob- 
vious, and whose traps are so glaring, that 
the simplest bird that ever was caught in a 
springe can hardly fail to be aware of his dan- 
ger. Our widow had too much tact for that. 
She went cautiously and delicately to work, 
advancing as stealthily as a parlour cat who 
meditates an attack upon the cream-jug, and 
drawing back as demurely as the aforesaid 
sagacious quadruped, when she perceives that 
the treasure is too well guarded, and that her 
attempts will end in detection and discom- 
fiture. 

It was only by slight indications that Mrs. 
Colby's designs be(;ame suspected : — for in- 
stance, her neighbour, Mr. Selwood, the at- 
torney, lost his wife, and Mrs. Colby imme- 
diately became fond of children, spent a world 
of money in dolls and gingerbread, and hav- 
inir made herself popular amongst all the 
young ladies and gentlemen of Beiford be- 
tween the ages of eight and two, established 
a peculiar intimacy with Misses Mary and 
Eliza, and Masters John and Arthur Selwood ; 
played at domino and cat's-cradle with the 
girls, at trap-ball and cricket with the boys; 
courted the nurse, was civil to the nursery- 
maid, and made as judicious an attack upon 
the ()apa's heart, through the medium of the j 
children, as could well be devised. She fail- j 
ed, probably because that worthy person, Mr. 
John Selwood, attorney-at-law, was not much 
troubled with the commodity commonly called 
a heart. He was a kind father and a good- 
humoured man ; but matrimony was with him 
as much a matter of business as with Mrs. j 



382 



BELFORD REGIS. 



Colby, and, about fourteen months after the 
death of his wife, he brought home as his 
spouse a wealthy maiden from a distant coun- 
ty, who was far from professing any inordi- 
nate love for children in general, and had 
never set eyes upon his, but who, neverthe- 
less, made as good a stepmother as if slie 
had played at trap-ball and cat's-cradle all the 
days of her life. 

Her next attempt was on a young physician, 
a bachelor, whose sister, who had hitherto 
kept his house, was on the point of marriage 
— an o|)portunity that seemed too good to be 
lost, there being no axiom more current in so- 
ciety than the necessity of a wife to a medi- 
cal man. Accordingly, she had a severe ill- 
ness and a miracuhjus recovery ; declared that 
the doctor's skill and assiduity had saved her 
life, became his prontuse in all the Belford 
coteries, got him two or three patients, and 
would certainly have cauglit her man, only 
that he happened to be Scotch, and was saved 
from the peril matrimonial by his national 
caution. 

Then she fixed her eye on a recruiting of- 
ficer, a man of some family, and reputed for- 
tune ; but he was Irish, and the national in- 
stinct saved him. 

Then she turned her attention towards Mr. 
Singleton, who, dear man, soon let her know, 
with his accustomed simplicity, that he could 
not possibly marry till he got a living. 

Then she resumed her fondness for children, 
which had lain in abeyance since Mr. Sel- 
wood's affair, on the occasion of an ex-curate 
of St. Stephen's setting up a higher chiss of 
preparatory school ; but it turned»out that he 
took the scliool to enable him to marry a wo- 
man whom he loved — and so that card failed 
her. 

Then she turned sickly again, (delicate is 
the more lady-like phrase,) in order to be 
cured by the ale of a rich old bachelor brew- 
er, and went about the town crying up his XX, 
as she had formerly done the doctor's drugs ; 
and then (for of course she did not catch the 
old bachelor) she carried all Belford to buy 
bargains of a smart linendraper just set up in 
the market-place, and extolled his ribands and 
muslin with as much unction as she had be- 
stowed on the brewer's beer, or the physician's 
prescriptions, or Mr. Selwood's hoys and 
girls ; but all in vain ! The linendraper play- 
ed her the worst trick of all. He was mar- 
ried already — married before ever he saw Bi^l- 
ford, or was patronized by Mrs. Colby. N. B. 
— I cannot help thinking that these two last 
conjectures are rather super-subtle, and hold 
with another particular friend of the lady's, 
(for they could only have been her very par- 
ticular friends who watclied with such amuse- 
ment and recorded with such fidelity her 
several failures and mortifications,) that her 
attentions to the XX and tlie linendrapery 
might be accounted for on other grounds; and 



that a desire to obtain a certain green shawl 
under prime cost, and a barrel of strong beer 
for nothing, in both which objects she succeed- 
ed, would supply a reasonable and character- 
istic motive for her puffery in both cases. 

One thing is certain : that after the series 
of fruitless schemes which we have enume- 
rated, Mrs. Colb)' seemed so far discouraged 
as to intermit, if not wholly relinquish, her 
designs on that ungrateful half of the creation 
called man, and to direct her entire attention 
to the softer-hearted and more imj)ressible sex 
to which she herself belonged. Disappointed 
in love, she devoted herself, as the fashion is 
amongst ladies of her class, to an exclusive 
and by no means unprofitable friendship. 

The friend on whom she pitched was one 
of the richest and simplest spinsters in all 
Belford. A good, harmless, comfortable wo- 
man, somewhat broader than she was high, 
round as a ball, smooth as satin, soft as silk, 
red as a rose, quiet as a dormouse, was Miss 
Blackall. Her age might be five-and-forty, 
or thereabout ; and to any one v.'ho knew her 
small wit and easy fortune, it was matter of 
some surprise that she shonid have lived so 
many years in the world without becoming, 
in some form or other, the prey of one of the 
many swindlers with whif.li the age abounds. 
She had, however, always been under some 
sort of tutelage, and had hitherto been lucky 
in her guardians. First of all, her father and 
mother took care of her ; and, when they 
died, her brother and sister; they marrying, 
consigned her to a careful duenna, who bore 
the English title of lady's-maid ; and, on her 
abdicating her post, Miss Blackall fell into 
the hands of Mrs. Colby. 

The reason of Mrs. Tabitha's leaving a 
family over which she ruled with iha absolute 
sway that in this country of fieedom is so 
often conceded to a lady's-maid, ( a race far 
more our mistresses than we are theirs,) was 
a quarrel with her lady's favourite parrot. 

Vert-vert (for this accomplished feathered 
orator was named after the hero of Cresset's 
delightful poem) was a bird of singular ac- 
quirement and sagacity, almost rivalling the 
parrot of whom so curious and entertaining 
an account is given in Mr. Jesse's charming 
Gleanings in Natural History. There was a 
spirit of dialogue in Vert-vert's fluent talk 
which really implied his understanding what 
was said to him. Not only did he, like the 
Irish echo in the story, answer " Very well, I 
thank you," to " How d'ye do ]" and so on 
with a hundred common questions — for that 
might proceed merely from an effort of mem- 
ory — from his having (in theatrical phrase) a 
good study, and recidlecting his cues as well 
as his part; but there was about him a power 
of holding a sustained and apparently sponta- 
neous conversation, which might have occa- 
sioned much admiration, and some perplexity, 
in wiser women than Miss Ulackall. 



COUNTRY EXCURSIONS. 



383 



In the matter of personal identity he was 
never mistaken. He would call the whole 
household by name, and was never known to 
confound one individual with another. He 
was a capital mimic, and had the faculty, pe- 
culiar to that order of wits, of counterfeiting 
not merely tone and voice, and accent and ex- 
pression, but even the sense or nonsense of the 
person imitated ; spoke as if the same mind 
were acting; upon the same organs, and poured 
forth not only such things as they ha'd said, 
but such as they were likely to say. The 
good-natured twaddle and drawling non-ideas 
of his mistress, for instance, who had rather 
less sense and fewer words than an ordinary 
child of tour years old ; the sharp acidity of 
Mrs. Tabitha, who, with every body but her 
lady, and sometimes with her, was a shrew of 
the first water, the slip-slop and gossiping of 
the housemaid, the solemn self-importance of 
the cook, and the jargon and mingled simpli- 
city and cunning of the black footman, — were 
all given to the life. 

To the black footman Vert-vert had origin- 
ally belonged, and it was mainly to the great 
fancy that jMiss Blackall at first siijht took to 
the bird, which, on offering himself as a can- 
didate for her service, he had had the shrewd- 
ness to bring with him, that Pompey owed the 
honour an'd happiness of exhibiting his shining 
face and somewhat clumsy person in a flam- 
ing livery of wliite and scarlet and silver lace, 
which set off his sooty complexion with all 
the advantage of contrast. She bought the 
bird and hired (he man; and from the first in- 
stant that Vert-vert's gorgeons cage swung in 
her drawing-room, the parrot became her prime 
favourite, and Mrs. Tabitha's influence was 
sensibly diminished. 

That this might occasion in the mind of the 
souhrette an unusual portion of ill-will, (which 
amiable feeling we rational beings generally 
reserve for the benefit of our own species,) is 
beyond all manner of doubt; and the parrot, 
who, amongst his other extraordinary gifts, 
had his fancies and aversions, with cause and 
without, and loved and hated like any Chris- 
tian — did not fail to return the compliment, 
and detested Mrs. Tabitha with all his heart. 
He was sure to bite her fingers whenever, in 
compliance with her lady's orders, she at- 
tempted to feed him; and mocked her, taunted 
her, and laughed at her in a manner which, as 
the unfortunate object of his jibes was wont 
to assert, was never heard of before in a fea- 
thered creature ! Well was it for Vert-vert 
that the days of witchery vi'ere gone by, or, 
most assuredly, Tabitha would have arraigned 
him before the tribunals of the land, and have 
had him roasted, feathers and all, as something 
" no' canny !" I am far from certain that she, 
for her particular part, did not really suspect 
I him of being something elfish or fiendish, — a 
sort of imp in disguise, sent into the world 
j for her especial torment ; and the sable colour 



of his quondam master served to confirm the 
impression. 

The immediate cause of offence was, it 
must be confessed, provoking enough. " Ta- 
bitha! Tabitha! Tabitha!" ejaculated the bird 
one day from his cage on the landing-place, 
as the damsel in question was ascending the 
stairs; "Tabitha, you're an old fright!" 

" What !" exclaimed the aflfronted damsel, 
remonstrating as if addressing a human being; 
" what is that you dare to say V 

" Look in the glass, Tabitha!" replied the 
parrot, swinging himself with great noncha- 
lance in the sort of wire circle suspended from 
the centre of his large and commodious gilt 
cage : " Look in the glass, and you 'II see a 
cross-grained, squinting, shrivelled old fright!" 

The allusion to her personal defects — for 
squint she did, and shrivelled, alas ! she was 
— increased, almost to frenzy, the ire of the 
incensed damsel. " Say that again," retorted 
she, " and I '11 wring your head off!" 

"Tabitha, you're an old fright!" repeated 
the bird ; " a sour, cross-grained, shrivelled 
old fright, Tabitha!" said Vert-vert, swinging 
and nodding, and swaying his neck from side 
to side; "Look in the glass, Tabitha !" 

And Tabitha was approaching the cage with 
dire intent, and Vert-vert mitfbt have rued his 
boldness, had not Miss Blackall from the 
drawing-room, and Pompey from the hall, 
rushed to the scene of contest, and rescued 
their favourite from the furious waiting-wo- 
man. 

Too much irritated to be prudent, she at 
once gave the lady the choice of parting with 
herself or the parrot ; and as there was no 
sort of comparison between the two in Miss 
Blackall's opinion, her warning was accepted, 
and off she went — all the sooner, because, 
during the short time she did stay in the 
house, her triumphant enemy continued to 
ejaculate, alternately, " Look in the glass, 
Tabitha !" and " Ugly, cross-grained, squint- 
ing old fright !" 

How the bird came by these phrases was a 
mystery, — unless, indeed, Mrs. Colby, who 
wished the duenna away that she might suc- 
ceed her in the management of her lady, might 
have had some hand in the business. Cer- 
tain it was, that any sentence, sharply and 
pungently spoken, was pretty sure to be caught 
up by this accomplished speaker, and that his 
poor inoflfensive mistress had several times 
got into scrapes by his reporting certain dis- 
agreeable little things which ha|)pened to be 
said in his presence, to the parties concerned. 
Vert-vert was the greatest scandal-monger in 
Belford ; and every body, except the persons 
aggrieved, cherished him accordintjly. 

From this time forth, Mrs. Colby became a 
sort of guardianess to Miss Blackall. She 
slept, indeed, at her own lodgings, but she 
lived almost constantly with her friend ; used 
her house, her carriage, her servants, her 



384 



BELFORD REGIS. 



table ; protected her from mercenary suitors, 
and seemed to have entirely relinqnished in 
her favour her own matrimonial desitrns — the 
more readily, perhaps, as her attempts in that 
line had been so sino^ularly unfortunate. 

Thus passed several years. At the time, 
however, of the meditated country excursion, 
Mrs. Colby had just admitted into her ever- 
teeminir brain another well-laid sclieme for 
changing her condition ; and the choice of the 
Warren House, at which the other ladies 
grumbled so much, was made, not for the 
gratification of her servant, whose family kept 
the house, but for the furtherance of her own 
plans, which were, as yet, wholly unsuspected 
in Bel ford. 

Dr. Fenwick loved the stewed carp of the 
Warren House, and to propitiate Dr. Fenwick 
was, at present, the great object of Mrs. Col- 
by, although he was about the last person 
whom she would ever have intended to honour 
with her hand, being almost as poor as her- 
self, and with no very great prospect of ever 
being richer. 

The doctor was a burly, pompous person- 
age, with large features, a large figure, a big 
voice, a slow, oracular mode of conversation, 
and a considerable portion of self-importance. 
What he could have been like when young, 
one can hardly imagine ; nor was it very 
easy to guess at his present age, for ever since 
he first came to Belfurd, a dozen years before, 
he had seemed exactly the same heavy, parad- 
ing, consequential Dr. Fenwick, with a buzz- 
wig and a shovel-hat, that he was at the 
moment of which we write. And yet this 
Strephon bad been, in his time, as great a for- 
tune-hunter as Mrs. Colby herself, and was 
said to have made, in one week, four offers, 
three of them being to Lady Dixon and the 
two Misses Morris. The swain was, how- 
ever, soon discouraged, and for many years 
appeared to have given up any design of mak- 
ing his fortune by matrimony, as completely 
as Mrs. Colby herself. 

For the rest, he was a good-natured man, 
with more sense than any one, judging from 
his egregious vanity, would have supposed. 
His way through life had been, although quite 
free from moral imputation, yet sufficiently 
out of the common course to hinder his pro- 
fessional advancement; since he had been, 
originally, an apothecary, then an army sur- 
geon, then a physician with a Scotch diploma, 
and then, finding medicine unprofitable, he 
contrived, through some chatuiel of interest, 
to get ordained, and now lived partly on his 
half-pay as army surgeon, and partly in of- 
ficiating as an occasional preacher in the dif- 
ferent parishes round about; for, in the pul- 
pit, although somewhat coarse, he was forcible 
and not ineloquent, and there was a kindness 
and simplicity about the man, in the midst of 
his pomposity, his vanity, and his Epicurean 
tastes, which, together with his thorouirh in- 



oflFensiveness, and his blameless character, 
ensured him considerable attention from the 
leading persons in the town. Ho had many 
old friends, also, of a respectable class in so- 
ciety, at whose houses he frequently made 
long visits ; and one of these, a gentleman of 
the name of Musgrave, descended, like the 
doctor, from an old family in the North, was, 
at this very time, his visiter in Belford, and 
the object of Mrs. Colby's secret hopes. 

Mr. Musgrave was really a delightful per- 
son ; shrewd, acute, lively, rich, and not at 
all too young or too handsome to make the 
union preposterous on the score of appearance. 
Since his arrival, too, the gentlemen had been 
assiduous in their visits and attentions ; they 
had dined at Mrs. Blackall's in company with 
Mr. Singleton, the day before the excursion. 
Vert-vert, aided, it was to be presumed, by a 
littl-e prompting, had vociferated on their 
names being announced, — "He's a fine 
preacher. Doctor Fenwick ! Pvlr. Musgrave 's 
a charming man !" — at which Mrs. Colby had 
blushed and cried "Fie!" and the doctor had 
chuckled, and the simple hostess had laughed, 
and Mr. Musgrave had given his friend a 
glance of much meaning; symptoms which 
were renewed more than once in the course 
of the evening, as the parrot, according to his 
general habit, was so pleased with his new 
phrase that he repeated it over and over again, 
until, fearing that even good, unsuspecting 
Mr. Singleton might take more notice than 
she wished, Mrs. Colby threw a green cloth 
over the cage, and the bird, after wishing the 
company "good night !" composed himself to 
rest. 

The next day was as fine as ever blessed 
an English party in chase of pleasure, and 
the company set forth in three carriages ; 
Lady Dixon and Mr. Singleton in the Miss 
Morrises' coach ; Mrs. Coll)y, with Miss 
Blackall, in her chariot; and Dr. Fenwick 
and Mr. Musgrave in a well-aj)[)ointed cur- 
ricle, (the fasliiona!)le vehicle of the day,) 
belonging to the latter. Vert-vert and Miss 
Bates were left behind. 

Arrived at the place of destination, the first 
business of this rural party was to discuss tlie 
stewed carp, the roast lamb, the ducks and 
green peas, and strawberries and cream, pro- 
vided for their refreshment; their second was 
to enjoy, after the several ways, the beautiful 
scenery amongst which they found themselves. 
Mr. Singleton, Lady Dixon, and the Misses 
Morris preferred the mode of sitting down to 
a rubber in tiie close room in which they had 
dined; the other four sallied forth into the 
air, Mrs. Colby taking Mr. Musgrave's arm, 
and Miss Blackall leaning on the doctor. 

The more alert and active pair soon out- 
stripped their heavier companions, and led 
the way across a narrow strip of broken com- 
mon, with old pollards scattered here and 
there, into a noble tract of woodland scenery, 



THE YOUNG SCULPTOR. 



385 



majestic oaks and elms, and beeches rising 
from thickets of the weeping birch, the horn- 
beam, the hawthorn, and the holly, varieafnted 
with the brier rose and the wild honeysuckle, 
bordered with fern and foxglove, and termi- 
nated by a maofnificent piece of water, almost 
a lake, whose picturesque shores, indented by 
lawny bays and wooded headlands, were as 
calm and tranquil as if the foot of man had 
never invaded their delicious solitude. Ex- 
cept the song of the wood-pigeon, the squirrel 
leaping from bough to bough overhead, and 
the shy rabbit darting across the path, the si- 
lence was unbroken ; and Mr. Musgrave and 
Mrs. Colby, who had the tact to praise, if not 
the taste to admire, the loveliness of the 
scene, found a seat on the fantastic roots of a 
great beech, and talked of the beauties of na- 
ture until summoned by the care of good Mr. 
Singleton to partake of a syllabub under the 
cow, with which the ruralities of the day 
were to conclude. 

On their return home, a slight difference 
was proposed by Mr. Musgrave in their tra- 
velling arrangements : Mrs. Colby accom- 
panied him in his curricle, and Dr. Fenwick 
took her place in Miss Blackall's carriage. 
The prospect seemed most promising: — but, 
alas for the vanity of human expectations ! 
Mr. Musgrave did not propose to Mrs. Colby ; 
and Dr. Fenwick, encouraged by Vert-vert's 
hint, did propose to Miss Blackall, — and was 
accepted on the spot, and married within the 
month ; and poor Mrs. Colby was fain to 
smother her disappointment, and smile through 
the bridal festivities, and teach Vert-vert to 
drink to the new-married couple, and draw 
bride-cake throua:h the wedding-ring. 



THE YOUNG SCULPTOR. 

For some time after the dreadful catastro- 
phe of the poor Abbe, the Friary Cottage was 
deserted by all except Mrs. Duval and poor 
Louis. The vulgar appetite for the horrible, 
in all its ghastly and disgusting detail, had 
not been so fully awakened then as it has 
been since by repeated exhibitions of murder 
in melo-dramas on the stage, and even in pen- 
ny and twopenny shows at fairs and revels — 
or by the still more exciting particulars, (with 
wood-cuts to illustrate the letter-press,) in the 
Sunday papers. Belford was too far from 
London to attract the hordes of inquisitive 
strangers, who flocked from the metropolis to 
Elstree, to contemplate the lane where Thur- 
tell slew his victim, or the house where the 
dreadful scene was planned ; and, to do the 
inhabitants of our town justice, the popular 
feeling both there and in the neighbourhood 
was one comprising too much genuine pity 
for the good old rnan, so inoffensive, so kind, 



and so defenceless — too much indignation 
against his murderer, and too sincere a sym- 
pathy w'ith his avengers, (for as such Louis 
and Bijou were considered,) to admit of the 
base alloy of vulgar curiosity. Every body 
would have been glad, to be sure, to make 
acquaintance with the boy and the dog who 
had cut so distinguished a figure in the jus- 
tice-room, — to know, and, if possible, to serve 
them; but there was a sort of respect — young 
lad and pastry-cook's son though he were — 
which forbade an intrusion on a grief so deep 
and so recent ; so that the gentry contented 
themselves with raising a handsome subscrip- 
tion for the boy, and patronizing his mother in 
the way of her trade ; whilst the common 
people satisfied their feeling of justice by at- 
tending the execution of Wilson, and pur- 
chasing and commentingr on the " Last dying 
Speech and Confession," which was written, 
and printed, and distributed for sale by some 
ingenious speculator in such commodities, 
the night before it purported to be spoken, 
and some copies actually vended in the coun- 
try villages, owing to a mistake of the time 
of execution, some hours before the criminal 
was brought out upon the scaffold. Having 
so assuaged their indignation, the excitement 
gradually subsided, and the murder of the 
poor priest sank into oblivion, like other tales 
of horror, a mere nine days' wonder ! One 
impression only seemed permanent: a shud- 
dering aversion to pass at night, or even by 
day, the picturesque ruins amongst which he 
had dwelt, and in the consecrated grounds be- 
longing to which his remains, in pursuance of 
a wish which he had expressed only a few 
weeks before the fatal night, had been interred. 
The persons who avoided the spot would have 
been puzzled to tell why, for it had been a 
favourite rendezvous with the inhabitants of 
Belford — a walk for the grown-up, a play- 
ground for the children; why they shunned 
it they could hardly have told, unless they 
had answered, in the words of the great poet, 
that 
" Something ail'd it now — the place was cursed." 
Mrs. Duval fretted over this desertion ; not 
so much from any decline in her business, for 
from the large orders of the neighbouring 
gentry she had as much as she could well 
manage ; but because her cheerful and social 
disposition felt the loneliness oppressive. It 
almost seemed, she said, as if the folk ran 
away from her; besides, she thought it too 
melancholy, (unketl was her word — and a 
most expressive word it is, combining loneli- 
ness, melancholy, dreariness, and vacuity — a 
more intense and positive feeling of mental 
weariness than ennui,') she thought it too 
unked for a boy of Louis's age, and wished to 
take advantage of her improved circumstances, 
and remove into the interior of the town, 
where her son would be near an excellent 
day-school, at which she proposed to place 



3.3 



2Y 



386 



BELFORD REGIS. 



him, and would be in the way of cheerful so- 1 
ciety in an evening. But Louis, with an ob- 
stinacy very unlike his greneral character, po- 
sitively refused to leave the Friary Cottage. 
The violence of his grief had of course abated 
after the detection and the execution of the 
murderer, and more particularly after he had 
ascertained, not merely from Wilson's confes- 
sion, but from the corroborating' testimony of 
Miss Smith's maid, that her carelessly men- 
tioning in a shop to which she was sent to get 
change for a five-pound note, that her mistress 
wanted gold to make up the amount of some 
money, which she was going to pay to the old 
French master, had been overheard by this 
ruffian, who was himself in the shop making 
some small purchase, and had been the actual 
cause of the murder. This discovery was an 
indescribable relief to Louis, who had been 
haunted by the fear that his own dear mother's 
unguarded expressions of terror at M. I'Abbe's 
intended return at night, and with a charge of 
money, after her repeated cautions and her 
dream, which story she had related at full 
length to every creature whom she had seen 
during the day, had in some way or other been 
the occasion of this horrible catastrophe. To 
be so fully assured that her indiscretion had 
not produced this tremendous result, proved 
an unspeakable comfort to the thoughtful and 
sensitive boy; but still his grief, although it 
had changed its violent and tumultuous cha- 
racter, and seemed fast settling into a fixed 
though gentle melancholy, appeared rather to 
increase than diminish. He shrunk from so- 
ciety of all kinds, especially the company of 
children, and evidently suffered so much both 
in mind and body when forced from his be- 
loved solitude, that his fond mother, fearful of 
risking the health, if not the life, of this pre- 
cious and only child, at length desisted from 
the struggle and left him to pursue his own 
inclinations in peace, much to the annoyance 
of Stephen Lane, who, having taken a great 
fancy to the boy, from the part he had acted 
in the discovery of the poor Abbe's body, and 
the detection of the murderer, had resolved to 
be his friend through life, and wished to begin 
his kindness at that very now, by putting him 
to school, or binding him apprentice, and gave 
the preference to the latter mode of proceeding. 
"Talk of his delicacy!" exclaimed the good 
butcher to poor Mrs. Duval, in a loud earnest 
tone, whicli, kind as his meaning was, and 
good-humoured as was the speaker, did cer- 
tainly sound a little like the voice of a man in 
a ]nission. " His delicacy, forsooth ! Won't 
your coddling make him more delicate 1 Deli- 
I cacy ! Nobody ever talked of such nonsense 
when I was a youngster. Why, before I was 
his age, I was head-boy with old Jackson, my 
wife's father tliat now is, — used to be up be- 
tween three and four of a morning, and down 
to the yard to help the men slaughter the 
beasts ; then back again to the Butts, to open 



the windows and sweep the shop ; then help 
cut out, then carry home the town orders ; — I 
should like to see Louis with such a tray of 
meat upon his head as I used to trot about 
with and think nothing of it! — then carry out 
the country orders, gallopintr with my tray 
before me like mad, ay, half over the county 
at a sweep ; then drive- the cart to fetch home 
the calves; then see to the horses ; then feed 
the beasts ; then shut up shop ; then take a 
scamper through the streets for my own diver- 
sion ; go to bed as fresh as a four-year-old, 
and sleep like a top. There 's a day's work 
for you ! Just send Louis down to the Butts, 
and I '11 make a man of him ; take hitn 'pren- 
tice for nothing, feed and clothe and lodge 
him, and mayhap, by and by, give him a 
share of the business. Only send him to 
me." 

" But, Mr. Lane," interposed Mrs. Duval, 
"poor Louis does not like butchering; he has 
not the heart to kill a worm, and would never 
do in that line of business, I'm sure." 

" More fool he !" ejaculated Stephen. 
" Heart, indeed ! As if butchers were harder- 
hearted than other folk ! I'll tell you what, 
Mrs. Duval, no good will come to the boy 
whilst you let him sit moping all day with a 
book in his hand amongst those ruins. Move 
yourself off ! Get into the middle of the town, 
and wean him from that dismal place alto- 
gether. Delicate, quotha ! Well he may, 
such a life as he leads there, sitting upon the 
poor old man's grave along with the little 
dog, just like two figures on a tonibstone. As 
to the poor brute, I don't blame him, because 
't is his instinct, poor dumb thing, and he can't 
help it; but Louis can — or you can for him, 
if you will. Dang it !" continued the honest 
butcher, warming as he pursued his harangue; 
" dang it ! you women folk are all alike, young 
and old. There is my daughter Bessy — I 
caught her this very morning coaxing young 
Master Stephen to let the maid wash him, and 
my young gentleman squalled, and kicked, and 
roared, and would have coaxed and scolded, 
if he could but ha' spoke ; and mother, and 
grandmother, and nurse, were all going to put 
off the washing till another time, for fear of 
throwing the urchin into fits, he being delicate, 
forsooth ! when I came in and settled the mat- 
ter, by whipping up young master, and fling- 
ing him into the water-tub in tlie yard before 
you could say 'Jack Robinson ;' and Dr. Da- 
vies says I was right, and that my sousing 
will do the boy more good than all their cod- 
dling with warm water. So the young gen- 
tleman is to be ducked every morninir, and the 
doctor says that in a month he'll have cheeks 
like a rose. Now this is what you should do 
with Louis." 

" What! duck him I" inquired ]Mrs. Duval, 
smiling. 

" No, woman !" replied Stephen, waxing 
wroth, " but get away from this dreary place. 



THE YOUNG SCULPTOR. 



387 



and fling him amongst other boys. Put him 
to school for a year or two, if he is such a 
fool as not to like the butchering line; I'll pay 
the expense, aiid we'll see what else we can 
put him to when he 's of a proper age. Only 
leave that old Friary. No good can come to 
either of you whilst you stay there." 

" Well, and I wish to leave the ruins, I as- 
sure you, Mr. Lane, and I cannot thank you 
enough for your kindness towards Louis," re- 
turned the affectionate mother ; " but the poor 
boy falls sick if he's taken away for a day; 
and then sometimes I think he may be right, 
on account of my dream." 

" Your dream !" exclaimed Stephen. " Is 
the woman mad I" 

" Did you never hear," resumed Mrs. Du- 
val, taking no notice of this civil ejaculation, 
" that I dreamt of Louis' finding a pot of gold 
in the ruins'? and you know how true my 
dream about the wolves falling upon the 
poor Abbe turned out — so that 1 sometimes 
think " 

" The woman 's crazy !" interrupted Mr. 
Lane, sailing off; for this discussion had 
taken place at the small gate leading up to 
the cottage : — "she's madder than a March 
hare! one might as well attempt to drive a 
herd of wild bulls along the turnpike road, as 
to bring her round to common sense ; so she 
may manage matters her own way, for I 've 
done with her." And oif marched Stephen 
Lane. 

His description of Louis and Bijou was not 
much unlike the truth. The faithful dog, 
with the remarkable instinct which character- 
izes his race, lay for hours and hours on the 
simple flag-stone marked only with his name 
and the date of his death (that of his birth 
being unknown) which covered the remains 
of his master. And, reclining beside him on 
the same stone, sat his equally faithful com- 
panion, sometimes reading one of the good 
Abbe's books, which unclaimed by any rela- 
tion, and no will having been found, had been 
consigned by the local authorities to the care 
of Mrs. Duval ; sometimes pursuing, with 
irregular but successful ardour, the studies 
marked out for him by his venerable instruc- 
tor; and often sketching designs for a monu- 
ment, which it was the object of his affec- 
tionate day-dreams to erect to his memory. 
Gradually, however, his designs extended to 
other objects. Louis's talent for drawing was 
remarkable; and as he had inherited a little 
of his mother's superstition — and encouraged, 
it may be, in the present instance, by the 
verification of the bad dream, had formed his 
own version of the good — tiie pencil soon be- 
came his principal occupation. If Stephen 
Lane had heard to the end of the story of 
dreaming of a pot of gold, and finding an old 
paint-pot, and had happened to have had any 
faith in the legend, he would have construed 
it differently, and have bound Louis upon the 



spot either to a glazier and house-painter, or 
to an oil and colourman : but the boy, as I 
said before, put his private interpretation on 
the vision, and as prophecies sometimes work 
their own accomplishment, so did it bid fair 
to prove in this case, since by repeated and 
assiduous and careful coj)ying of the romantic 
buildings and the fine natural scenery about 
him, he was laying the foundation of an art- 
ist's education, by at once acquiring facility 
and certainty of drawing, and a taste for the 
beautiful and the picturesque. Thus occupied, 
and with the finest books in French literature 
— and Louis read French like English, and 
some of the easier classics to occupy him — 
he never had dared to open the Horace which 
seemed like a sacred legacy, — days and weeks 
passed on, and, with no apparent change in 
the habits, a silent amelioration was taking 
place in the mind of the pensive boy, on 
whom time was working its usual healing ef- 
fect, taking the sting from grief and the bitter- 
ness from memory, (" the strong hours con- 
quer us" — why should we resist them .') when 
a circumstance occurred, which tended more 
than anything could have done to divert his 
attention and soothe his sorrow. — A new lodger 
offered himself at the Friary Cottage, and of 
all the lodgers that could have been devised, 
one the most congenial to his disposition, and 
the most calculated to foster and encourage 
his predominant pursuit. 

He was sitting among the ruins as usual, 
one fine morning early in May, attempting, for 
the twentieth time, to imitate on paper the 
picturesque forms, and the contrasted, yet 
harmonious, colouring of a broken arch gar- 
landed with ivy, whose dark shining wreaths 
had straggled from the old stone-work to a 
tall pear-tree in full blossom that overhung it, 
breaking with its pale green leaves and its 
ivory blossoms the deep blue of the almost 
cloudless sky, — when his mother called him 
to a young gentleman, who wished, she said, 
to sketch the great window, and who, after 
sufficient conversation with her to prove his 
good-breeding and good feeling, sat down to 
the task which had so often taxed the poor 
boy's simple skill. The stranger brought to 
it talent, practice, taste. The work grew un- 
der his hand, and in two hours, which seemed 
but two minutes to Louis, to whom he had 
been talking most kindly during the greater 
part of the time, he produced a drawing, free, 
vigorous, and masterly beyond any that his 
youthful admirer had ever beheld, 

" You must be a great artist !" exclaimed 
the boy, involuntarily, returning the sketch 
after a long examination, his eyes sparkling, 
and his cheeks glowing with generous fer- 
vour ; " for as young as you look, you must 
be some great painter." 

" Not a painter, certainly, nor a great artist," 
replied the stranger, smiling. " I am a young 
sculptor, or rather a student of sculpture, 



388 



BELFORD REGIS. 



driven by medical advice into the country, 
and in search of some cheap, quiet, airy lod^- 
injr; — if your apartments are vacant, and 
your mother would venture to take into her 
house an unknown youth — " And, in five 
minutes, the affair was settled, and Henry 
Warner established as an inhabitant of the 
Friary Cottage. 

To a boy like Louis the companionship of 
such a person as Henry Warner — for, in spite 
of the differences of station, ajje, and acquire- 
ment, companions they speedily became — 
proved not only an almost immediate cure for 
his melancholy, but an excellent although un- 
conscious education. 

The young sculptor was that rare thing, a 
man of genius, and of genius refined and 
heightened by cultivation. His father had been 
a clerk in a public office, and having only one 
other child, an elder daughter comfortably 
married in her own rank of life, he devoted 
all that could be spared of his own income to 
the improvement of his promising boy, send- 
ing him first to a public school, then to the 
Royal Academy, and from thence to Italy ; 
but even at the nioment that he was rejoicing 
over a printed letter dated Rome, which men- 
tioned Henry Warner as likely to become a 
second Canova, apoplexy, caused, perhaps, 
by the very excess of pleasurable excitement, 
seized him with that one fatal, and therefore 
merciful grasp, with which that tremendous 
disease sometimes sweeps av^-ay the hardiest 
and the strongest. He died, leaving his be- 
loved son to struggle witn the penury which 
he was by nature and by temperament |)e- 
culiarly unfitted either to endure or to sur- 
mount. 

On his return to England, Henry found 
himself alone in the world. His mother had 
long been dead ; and his sister, a well-mean- 
ing, but vulgar-minded person, differing from 
him in appearance, intellect, and character — 
as we often see, yet always with something 
like surprise, in children of the same parents 
— and married to a man still coarser than lier- 
self, had no thought or feeling in common 
with him, could not comprehend his hopes, 
and was more than half tempted to class his 
habits of patient observation, of strenuous 
thought, and of silent study, under the one 
sweeping name of idleness. She could not 
understand the repetition of effort and of fail- 
ure which so often lead to the highest excel- 
lence; and, disap])oinfed in the sympathy of 
his only relation — the sympathy which, above 
all others, would havesootlied him, our young 
artist, after collecting the small remains of his 
father's property, withdrew from a house 
where he suspected himself to be no longer 
welcome, and plunged at once into the mighty 
sea of London. 

His first outset was unexpectedly prosper- 
ous. A nobleman of acknowledged taste, 
whom he had met at Rome, not only pur- 



chased a bust of the Grecian Helen, in which 
he found or fancied a resemblance to his 
youngest and favourite child, but engaged him 
to accompany his family to their couniry-seat, 
and execute a grouj) of his two daughters, 
then on the point of marriage. 

Tiie group was most successfully begun — 
one figure quite finished, and the other nearly 
so, and the nuptials of the elder sister were 
celebrated with all due splendour, and adorned 
by the varied talents of the accomplished 
sculptor, who united strong musical taste to a 
slight turn for lyrical poetry, and poured forth 
his united gifts with unbounded prodigality 
on this happy occasion. But, a few days be- 
fore that fixed for the marriage of the young 
and lovely Lady Isabel, the artist, whose 
manner had latterly assumed a reckless gaiety 
little in accordance with his gentle and modest 
character, suddenly quitted the Hall, leaving 
behind him the fine work of art, now so near 
its completion, and a letter to the Earl, which 
excited strange and mingled feelings in the 
breast of his nolile patron. " W^ayward, pre- 
sumptuous, yet honourable boy !" was his in- 
ternal exclamation, as the open and artless 
questions of the unconscious Isabel, who 
wondered with a pretty and almost childish 
innocence why a person whom she liked so 
much should leave her figure unfinished and 
run away from her wedding, convinced the 
anxious father that the happiness of his favour- 
ite child was uninjured. The nuptials were 
solemnized ; the noble family returned to 
Italy ; and Henry Warner, retiring to his 
London lodgings, strove to bury thought and 
recollection in an entire and absorbing devo- 
tion to his great and noble art. 

From this point, his history was but a series 
of misfortunes — of trembling hopes, of bitter 
disappointments, of consuming anxiety, and 
final despair. Every one knows the difficulty 
with which excellence in art bursts, often as 
it seems by some casual accident, through the 
darkness of obscurity and the crowd of com- 
petition. Doubtless many a one has felt, as 
Henry Warner felt, the aching, burning con- 
sciousness of unrecognised genius — tlie ago- 
nizing aspiration after the fame, always within 
view, yet always eluding his pursuit. Mr. 
Moore, in one of the finest songs that even he 
ever wrote, has depicted a glittering vessel, 
laden with fairy treasures, sailing lightly over 
a summer sea, followed by a little boat rowed 
by one single mariner, closely chasing, yet 
never overtaking, the phantom bark. The 
sun rises, and the sun sets, and still sees the 
magic ship floating onward, and the solitary 
boatman labouring after at one unvaried dis- 
tance, ever near, but never nearer — wearing 
away life and strength for an illusion that 
mocks whilst it allures. That lonely mariner 
might be the type of many an artist of high 
hut unacknowledged talent, more especially of 
many a young sculptor, since in that pure and 



THE YOUNG SCULPTOR. 



389 



ofty branch of art there is no room for second- 
rate merit, no middle path between hopeless 
obscurity and splendid reputation. 

To attain this proud eminence was not the 
destiny of Henry Warner. With funds al- 
I most exhausted, a broken constitution, and a 
; half-broken iieart, he left the great city — so 
I dreary aud so desolate to those who live 
j alone, uncheered by bosom sympathy, unsooth- 
I ed by home affection — and retired to Belford, 
j as his medical adviser said, to recruit his 
! health — as his own desponding spirit whis- 
{ pered, to die ! 

I At the Friary Cottage he found unexpected 
I comfort. The quiet was delightful to him ; 
the situation, at once melancholy and pictu- 
resque, fell in with his taste and his feelings; 
and with the cheerful kindness of Mrs. Duval 
and the ardent adiniration of her enthusiastic 
boy, it was impossible not to be gratified. 

Henry was hiinself one of those gifted 
persons who seem born to command atTection. 
The griefs that were festering at the core, 
never appeared upon the surface. There all 
was gentle, placid, smiling, aliBost gay; and 
the quickness with which he felt, and the 
sweetness with which he acknowledged, any 
trilling attention, would have won colder 
hearts than those of Louis and his mother. 
The tender charm of his smile and the sunny 
look of his dark eyes were singularly pleas- 
ing, and without being regularly handsome, 
his whole countenance had a charm more cap- 
tivating than beauty. Sweetness and youth- 
fulness formed its prevailing expression, as 
grace was the characteristic of his slight and 
almost boyish figure ; although a phrejiologist 
would have traced much both of loftiness and 
power in the Shaksperian pile of forehead and 
the finely-inoulded head. 

His conversation was gentle and unpretend- 
ing, and occasionally, when betrayed into 
speaking on his own art, fervent and enthusi- 
astic. He talked little, as one who had lived 
much alone, jireferring to turn over the French 
and Latin books of which the poor Abbe's 
small lil)rary consisted, or buried in " Haley's 
Essay on Sculpture," a chance-fouiid volume, 
of which not merely the subject, but the feel- 
ings under which the poem was written, par- 
ticularly interested him ;* or forming plans for 



*The Letters on Sculpture were addressed to Flax- 
man, whose pupil, Thomas Haley, the poet's only 
son, was, ciiiriiig the time of their composition, rapidly 
declining of a lingering ami painfiil disease. He did 
actually die between the completion and the publica- 
tion ot' the poem ; and the true and strong expression 
of the father's grief for the sufferings and death of 
this amiable and promising youth, is lo me singularly 
affecnng. It is very old-tiishioned to like the writ- 
ings of Haley, who paid in the latter part of his career 
the usual penalty lor having been over-praised in his 
earlier days, and is now seldom mentioned but as an 
object of ridicule and scorn; but, set aside the great 
and varied learning of his notes, I cannot help feeling 
some kindness (or the accomplished and elegant schol- 
ar who in his greater works, the Essays on History, 



new works, which, under the temporary re- 
vival caused by change of scene, and of air, 
he in his happier moments began to think it 
possible that he might live to complete. 

His great pleasure, however, was in ram- 
bling with Louis through the lanes and mea- 
dows, now in the very prime and pride of 
May, green and flowery to the eye, cool and 
elastic to the tread, fresh and fragrant to the 
scent, pleasant to every sense; or in being 
rowed by him in a little boat (and Louis was 
a skilful and indefatigable waterman) amongst 
the remotest recesses of the great river ; be- 
tween beech-woods with the sunbeams wan- 
dering with such an interchange of light and 
shadow over the unspeakable beauty of their 
fresh young tops ; or through narrow channels 
hemmed in by turfy hills and bowery islets, 
beautiful solitudes from which the world and 
the world's w^oe seemed excluded, and they 
and their little boat sole tenants of the bright 
water, into whose bosom the blue skj' shone 
so peacefully, and whose slow current half 
seemed to bear along the slender boughs of 
the weeping willow as they stopped to kiss 
the streain. 

In such a scene as this, Henry's soothed 
spirit would sometimes bur^ into song — such 
soug as Louis felt no one had ever heard be- 
fore. It was in truth a style of singing as 
rare as it was exquisite, in which effect was 
completely sacrificed to expression, and the 
melody, however beautiful, seemed inerely an 
adjunct to the most perfect and delicious re- 
citation. Perhaps none but the writer of the 
words (and yet, considered as poetry, the 
words were trifling enough) could have afford- 
ed to make that round and mellow voice, and 
that consummate knowledge of nausic, that 
extraordinary union of taste and execution, 
so entirely secondary to the feeling of the 
verse. 

One great charm of Henry's singing was 
its spontaneity — the manner in which, excited 
by the merest trifle, it gushed forth in the 
middle of conversation, or broke out after a 
long silence, " How sweetly that skylark 
sings !" cried Louis one inorniiig, laying aside 
his oar that he might listen at his ease — " and 
the deep-soothing cooing of the wood-pigeon, 
and the sighing of the wind, and the rippling 
of the waters ! How delightful are all na- 
tural sounds !" 

"Ay," rejoined Henry — 

"There is a pure and liolj' spell 
In all sweet sounds on earth that dwell: 
The pleasant hum of the early bee, 
As she plies her cheerful industry ; 



on Kpic Poetry, on Painting, and on Sculpture, has I 
communicated so agreeably, so rich a siore of in- , 
formation, and whose own ODservalmns are always so 
just, so candid, and so honourable — so full of a tern- | 
pered love of liberty, and of the highest and purest j 
admiration for all that is great and beautiful in lilera | 
ture or in art. i 



33 



390 



BELFORD REGIS. 



The whir of the mailed beetle's wing, 
Sailing lieavily by at evening; 
Anil the nighlingiile, so poets say> 
Wooing the rose in his matchless lay. 

There is a pure and holy sfiell 
In all svveel sounds on earth that dwell ; 
The Indian shell, whose faithful strain 
Echoes the song of the distjuit mam ; 
The streamlet gurgling through the trees. 
The welcome song of the cool night-breeze ; 
'I'he cataract loud, tlie tempest high, 
Hath each its thrilling melody." 

" Yes," continued Louis, after warmly 
thankinur the sincrer — for thoiish the matter 
was little, the manner was much — "Yes! 
and how much beauty there is in almost every 
scene, if peo|)le had but the faculty, not of 
looking for it — that were too much to expect 
— but of seeing it when it lies before them. 
Look at the corner of that meadow as it comes 
sloping down to the water, with the cattle 
clustered under the great oak, and that little 
thicket of tlowery hawthorn and shining holly, 
and golden-blossomed brown, with the tangled 
sheepwalk threading it, and forming a bower 
fit for any princess." 

Again Henry answered in song : 

" She lay beneath the forest shade 

As 'midst its leaves a lily fair — 
Sleeping she lay, young Kalasrade, 

Nor dreamt that mortal hover'd there. 
All as she slept, a sudden smile 

Flay'd round her lips in dimpling grace, 
And softest blushes glanced the while 

In roseate beauty o'er her face ; 
And then those blushes pass'd away 

F'rom her pure cheek, nnd Kalasracie 
Pale as a new-blown lily l,>y, 

Slumbering beneath ilie forest shade. 

Oh ! lovely was that blush so meek, 

That smile half playful, half demure. 
And lovelier still that pallid cheek — 

That look so gentle, yet so pure. 
I left her in her purity. 

Slumbering beneath the (i)rest glade; 
I fear'd to meet her waking eye, 

The young, the timid Kalasrade. 
I left her ; yet by day, by night, 

Dwells in my soul that image fair, 
Madd'ning as thoughts of pnst delight, 

As guilty hope, as fierce despair." 

" Is that subject quite imaginary ]" Louis 
at last ventured to inquire, taking care, how- 
ever, from an instinctive delicacy, that he 
would have found it difficult to account for, to 
resume his oar and turn away from Henry as 
he spoke — " or did you ever really see a sleep- 
ing beauty in a bower, such as I was fancy- 
ing just now ■?" 

" It is and it is not imaginary, Louis," re- 
plied Henry, sighing deeply ; " or rather, it 
is a fancy piece, grounded, as rhymes and 
pictures often are, on some slight foundation 
of truth. Wandering in the neighbourhood 
of Rome, I strayed accidentally into the pri- 
vate grounds of an English nobleman, and 
saw a beautiful girl sleeping as 1 have de- 
scribed under a bay tree, in the terraced Italian 



garden. I withdrew as silently as possible, 
the more so as I saw another young lady, her 
sister, approaching, who, in endeavouring to 
dispose a branch of the bay-tree, so as to 
shelter the fair sleeper from the sun, awaken- 
ed her." 

" What a subject for a group !" exclaimed 
Louis. " Did you never attempt to model the 
two sisters '!" 

" It is a fine subject," replied Henry ; " and 
it has been attetnpted, but not completed. Do 
you not remember singliiiQ out a sketch of the 
recumbent figure, the other day, when you 
were turning over my drawings!" 

"Yes, and saying how like it was to the 
exquisite bust marked 'EAENH. — Helena I 
But all your female figures are more or less 
like that Helen. She is your goddess of 
beauty." 

" Perhaps so," rejoined Henry. " But where 
are we now 1 Is this the old church of Castle- 
bar which you were promising to show me, 
with its beautiful tower, and the great yew 
trees'? Yes, it must be. You are right in 
your adiniration, Louis. That tower is beau- 
tiful, with its fine old masonry, the quaint 
fantastic brickwork left, to the honour of the 
rector's taste, in the rich tinting of its own 
weather-stains, undaubed by whitewash, and 
contrasting so gracefully with the vivid fo- 
liage of that row of tall limes behind. A 
strange tree for a churchyard, Louis, the 
honeyed, tasselled lime ! And yet how often 
we see it there blending with the dark funeral 
yew — like life with deatii ! 1 should like to 
be buried there." 

" Nay," said Louis, " a churchyard is some- 
times devoted to gayer |)urposes than burials. 
Hark ! even now !" and as he spoke the bells 
struck up a merry peal, the church-door open- 
ed, and the little procession of a rustic wed- 
ding, — the benign clergyman looking good 
wishes, the smirking clerk, the hearty jolly 
bridal-father, the simpering bride-maidens, the 
laughing bridesmen — and the pretty, blushing, 
iTiodest bride, listening with tearful smiles to 
the fond and happy lover-husband, on whose 
arm she hung — issued from the porch. "I 
should like just such a v.ife as that myself," 
added Louis, talking of marrying as a clever 
boy of thirteen likes to talk ;* " should not 
you?" 

'' It was somewhere about that ripe age that a very 
clever friend of mine, travelling in the IVorth with a 
young clergyman, his private tutor, wrote to his mo- 
ther a letter beginning as fidlovvs: 

'• Gretna Green, Thursday. 
" My dear mother, — Here we are, in the very land 
of love and malrimony; and it is a thousand pities 
that my little wife is not here with us, for Mr. G. 
being at hand, we could strike up a wedding without 
loss of lime, and my fiilher and Mr. J^. would have 
nothing to do but to settle the income and the dowry 
at their leisure." So lightly are those matters con- 
sidered at thirteen ! At ihree-and-lhirty, the case is 
altered. 



THE YOUNG SCULPTOR. 



391 



! But Henry made no answer — he was musing- 
on another wedding ; and after a silence of 
some duration, in the course of which they 
had rowed away almost out of hearing of the 
joyous peal that still echoed merrily from the 
church-tower, he broke again into song: 

" Forth the lovely bride ye bring: 
Gayest flowers before her fling, 
Fruni your high-piled baskets spread, 
Maidens of the tairy tread ! 
Strew tiiem far and wide, and high, 
A rosy shower 'twixt earth and sky. 

Strew about! strew about! 
Larkspur trim, and [xjppy dyed, 
And ih^ak'd carnation's bursting pride, 

Slrew about! strew about! 
Dark-eyed pinks, with fringes light, 
Rich geraniums, clustering bright. 

Strew about! strew about! 
Flaunting pea, and harebell blue. 
And daniask-rose, of deepest hue. 
And purest Idies, Maidens, strew ! 

Sircw about! strew about! 

Home the lovely bride ye bring: 
Choicest flowers belore her fling. 
Till dizzving streams of rich perfume 
Fill the lofty banquet room! 
Strew the tender citron there; 
The crush'd magnolia proud and rare, 

Strew about! strew about! 
Orange blossoms newly dropp'd, 
Chains from high acacia cropp'd, 

Strew about! strew about! 
Pale musk-rose, so light and line, 
Cloves and stars of jessamine, 

Strew about! sirevv about! 
Tops of myrtle, wet with dew, 
Nipp'd where the leaflet sprouts anew, 
Fragrant bay-leaves, Maidens, strew, 

Strew about! strew about."* 

Louis was about to utter soine expression 
of admiration, which the ringing, air, and the 
exquisite taste and lightness of the. singing, 
well deserved, when he perceived that the 
artist, absorbed in his own feelings and re- 
collections, was totally unconscious of his 
presence. Under the influence of such asso- 
ciations, he saner, with a short pause between 
them, the two following airs: 

" They bid me strike the harp once more, 
My gayest song they bid me pour. 
In pealing notes of minstrel pride 
They bid me hail Sir Hubert's bride. 
Alas! alas! the nuptial strain 
Falternig I try and try in vain; 
'Twas pleasaiU once to wake its spell — 
But not for Lady Isabel. 

They bid me vaimt in lordly lay 

Sir Hubert's mien and spint gay. 

His wide demesnes and lineage high, 

And all the pride of chivalry. 

Alas! alas! the knighily lay 

In trembling murmurs dies away; 

'T were svteet the warrior's lame to tell — 

But not to Lady Isabel. 



* This song and one or two of the others belong to 
two forthcoming operas, already set to music under the 
auspices of the authoress. She has thoucht it right to 
mention this fact to prevent the possibility of their 
b'lins; selected for such an honour by any other com- 
poser. 



They bid me blend in tenderest song 

The lover's fears, unutter'd long. 

With the bold bridegroom's rapturous glee, 

And vows of endless constancy. 

Alas! alas! my voice no more 

Can tale of happy passion pour; 

To love, to joy, a long farewell ! — 

Yet blessings on thee, Isabel!" 



" Bless thee ! I may no longer stay ! 
No longer bid thee think on me 
I cannot 'bide the bridal day — 
But, Helen, I go blessing thee. 

Bless thee! no vow of thine is broke; 
I ask'd not thy dear love for me ; 

Though tears and sighs and blushes spoke- 
Yet, Helen, I go blessing thee. 

Bless thee ! yet do not quite forget ; 

Oh, sometimes, sometimes pity me ! 
My sun of life is early set — 

But, Helen, I die blessing thee." 

And then the minstrel sank into a silence 
too sad and too profound for Louis to venture 
to interrupt, and the lady — for Kalasrade, Isa- 
bel, or Helena, ('EAENH,) was clearly one — 
the Helen of the lover's thought was never 
again mentioned between them. 

His spirits, however, continued to amend, 
although his health was fluctuating; and hav- 
ing, at length, fixed on the Procession in hon- 
our of Pan, from Keats's "Endyinion," as 
the subject of a great work in basso-relievo, 
and having contrived, with Louis' assistance, 
to fit up a shed in the most retired part of the 
ruins, as a sort of out-of-door studio, he fell 
to work with the clay and the modelling tools 
with an ardour and intensity partaking, per- 
haps, equally of the strength of youth and the 
fever of disease, of hope and of despair. 

These mixed feelings were in nothing more 
evinced than in the choice of his subject; for 
eminently suited as the passage in question j" 
undoubtedly was to his own classical taste 
and graceful execution, it is certain that he 
was attracted to the author, not merely by his 
unequal and fitful genius, his extraordinary 1 
pictorial and plastic power, but by a sytripa-l 
thy, an instinctive sympathy, with his destiny. | 
Keats had died young, and with his talent un- [ 
acknowledged, — and so he felt should he. j 

In the mean while, he laboured strenuously 
at the Endymion, relinquishing his excursions 
on the water, and confining his walks to an 
evening ramble on Sunham Common, pleased 
to watch Bijou (who had transferred to our 
artist much of the allegiance which he had 
formerly paid to his old master, and even pre- 
ferred him to Louis) frisking among the gorse, 
or gaiTibolling along the shores of the deep 
irregular pools, which, mingled with islets of 
cottages and collage-gardens, form so pic- 
turesque a foreground to the rich landscapes 
beyond. 

Better still did he love to seek the deep 



* \'ide note 1, at the end of the paper. 



392 



BELFORD REGIS, 



solitude of the double avenue of old oaks that 
skirted the upper part of the common ; and 
there — 

" Like hermit, near his cross of stone, 
'J'o |>nce at eve ihe silent turf alone. 
And softly breathe, or inlv muse a prayer." 

li/ti/nied Plea for Tolermire* 

More filtinor place for such meditation he 
could hardly liave found than that broad ave- 
nue of columned trunlcs, the bontrhs arching 
over his head, a natural temple! the shadows 
falling heavily as between the pi) hired aisles 
of souie dim cathedral, and the sunbeams just 
glinting through the massive foliage, as if 
piercing the Gothic tracery of some pictured 
window. The wind came sweeping along the 
branches, with a sound at once solemn and 
soothing ; and to a mind high-wrought and 
fancy-fraught as Henry's, tlie very song of the 
birds, as they sought their nests in the high 
trees, had something pure and holy as a ves- 
per-hymn. 

The sweetest hour in all the day to Henry 
Warner was that of his solitary walk in the 
avenue. Quite solitary it was always ; for 
Louis had discovered that this was the only 
pleasure which his friend wished to enjoy un- 
shared, and with instinctive delicacy contrived 
to keep away at that hour. 

The only person who ever accosted Henry 
on these occasions was our good friend Stephen 
Lane, who used sometimes to meet him when 
returning from his farin, and who, won first 
by his countenance, and then by his manner, 
and a little, perhaps, by the close but often 
unsuspected approximation which exists be- 
tween the perfectly simple and the highly re- 
fined, had taken what he called a fancy to the 
lad, and even forgave him for prognosticating 
that Louis would some day or other be a 
painter of no common order, — that he had the 
feeling of beauty and the eye for colour, the 
inborn taste and the strong love of art which 
indicate genius. " So much the worse !" 
thought our friend Stephen ; but such was the 
j respect excited by the young artist's gentle- 
I ness and sweetness, that, free-spoken as he 
generally was on all matters, the good butcher, 
on this solitary occasion, kept his thoughts to 
himself. 

I In strenuous application to the Procession, 
and lonely twilight walks, the summer and 
part of the autumn passed away. One bright 

* A poem of wliich (if it were not presumptuous in 
me to praise such a work) I should sav, that it united 
ihe preanani sense an<l the Ivautifiil versification of 
Pope, the eloquent philosophy oC Wordsworth, the 
wide humanity oC Scott, and the fervent holiness of 
Cow[)er, with a spirit of chariiv all its own. "^J'hat 
little volume is a just proof (if such were needed) 
how entirely intellect of the very highest class be- 
longs to virtue. The work is out ol print: must it 
continue so? Is it quite consistent in one imbued 
with so sincere a love for his fellow-creatures to 
withhold from them such an overdovving source of 
profit and delight? 



October evening, Stephen, who had been ab- 
sent for some weeks on a visit to a married 
daughter, met the young scul])tor in his usual 
haunt, Snnham Avenue, and was struck with 
the alteration in his appearance. Crabbe has 
described such an alteration with his usual 
graphic felicity. 

"Then his thin cheek assumed a deadly hue. 
And all the rose to one small spot withdrew : 
They call'd it hectic; 'twas a fierv- flush 
More fix'd and deeper than the maiden blush; 
His paler lip.s the pearly teeth disclosed. 
And lab'ring lungs the lengthened speech opposed." 
Parish Register. 

But, perhaps, Haley's account of his son 
still more resembles Henry Warner, because 
it adds the mind's strength to the body's at- 
tenuation. " Conldst thou see him now" — 
he is addressing Flaxman — 
"Thou might'st suppose I had before thee brought 
A Christian martyr, by Ghiherti wronsht. 
So pain has crush'd his form with dire control, 
And so the seraph Patience arm'd his soul." 

Letters on Sculpture. 

He was leaning against a tree in the full 
light of the briglit Hunter's moon, when Ste- 
phen accosted him with his usual rough kind- 
ness, and insisted on his accepting the support 
of his stout arm to help him home. Henry 
took it gratefully ; in truth, he could hardly 
have walked that distance without such an 
aid ; and for some time they walked on slowly 
and in silence; the bright moonbeams check- 
ering the avenue, sleeping on the moss-grown 
thatch of the cottage roofs, and playing with 
a silvery radiance on the clear ponds that 
starred the common. It was a beautiful scene, 
and Henry lingered to look upon it, when his 
coinpanion, admonished by the fallen leaves 
damp and dewy under foot, and the night wind 
sighing through the trees, begged hitn not to 
loiter, chiding him, as gently as Stephen could 
chide, for coming so far at such an hour. 

"It was foolish," replied Henry; "but I 
love these trees, and 1 shall never see them 
again." And then he smiled, and began talk- 
ing cheerfully of the bright moonbeams, and 
their fine efiect upon the water; and Stephen 
drew the back of his hard huge hand across 
his eyes, and thouglit himself a great fool, and 
wondered how sweet smiles and hopeful nappy 
words should make one sad ; and W'hen an 
acorn dropped from a tree at his feet, and the 
natural thought passed through his mind, 
" Poor youth, so he will fall !" Stephen had 
nothing for it but to hem away the choking 
sensation in his throat, and began to lecture 
the invalid in good earnest. 

After landing him safely in his own parlour, 
and charging Louis to take care of his friend, 
Stephen drew his good hostess to the gate of 
her little garden : 

"This poor lad must have the best advice, 
Mrs. Duval." 

" Oh, Mr. Lane ! he won't hear of it. The 
expense " 



THE YOUNG SCULPTOR. 



393 



" Hang the expense, woman ! he shall have 
advice," reiterated Stephen ; " he must and 
he shall." 

" Oil, Mr. Lane ! I have henrcred and en- 
treated," rejoined Mrs. Duval, "and so has 
Louis. But the expense! For all he pays me 
so regularly, I am sure that he is poor — very 
poor. He lives upon next to nothiny; and is 
so uneasy if I get him any little thinir better 
than ordinary; — and Louis caught him the 
other day arranging his drawings and casts, 
and putting up his books, and writing letters 
about them to some gentleman in London, to 
pay for his funeral, he said, and save me trou- 
ble after he was dead : — I thought Louis would 
have broken his heart. He reckoned upon 
selling that fine work in the shed here — the 
Procession — I forcret what they call it, and 
it's almost finished ; but he's too weak to 
work upon it now, and 1 know that it frets 
him, though he never utters a complaint. And 
then, if he dies, my poor boy will die too !" 

" Could not one manage to make him take 
some money, somehow, as a loan, or a gift]" 
inquired Stephen, his hand involuntarily seek- 
ing his breeches-pocket, and pulling out a 
well-laden canvass bag. 

"No," replied Mrs. Duval, "that's impos- 
sible. The poorer he gets, the prouder he 
grows. You could no more get him to take 
money than to send for a doctor." 

"Dang it! he shall, though," returned hon- 
est Stephen. "We'll see about that in the 
morning. Li the mean while, do you go home 
with me, and see if you and my mistress can't 
find something that the poor lad will like. 
She has been making some knick-knacks to- 
day, I know, for little Peggy, our grand- 
daughter, who has been ill, and whom we 
have brought honje for change of air. Doubt- 
less, there '11 be some to spare, — and if there 
is not, he wants it worst." 

And in a half an hour Mrs. Duval returned 
to the Friary Cottage, laden with old wine 
and niceties of all sorts from the well-far- 
nished store closet, and a large basin of jelly 
of dear Mrs. Lane's own making. Ill as he 
was, and capricious as is a sick man's appe- 
tite, our invalid, who, like every body that 
had ever seen her, loved Margaret Lane, could 
not reject the viands which came so recom- 
mended. 

The next morning saw Stephen an unex- 
pected visiter in the young sculptor's studio, 
fixed in wondering admiration before the great 
work. " A procession in honour of Pan !" 
repeated the good butcher. " Well, I 'm no 
great judge, to be sure, but I like it, young 
man ; and I '11 tell you why I like it, because 
it's full of spirit and life, like; the folk are 
all movir}<r. Dang it! look at -that horse's 
head ! how he 's tossing it back ! And that 
girl's petticoat, how light and dancy it seems ! 
And that lamb, poking its little head out of 
the basket, — ay, that 's right, bleat away ! 

2Z 



One would think yon had been as much 
amongst them as I have." 

Henry was charmed at Stephen's criticism, 
and frankly told him so. 

" Well, then !" continued Mr. Lane, " since 
you think me such a good judge of your handi- 
work, you must let me buy it.* Tell me your 
price," added he, pulling out an enormous 
brown leathern book, well stuffed with bank- 
notes; "I'm the man for a quick bargain." 

" Buy the relievo ! But, my dear -Mr. Lane, 
what will you do with it"?" replied the artist. 
" Handsome as your new house at Snnliam is, 
this requires space, and distance, and " 

" I'm not going to put it in any house of 
mine, I promise you, my lad," replied Mr. 
Lane, half affronted. " I hope I know better 
what is fitting for a plain tradesman ; and if I 
don't, my Margaret does. But I'll tell you 
what I mean to do with it," continued he, re- 
covering his good-humour, — " it was my wife's 
thought. I shall make a present of it to the 
corporation, to put up in the town-hall. I've 
been a rare plague to them all my life, and it 
is but handsome, now that I am going away 
as far as Sunham, to make up with them ; so 
I shall send them this as a parting gift. Dang 
it! how well it'll look in the old hall!" 
shouted he, drowning with his loud exclama- 
tions poor Henry's earnest thanks, and un- 
feigned reluctance — for Henry felt the real 
motive of a purchase so much out of the good 
butcher's way, and tried to combat his resolu- 
tion. "I will have it,- 1 tell you ! But I make 
one condition, that you'll see a doctor this 
very day, and that you are not to touch the 
Procession again till he gives you leave. I 
certainly sha'n't send it them till the spring. 
And now tell me the price, for have it I will !" 

And the price was settled, though with 
considerable difficulty, of an unusual kind ; 
the estimate of the patron being much higher 
than that of the artist. The purchase was 
completed — but the work was never finished : 
for before the last acorn fell, Stephen's fore- 
bodings were accomplished, and the young 
sculptor and his many sorrows, his hopes, his 
fears, his high aspirations, and his unhappy 
love, were laid at rest in the peaceful grave. 
The only work of his now remaining at Bel- 
ford is a monument to the memory of the 
poor Abbe, executed from one of Louis's most 
simple designs. 



JYole I. — The poetry of John Keats is, like 
all poetry of a very high style and very un- 
equal execution, so much more talked of than 
really known, that I am tempted to add the 
Hymn to Pan, as well as the Procession, 
which is necessary to the comprehension of 
my little story. Perhaps it is the finest and 
most characteristic specimen that could be 
found of his wonderful pictorial power. 

* Vide note 2, at the end of the paper. 



394 



BELFORD REGIS. 



PROCESSION AND HYMN IN HONOUR 
OF PAN. 

Loaditij; the way, young damsels danced along, 
Bearing llie burden of a sliepherd-son£; ; 
Each having a white wicker overbrimin'd 
With ApriTs tender younghngs: next, well-tritnm'd, 
A crowd of shepherds with as sunburnt loolis 
As may be read of in Arcadian books j 
Such as sat lislening round Apollo's pipe. 
When the great deity, lor earth too ripe, 
Let his divinity o'erfliowing die 
In music through the vales of Thessaly : 
Some idly traii'd their sheep-liooks on the ground, 
And some kept up a shrill and mellow sound 
With ebon-tipped flutes: close after these, 
Now coming Irom beneath the ibrest trees, 
A venerable priest lull soberly 
Begirt, with ministering looks : always his eye. 
Steadfast upon the matted turf he kept, 
And after him his sacred vestments swept. 
From his right hand there swung a vase, milk-white. 
Of mingled wine oul-sparkling generous light; 
And in Ins left he held a basliet full 
Of all sweet herbs I hat searching eye could cull ; 
Wild thyme, and valley-lilies whiter still 
Than Leda's love, and cresses from the rill. 
His aged head, crowned with beechen v\'reath, 
Seem'd like a poll of ivy, in the teelh 
Of Winter hoar. Then came another crowd 
Of shepherds, lifting in due time aloud 
Their share of the ditty. After them appear'd, 
Up-followed by a multitude that rear'd 
Their voices to the clouds, a fair-wrought car. 
Easily rolling, so as scarce to mar 
The freedom of three steeds of dapple brown. 
Who slood iherein did seem of great renown 
Among the throng; his youth was I'ully blown. 
Showing like (ianymede to manh(X)d grown ; 
And, f )r those siiiifile times, his garments were 
A chiefiain-king's : beneath' his breast, half bare. 
Was hung a silver bugle, and between 
His nervy knees there lay a boar-spear keen, 
A smile was on his counienance; he seem'd 
To common lookers-on like one who dream'd 
Of idleness in groves Elysian : 
But there were some who feelingly could scaa 
A lurking trouble in his neiher-hp. 
And see that oftentimes the reins would slip 
Through his fi)rg<itlen hands: then would they sigh, 
And think of yellow leaves, of owlet's cry, 
Of logs piled solemnly. — .\h, well-a-day ! 
Why should our young Endymion pine away ? 

Soon the assembly, in a circle ranged, 
Stood silent round the shrine : each look was changed 
To sudden veneration : women meek 
Beckon'd iheir sons to silence : while each cheek 
Of virgin-bloom paled gently for slight fear; 
Endymion, too, without a Ibrest peer. 
Stood wan and pale, and with an iinawed face, 
Among his brothers of the mountain-chase. 
In midst of all, the venerable priest 
Eyed them with joy from greatest to the least. 
And, afier lifting up his aged hands. 
Thus spake he: — '* Men of Latmos ! shepherd bands! 
Whose care it is to guard a thousand (locks : 
Whether descended from beneath the rocks 
That overtop your inouiituins; whether come 
From valleys where the pipe is never dumb; 
Or irom your swelling downs, where sweet air stirs 
Blue harebolls lightly, and where prickly furze 
Buds lavish gold ; or ye, whoso [irccioiis charge 
Nibble their (ill at Ocean's very marge, 
Whose mellow reeds are touch'd with sounds fDrlorn, 
By the dim echoes of old Triton's horn : 
Mothers and wives! who day by day prepare 
The scrip with needments lijr the mountain air; 



And all ye gentle girls, who foster up 

I'dderless lambs, and in a little cup 

Will put choice honey lor a lavour'd youth: 

Yea, every one attend! for, in good truth. 

Our vows are wanting to our great god Pan. 

.Are not our lowing heifers sleeker than 

Night-swollen mushrooms? Are not our wide plains 

Speckled with countless tleeces ? Have not rains 

(Jreen'd over April's lap? No howling sad 

Sickens our fearful ewes; and we ha\e had 

(ireat bounty from Endymion, our lord. 

The earth is glad : the merry lark has pour'd 

His early song against yon breezy sky, 

That spreads so clear o'er our solemnity." 

Thus ending, on the shrine he heap'd a spire 
Of teeming sweets, enkindling sacred lire; 
Anon he stain'd the thick and spongy sod 
With wine, in honour of the Shepherd-god. 
Now, while the earth was drinking it, and while 
Bay-leaves were crackling in the Iragraiit pile. 
And gummy frankincense was sparkling bright 
'JNeath snioihering parsle^, and a hazy light 
Spread greyly eastward, thus a chorus sang : 

" O thou ! whose mighty palace-roof dolh hang 
From jagged trunks, and overshadoweih 
Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, death 
Of unseen flowers in heavy peacefulne.'^s; 
Who lovest to see the hamadryads dress 
Their rulfied locks where meeting hazels darken, 
And through whole solemn hours dostsit and hearken 
The dreary melody of bedded reeds, 
In desolate places, where dank moisture breeds 
The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth; 
Bethinking thee how melancholy loath 
Thou wert to lose liiir Syrinx — dcst thou now, 
By thy love's milky brow. 
By all the trembling mazes that she ran. 
Hear us, great Pan ! 

"O thou, for whose soul-siKilhing quiet turtles 
Passion their voices cooingly among myrtles. 
What time thou wanderest at eventide 
Through sunny meadows that out-skirt the side 
Of thine enmossed realms: O thoii, to whom 
Broad-leaved fig-trees even now foredoom 
'^I'lieir rii>eird fruitage; yellow-girled bees 
Their golden honeycombs; our village leas 
'I'heir lairest-blossom'd beans and poppied corn ; 
T'lie chuckling linnet its five young unborn, 
"^I'o sing for thee ; low-creeping strawberries 
Their summer coolness; pent-up butterflies 
Their freckled wings; yea, the fresh-budding year 
All its completions — be quickly near. 
By every wind that nods the mountain pine, 
O Forester divine ! 

" Thou to whom every faun and satyr flies 
For willing service; whether to surprise 
The squatted hare, while in half-sleeping fit; 
Or upward ragged precipices flit 
To save ]X)or lambkins from the eagle's maw; 
Or by mysterious eiilicement draw- 
Rewildcr'd Shepherds to their path again ; . 
Or to tread breaihless round the frothy' main. 
And gather up all fancifullest shells 
For thee to tumble into Naiads' cells. 
And, being hidden, laugh at their oiit-|x^eping ; 
Or to (leli;,'lit thee with fantastic leaping 
The while they |x^lt each other on the crown 
With silvery oak-apples and (ir-cones brown; — 
By all the echoes that about thee ring. 
Hear us, O Satyr-King! 

"Oh hearkener to the loiid-clnpping shears, 
While ever and anon to his shorn peers 
A lamb goes bleating: winder of the horn, 
When snorting w ild-boars, routing tender corn, 



THE YOUNG SCULPTOR. 



395 



Anger our huntsmen ; breather round our farms 

To keep off mildews and all weather harms: 

Strange ministrant of undescribed sounds 

That come a swooning over hollow grounds. 

And wither drearily on Iwrren moors: 

Dread opener of the mysterious doors 

JjCading to universal knowledge — see, 

(Jreat son of Dryope! 

The many that are come to pny their vows 

With leaves about their brows! — 

]?e still the unimaginable lodge 

p'or solitary thinkings ; such as dodge 

Conception to the very bourn of heaven, 

Then leave the naked brain : be still the leaven 

That, spreading in this dull and clodded earth, 

Gives it a touch ethereal — a new birth: 

Be still a symlwl of immensity ; 

A firmament reflected in a sea ; 

An element filling the space between ; 

An unknown — but no more : we humbly screen 

With uplift hands our foreheads lowly bending, 

And giving out a shout njost heaven-rending. 

Conjure thee to receive our humble paean 

Upon thy mount Lycean !" 

Everwhile they brought the burden to a close 
A shout from the whole multitude arose 
That linger'd in the air like dying rolls 
Of abrupt thunder, when Ionian shoals 
Of dolphins bob their noses through the brine. 
Meantime, on shady levels, mossy fine. 
Young companions nimbly began dancing 
To the swift treble pipe and humming string: 
Ay, those fair living forms swam heavenly 
To tunes forgotten, out of memory ; 
Fair creatures, whose young children's children bred 
Thermopvte its heroes, not yet dead, 
But in old marbles ever beautiful. 

Keats's Endymion. 



Note 2. — Let not Stephen Lane's conduct 
be called unnatural ! I do verily believe that 
there is no instance that can be. invented of 
generosity and delicacy that might not find a 
])arallel amon<Tst the middle classes of E nor- 
land, the affluent tradesmen of the metropolis 
and the great towns, who often act as if they 
held their riches on the tenure of benevolence. 

With regard to Stephen Lane's purchase, I 
happen to be furnished with a most excellent 
precedent — a case completely in point, and of 
very recent occurrence. It was told to me, 
and most charmingly told, by one whom I am 
proud to be permitted to call my friend, the 
Lady Madalina Palmer, who related the 
story with the delightful warmth with which 
generous people speak of generosity ; — and I 
have now before me a letter from one of the 
parties concerned, which states the matter 
better still. But that letter I must not tran- 
scribe, and Lady Madalina is too far off to 
dictate to me in the pretty Scotch, which, 
from her, one likes better than English ; so 
that 1 am fain to record the naked facts as 
simply and as briefly as possible, leaving them 
to produce their own effect on those who love 
the arts, and who admire a warm-hearted 
liberality in every rank of life. 

Some time in November 1831, Mr. Cribb, 
an ornamental gilder in London, a superb 
artist ii\ his line, and employed in the most 



delicate and finest work by the Duke of De- 
vonshire and other men of taste amoncrst the 
high nobility, was struck with a stnall picture 
— a cattle piece — in a shop-window in Greek 
Street. On inquiring for the artist, he could 
hear no tiditigs of him ; but the people of the 
shop promised to find him out. Time after 
time our persevering lover of the arts called 
to repeat his inquiries, but always unsuccess- 
fully, until about three months after, when he 
found that the person he sought was a Mr. 
Thomas Sydney Cooper, an English artist, 
who had been for many years settled at Brus- 
sels as a drawing-master, but had been driven 
from that city by the revolution, which had 
deprived him of his pupils, amongst whom 
were some members of the Royal Family, and, 
unable to obtain employment in London as a 
cattle painter, had, with the generous self- 
devotion which most ennobles a man of ge- 
nius, supported his family by making litho- 
graphic drawings of fashionable caps and 
bonnets, — I suppose as a putT for some mil- 
liner, or some periodical which deals in cos- 
tumes. In the midst of this interesting family, 
and of these caps and bonnets, Mr. Cribb 
found him ; and deriving from what he saw 
of his sketches and drawings additional con- 
viction of his genius, immediately commis- 
sioned him to paint him a picture on his own 
subject and at his own price, making such an 
advance as the richest artist would not scruple 
to accept on a commission, conjuring him to 
leave off caps and bonnets, and foretelling his 
future eminence. Mr. Cribb says he shall 
never forget the delight of Mr. Cooper's face 
when he gave the order — he has a right to the 
luxury of such a recollection. Well ! the 
picture was completed, and when completed, 
our friend Mr. Cribb, who is not a man to do 
his work by halves, bespoke a coinpanion, 
and, while that was painting, showed the first 
to a great number of artists and gentlemen, 
who all agreed in expressing the strongest ad- 
iniration, and in wondering where the painter 
could have been hidden. Before the second 
picture was half finished, a Mr. Carpenter (I 
believe that I am right in the name) gave Mr. 
Cooper a commission for a piece, \a hich was 
exhibited in May, 1833, at the Suffolk Street 
Gallery ; and from that moment orders poured 
in, and the artist's fortune is made. 

It is right to add, that Mr. Cooper was 
generously eager to have this story made 
known, and Mr. Cribb as generously averse 
from its publication. But surely it ought to 
be recorded, for the example's sake, and for 
their mutual honour. I ought also to say, 
that it is only in heart, and pocket, and sta- 
tion, that Mr. Cribb resetnbles my butcher; 
the former being evidently a man of fair edu- 
cation and excellent taste. Oh! that I could 
have printed his account of this matter! It 
was so natural, so 7inif, so characteristic, so 
amusing. I dared not commit such a trespass 



396 



BELFORD REGIS. 



00 the sacredness of private communication ; 
but 1 shall keep it to my dyinj day, and leave 
it to my heirs ; so that if hereafter, some sixty 
years hence, a future Allan Cunninolurm (if 
there can ever he another bin(Tra|)!ier like him) 
shall delitjbt the world witii anollier series 
of Lives of the Painters, the history of the 
English Paul Potter may be adorned and illus- 
trated by the warm-hearted and graphic nar- 
rative of his earliest patron. 



BELLES OF THE BALL-ROOM, No. IL 

MATCH-MAKING. 

The proudest of all our proud country gentle- 
vi'omen, — she who would most thoroutrhly 
have disdained the unlucky town ladies, who 
are destined to look on brick walls instead of 
green trees, and to tread on stone pavements 
instead of iiravel walks, — was, beyond all 
doubt, my ijood friend Mrs. Leslie. 

Many years ago, a family of that name came 
to reside in our neighbourhood, and being per- 
sons thoroughly comme il faui, who had taken, 
on a long lease, the commodious and credita- 
ble mansion called Halleuden Hall, with its 
large park-like paddock, its gardens, green- 
houses, conservatories, and so forth, and who 
evidently intended to live in a style suited to 
their habitation, — were immediately visited by 
the inmates of all the courts, manors, parks, 
places, lodges, and castles within reach. 

Pvlr. Leslie was, as was soon discovered, a 
man of ancient family and good estate, who 
had left his own county on the loss of a con- 
tested election, or some such cause of disgust, 
and had passed the last few years in London 
for the education of his daughters. He was, 
too, that exceedingly acceptable and somewhat 
rare thins;, a lively, talliing, agreeable man, 
very clever and a little quaint, and making his 
conversation tell as much by a certain olf-hand- 
edness of phrase and manner, as by the shrewd- 
ness of his observations, and his extensive 
knowledge of the world. He had also, be- 
sides bis pleasantry and good-humour, another 
prime recpiisite for country popularity; al- 
though greatly above the general run of his 
neighbours in intellect, he much resembled 
them in his tastes; — loved shooting, fishing, 
and hunting in the morning; liked good din- 
ners, good wine, and a snug rubber at night ; 
farmed with a rather less loss of money tlian 
usually l)efalls a gentleman ; was a stanch par- 
tisan at vestries and turnpike meetings ; a keen 
politician at the reading-room and the club; 
frequented races and coursing meetings ; had 
a fancy for the more business-like gaieties of 
sessions and grand juries; accepted a lieuten- 
ancy in the troop of yeoman cavalry, and ac- 
tually served as churchwarden during the 
second year of his residence in the parish. At 



a word, he was an active, stirring, bustling, 
personage, whose life of mind and thorough 
unafTectedness made him universally accepta- 
ble to rich and poor. At first sight there was 
a homeliness about him, a carelessness of ap- 
pearance and absence of pretension, which 
rather troubled his more aristocratic compeers ; 
but the gentleman was so evident in all that 
he said or did, in tone and accent, act and 
word, that his little peculiarities were speedily 
forgotten, or only remembered to make hini 
still more cordially liked. 

If Mr. Leslie erred on the side of unpretend- 
ingness, his wife took good care not to follow 
his example: sKe had pretensions enough of ; 
all sorts to have set up twenty fine ladies out 
of her mere snperfluit)^ The niece of an Irish 
baron and the sister of a Scotch countess, she 
fairly wearied all her acquaintance with the : 
titles of her relatives. " My uncle, Lord Lin- ' 
ton — my brother-in-law, the Earl of Paisley," I 
and all the Lady Lucys, Lady Elizabeths, I 
Lady Janes, and Lady Marys of the one noble 
house, and the honourable masters and misses I 
of the other, were twanged in the ears of her j 
husband, children, servants, and visiters, every | 
day and all day long. She could not say that 
the weather was fine without quoting my 
lord, or order dinner without referring to my 
lady. This peculiarity was the pleasure, the 
amusement of her life. Its business was to 
display, and if possible to marry her daugh- 
ters ; and I think she cherished her grand con- 
nexions the more, as being, in some sort, im- 
plements or accessories in her designs upon 
rich bachelors, than for any other cause ; since, 
greatly as she idolized rank in her own family, 
she had seen too much of its disadvantages 
when allied with poverty, not to give a strong 
preference to wealth in the grand pursuit of 
husband-hunting. She would, to be sure, have 
had no objection to an affluent peer for a son- 
in-law, had such a thing oft'ered ; but as the 
commodity, not too common anywhere, was 
particularly scarce in our county, she wisely 
addressed herself to the higher order of country 
squires, men of acres who inherited large ter- 
ritories and fine places, or men of money who I 
came by purchase into similar possessions, to- | 
gether with their immediate heirs, leaving the 
younger brothers of the nobility, in common 
with all other younger brothers, unsought and 
uncared-for. 

Except in the grand matters of pedigrees 
and match-making, my good friend !\lrs. Les- 
lie was a sulTiciently common person ; rather 
vulgar and dowdy in the morning, when, like 
inany country gentlewomen of her age and 
class, she made amends for unnecessary finery 
by more unnecessary shabbiness, and trotted 
about the place in an old brown stiilT gown, 
much resembling the garment called a Joseph 
worn by our great-grandmothers, surmounted 
by a weather-beaten straw-bonnet aiul a sun- 
burnt bay wig; and particularly stately in an 



BELLES OF THE BALL-ROOM, No. II. 



307 



; evening, when silKs and satins made after the 
j newest fashion, eajis radiant with flowers, hats 
I waving with fealiiers, chandelier ear-rings, 
and ermine-lined cloak, the costly gift of a 
; diplomatic relation — (" My cousin, the en- 
j voy," rivalled in her talk even " my sister the 
I countess") — converted her at a stroke into a 
j chaperon of the very first water. 

Her daughters, Barbara and Caroline, were 
pretty girls enough, and would probably have 
been far prettier, had Nature, in their case, 
only been allowed fair play. As it was, they 
had been laced and braced, and drilled and 
starved, and kept from the touch of sun, or 
air, or fire, until they had become too slender, 
too upright, too delicate, both in figure and 
complexion. To my eye they always looked 
as if they had been originally intended to have 
been plumper and taller, with more colour in 
their cheeks, more spring and vigour in their 
motions, more of health and life about them, 
poor things ! Nevertheless, they were pret- 
j tyish girls, with fine hair, fine eyes, fine teeth, 
I and an expression of native good-humour, 
I which, by great luck, their preposterous edu- 
j cation had not been able to eradicate. 
! Certainly, if an injudicious education could 
j have spoilt young persons naturally well-tem- 
j pered and well-disposed, these poor girls 
would have sunk under its evil influence. 
From seven years old to seventeen, they had 
been trained for display and for conquest, and 
could have played without ear, sung without 
voice, and drawn without eye, against any 
misses of their inches in the county. Never 
were accomplishments more thoroughly tra- 
vestied. Barbara, besides the usual young- 
lady iniquities of the organ, the piano, the 
harp, and the guitar, distended her little cheeks 
like a trumpeter, by blowing the flute and the 
flageolet; whilst her sister, who had not 
breath for the wind instruments, encroached 
in a different way on the musical prerogative 
of man, by playing most outrageously on the 
fiddle — a female Paganini ! 

They painted in all sorts of styles, from 
" the human face divine," in oils, crayons, 
and miniatures, down to birds and butterflies, 
so that the whole house was a series of ex- 
hibition-rooms ; the walls were hung with 
their figures and landscapes, the tables cover- 
ed with their sketches ; you sat upon their 
performances in the shape of chair-cushions, 
and trod on them in the form of ottomans. A 
family likeness reigned throughout these pro- 
ductions. Various in style, but alike in bad- 
ness, all were distinguished by the same uni- 
form unsuccess. Nor did they confine their 
attempts to the fine arts. There was no end 
to their misdoings. They japanned boxes, 
embroidered work-bags, gilded picture-frames, 
constructed pincushions, bound books, and 
made shoes. For universality the admirable 
Crichton was a joke to them. There was 
nothing in which they had not failed. 

34 



During one winter (and winter is the sea- 
son of a country belle) Mrs. Leslie traded upon I 
her daughters' accomplishments. Every morn- j 
ing visit wds an exhibition, every dinner-party 
a concert, and the unlucky assistants looked, 
listened, yawned, and lied, and got away as 
soon as possible, according to the most ap- 
proved fashion in such cases. Half-a-year's 
experience, however, convinced the prudent 
mamma that acquirements alone would not 
suflice for her purpose; and having obtained 
for the Miss Leslies the desirable reputation 
of being the most accomplished young ladies 
in the neighbourhood, she relinquished the 
proud but unprofitable pleasure of exhibition, 
and wisely addressed herself to the more 
hopeful task of humouring the fancies and 
flattering the vanity of others. 

In this pursuit she displayed a degree of 
zeal, perseverance, and resource, worthy of a 
better cause. Not a bachelor of fortune within 
twenty miles, but Mrs. Leslie took care to be 
informed of his tastes and habits, and to offer 
one or other of her fair nymphs to his notice, 
after the manner most likely to attract his 
attention and fall in with his ways. Thus, 
for a whole season, Bab (in spite of the 
danger to her complexion) hunted with the 
Copley hounds, riding and fencing* to ad- 
miration — not in chase of the fox, poor 
girl, for which she cared as little as any she 
in Christendom — but to catch, if it might be, 
that eminent and wealthy Nimrod, Sir Thomas 
Copley, — who, after all, governed by that 
law of contrast which so often presides over 
the connubial destiny, married a town beauty, 
who never mounted a horse in her life, and 
would have fainted at the notion of leaping a 
five-barred gate ; whilst Caroline, with equal 
disregard to her looks, was set to feed poultry, 
milk cows, make butter, and walk over plough- 
ed fields with Squire Thornley, an agricul- 
turist of the old school, who declared that his 
wife should understand the conduct of a farm 
as well as of a house, and followed up his 
maxim by marrying his dairy-maid. They 
studied mathematics to please a Cambridge 
scholar, and made verses to attract a literary 
lord ; taught Sunday schools and attended 
missionary meetings to strike the serious ; and 
frequented balls, concerts, archery clubs, and 
water-parties to charm the gay ; were every- 
thing to everybody, seen everywhere, known 
to every one ; and yet at the end of three 
years were, in spite of jaunts to Brighton, 
Cheltenham, and London, a trip to Paris, and 
a tour through Switzerland, just as likely to 
remain the two accomplished Miss Leslies as 



* By " fencing," I do not mean here practising " the 
noble science of defence," but something, sooth to 
say, almost as manly. I use the word in its fox-hunt- 
ing sense, and intend by it that Miss Barbara took 
flying leaps over hedges and ditches, and live-barred 
gates. 



3^ 



BELFORD REGIS. 



ever tliey had been. To " wither on the vir- 
gin stalk," seemed their destiny. 

Hnw this happened is difficult to tell. The 
provoked mother laid the fault partly on the 
inertness of her husband, who, to say truth, 
had watched her manoeuvres with some amuse- 
ment, hut without using the sliohtest means 
to assist her schemes; and partly on the re- 
fractoriness of her son and heir, a youncr f^en- 
tleman who, although sent first to Eton, most 
aristocratic of public schools, and then to 
Christ Church, most lordly of colletres, with 
the especial maternal injunction to form good 
connexions, so that he might pick up an 
heiress for himself and men of fortune for his 
sisters, had, with unexampled perversity, cul- 
tivated the friendship of the clever, the en- 
tertaining, and the poor, and was now on the 
point of leaving Oxford without having made 
a single acqviaintance worth knowing. "This, 
this was the unkindest cut of all ;" for 
Richard, a lad of good jierson and lively parts, 
had always been in her secret soul his mo- 
ther's favourite; and now, to find him turn 
round on her, and join his father in laying the 
blame of her several defeats on her own bad 
generalship and want of art to conceal her 
designs, was really too vexatious, especially 
as Barbara and Caroline, who had hitherto 
been patterns of filial obedience, entering 
blindly into all her objects and doing their 
best to bring them to bear, now began to show 
symptoms of being ashamed of the unmaid- 
enly forwardness into which they had been 
betrayed, and even to form a resolution (es- 
pecially Barbara, who had more of her father's 
and brother's sense than the good-natured but 
simple Caroline) not to join in such manoeu- 
vring again. " It cannot be right in me, 
mamma," said she one day, " to practise pis- 
tol-shooting* with Mr. Greville, when no 
other lady does so ; and therefore, if you 
please, I shall not go — I am sure you cannot 
wish me to do any thing not right." 

" Particularly as there's no use in it," add- 
ed Richard : " fire as often as you may, you'll 
never hit that mark." 

And Mr. Greville and the pistol-shooting 
were given up; and Mrs. Leslie felt her au- 
thority shaken. 

Affairs were in this posture, when the ar- 
rival of a visiter after her own heart — young, 
rich, unmarried, and a baronet — renewed the 
hopes of our match-maker. 

For some months they had had at Hallen- 
den Hall a \;ery unpretending, but in my mind 
a very amialjle inmate. Mary Morland, the 
only daughter of Mr. Leslie's only sister, 
who, her jjarents being dead, and herself and 



•That ladies should practise pistol-shooting is not 
so incredible as it seems. A very beautiful tiride of 
the hiRtiest rank is said to have beguiled the ennui 
of the honeymoon by pursuing this recreation, in com- 
pany with her moat noble and most simple spouse. 



her brother left in indigent circumstances, had 
accepted her uncle's invitation to reside in his 
family as long as it suited her convenience, 
and was now on the point of departing to 
keep her brother's house, — a young clergy- 
man recently ordained, who intended to eke 
out the scanty income of his curacy by taking 
pupils, for which arduous office he was emi- 
nently qualified by his excellent private cha- 
racter and high scholastic attainments. 

Marv Morland was that very delightful 
thing, an tiiiaffected, intelligent young wo- 
man, well-read, well-informed, lively and con- 
versable. She had a good deal of her uncle's 
acuteness and talent, and a vein of pleasantry, 
which differed from his only as much as plea- 
santry feminine ought to differ from pleasantry 
masculine: he was humorous, and she was 
arch. I do not know that I ever heard any 
thing more agreeable than her flow of spright- 
ly talk, always light and sparkling, spirited 
and easy, often rich in literary allusion, but 
never det^eneraiim;; into pretension or pedantry. 
She was entirely devoid of the usual young 
lady acconnplishments ; (an unspeakable relief 
in that house!) neither played, nor sung, nor 
drew, nor danced ; made no demand on praise, 
no claim on admiration, and was as totally 
free from display as from affectation in the 
exercise of her great conversational power. 
Such a person is sure to be missed, go where 
she may ; and every one capable of appreciat- 
ing her many engaging qualities felt, with 
Mr. Leslie, that her loss would be irreparable 
at Hallenden. 

The evil day however arrived, as such days 
are wont to arrive, all too soon. William 
Morland was actually come to carry his sister 
to their distant home; for they M'ere of the 
" North countrie," and his curacy was situate 
in far Northumberland. He was accompanied 
by an old schoolfellow and intimate friend, in 
whose carriage Mary and himself were to 
perform their long journey ; and it was on this 
kind companion, rich and young, a baronet 
and a bachelor, that Mrs. Leslie at once set 
her heart for a son-in-law. 

Her naanoeuvres began the very evening of 
his arrival. She had been kind to Miss Mor- 
land from the moment she ascertained that 
she was a plain though lady-like woman of 
six-and-twenty, wholly unaccomplished in her 
sense of the word, and altogether the most 
unlikely person in the world to rival her two 
belles. She had been always kind to " poor 
dear Mary," as she called her; but as soon as 
she beheld Sir Arthur Selby, she became the 
very fondest of aunts, insisted that Barbara 
should furnish her wardrobe, and Caroline 
paint her portrait, and that the whole party 
should stay until these operations were satis- 
factorily concluded. 

Sir Arthur, wOio seemed to entertain a great 
regard and affection for his two friends, — 
who, the only children of the clergyman of 



BELLES OF THE BALL-ROOM, No. II. 



399 



the parish, had been his old companions and 
playmates at the manor-liouse, and from whom 
he had been parted durin^r a loner tour in 
Greece, Italy, and Spain, — consented with a 
very gond grace to this arrangement ; the more 
so as, himself a lively and clever man, he per- 
ceived, apparently with great amusement, the 
designs of his hostess, and for the first two or 
three days humoured them with much drol- 
lery ; affecting to be an epicure, that she might 
pass oft" her cook's excellent confectionary for 
Miss Caroline's handiwork; and even pre- 
tending to have sprained his ankle, that he 
might divert himself by observing in how 
many ways the same fair lady — who, some- 
thing younger, rather prettier, and far more 
docile than her sister, had been selected by 
Mrs. Leslie for his intended bride — would be 
pressed by that accomplished match-maker 
into his service; handing him his coffee, for 
instance, fetching him books and nevi-spapers, 
offering hitn her arm when he rose from the 
sofa, following him about with footstools, 
cushions, and ottomans, and waiting on him 
just like a valet or a page in female attire. 

At the end of that period, — from some un- 
explained change of feeling, whether respect 
for his friend William Morland, or weariness 
of acting a part so unsuited to him, or some 
relenting in favour of the young lady, — he 
threw off at once his lameness and his affecta- 
tion, and resumed his own singularly natural 
and delightful manner. I saw a great deal of 
him, for my father's family and the Selbys 
had intermarried once or twice in every century 
since the Conquest; and though it might have 
puzzled a genealogist to decide- how near 
or how distant was the relationship, yet, as 
amongst North-country folk " blood is warm- 
er than water," we continued not only to call 
cousins, but to entertain much of the kindly 
feeling by which family connexion often is, 
and always should be, accompanied. My fa- 
ther and Mr. Leslie had always been intimate, 
and Mary Morland and myself having taken 
a strong liking to each other, we met at one 
house or the other, almost every day ; and, ac- 
customed as I was, to watch the progress of 
Mrs. Leslie's manoeuvres, the rise, decline, 
and fall of her several schemes, I soon per- 
ceived that her hopes and plans were in full 
activity on the present occasion. 

It was, indeed, perfectly evident that she 
expected to hail Caroline as Lady Selby be- 
fore many months were past ; and she had 
more reason for the belief tlian had often hap- 
pened to her, inasmuch as Sir Arthur not only 
yielded with the best possible grace to her re- 
peated entreaties for the postponement of his 
journey, but actually paid the young lady 
considerable attention, watching the progress 
of her portrait of Miss Morland, and aiding 
her not only by advice but assistance, to the 
unspeakable benefit of the painting, and even 
carrying his complaisance so far as to ask her 



to sing every evening, — he being the very first 
person who had ever voluntarily caused the 
issue of those notes, which more resembled 
the screaming of a macaw than the tones of a 
human being-. To be sure, he did not listen, 
— that would have been too much to expect 
from mortal ; but he not only regularly re- 
quested her to sing, but took care, by suggest- 
ing single songs, to prevent her sister from 
singing with her, — who, thus left to her own 
devices, used to sit in a corner listening to 
William Morland with a sincerity and earnest- 
ness of attention very different from the make- 
believe admiration which she had been used 
to show by her mamma's orders to the clever 
men of fortune whom she had been put for- 
ward to attract. That Mrs. Leslie did not see 
what was going forward in that quarter, was 
marvellous ; but her whole soul was engross- 
ed by the desire to clutch Sir Arthur, and so 
long as he called on Caroline for bravura after 
bravura, for scena after scena, she was happy. 

Mr. Leslie, usually wholly inattentive to 
such proceedings, was on this occasion more 
clear-sighted. He asked Mary Morland one 
day " whether she knew what her brother and 
Sir Arthur were about 1" and, on her blushing 
and hesitating in a manner very unusual with 
her, added, chucking her under the chin, "A 
word to the wise is enough, my queen ; I am 
not quite a fool, whatever your aunt may be, 
and so you may tell the young gentlemen." 

And with that speech he walked off. 

The next morning brought a still fuller de- 
claration of his sentiments. Sir Arthur had 
received, by post, a letter which had evidently 
affected him greatly, and had handed it to Wil- 
liam Morland, who had read it with equal emo- 
tion ; but neither of them had mentioned its 
contents, or alluded to it in any manner. After 
breakfast, the young men walked off together, 
and the girls separated to their different em- 
])loyments. I, who had arrived there to spend 
the day, was about to join them, when I was 
stopped by Mr. Leslie. " I want to speak to 
you," said he, " about that cousin of yours. 
My wife thinks he's going to marry Caroline ; 
w^hereas it's plain to me, as doubtless it must 
be to you, that whatever attention he may be 
paying to that simple child — and, for my own 
part, I don't see that he is paying her any — is 
merely to cover William Morland's attachment 
to Bab. So that the end of Mrs. Leslie's wise 
schemes will be, to have one daughter the 
wife of a country curate " 

" A country curate, Mr. Leslie !" ejaculat- 
ed Mrs. Leslie, holding up her hands in 
amazement and horror. 

" And the other," pursued Mr. Leslie, "an 
old maid." 

" An old maid !" reiterated Mrs. Leslie, in 
additional dismay — " An old maid !" Her very- 
wig stood on end ; and what farther she would 
have said was interrupted by the entrance of 
the accused party. 



400 



BELFORD REGIS. 



" I am come, Mr. Leslie," said Sir Arthur, 
— " do not move, Mrs. Leslie — pray stay, my 
dear cousin, — I am come to present to you a 
double petition. The letter which I received 
this morningrwas, like most human events, of 
mintjled yarn — it brought intellig'ence of (jood 
and of evil, I have lost an old and excellent 
friend, the rector of Hadley-cum-Appleton, and 
have, by that loss, an excellent living^ to pre- 
sent to my friend William Morland. It is 
above fifteen hundred a-year, with a large 
house, a fine garden, and a park-like glebe, 
altogether a residence fit for any lady ; and it 
comes at a moment in which such a piece of 
preferment is doubly welcome, since the first 
part of my petition relates to him. Hear it 
favourably, my dear sir — my dear madam : he 
loves your Barbara — and Barbara, I hope and 
believe, loves him." 

" There, Mrs. Leslie !" interrupted Mr. Les- 
lie, with an arch nod. "There ! do you hear 
that?" 

" You are both favourably disposed, I am 
sure," resumed Sir Arthur. " Such a son-in- 
law must be an honour to any man — must he 
not, my dear madam ? — and I, for my part, 
ha^e a brother's interest in his suit." 

" There, Mr. Leslie!" ejaculated in her turn 
Mrs. Leslie, returning her husband's nod most 
triumphantly. "A brother's interest! — do 
you hear thatl" 

" Since," pursued Sir Arthur, " I have to 
crave your intercession with his dear and ad- 
mirable sister, whom I have loved, without 
knowing it, ever since we were children in 
the nursery, and who now, although confess- 
ing that she does not hate me, talks of want 
of fortune — as if I had not enough, and of 
want of beauty and want of accomplishments 
— as if her matchless elegance and unrivalled 
conversation were not worth all the doll-like 
prettiness or tinsel acquirements under the 
sun. Pray intercede for me, dear cousin ! — 
dear sir!" continued the ardent lover; whilst 
Mr. Leslie, without taking the slightest notice 
of the ajipeal, nodded most provokingly to the 
crest-fallen match-maker, and begged to know 
how she liked Sir Arthur's opinion of her 
system of education'.' 

What answer the lady made, this deponent 
saith not — indeed, I believe she was too angry 
to speak — but the result was all that could be 
desired by the young people : the journey was 
again postponed ; the double marriage cele- 
brated at Hallenden ; and Miss Caroline, as 
bridesmaid, accompanied the fair brides to 
"canny Northumberland," to take her chance 
for a husband amongst "fresh fields and pas- 
*ures new." 



MRS. TOMKINS, THE CHEESE- 
MONGER. 

Perhaps the finest character in all Moliere 
is that of Madame Pernelle, the scolding 
grandmother in the "Tartufe;" at least, that 
scene (the opening scene of that glorious 
play,) in which, tottering in at a pace which 
her descendants have difficully in keeping up 
with, she puts to flight her grandson, and her 
daughter-in-law's brother, (think of making 
men fiy the field !) and puts to silence her 
daughter-in-law, her grand-daughter, and even 
the pert soubrette, (think of making women 
hold their tongues !) and finally boxes her 
own waiting-maid's ears for yawning and 
looking tired, — that scene of matchless scold- 
ing has always seemed to me unrivalled in the 
comic drama.* The English version of it in 
"The Hypocrite" is far less amusing, the old 
Lady Lambert being represented in that piece 
rather as a sour devotee, whose fiery zeal, and 
her submission to Cantwell, and even to Maw- 
worm, form the chief cause, tlie mainspring — 
as it were, of her lectures; whilst Madame 
Pernelle, although doubtless the effect of her 
harangues is heightened and deepened by her 
perfect conviction that she is right and that all 
the rest are wrong, has yet a natural gift of 
shrewishness — is, so to say, a scold born, and 
would have rated her daughter-in-law and all 
her descendants, and bestowed her cuffs upon 
her domestics with equal good-will, though 
she had never aspired to the reputation of 
piety, or edified by the example of M. Tartufe. 
The gift was in her. Not only has Moliere 
beaten, as was to be expected, his own Eng- 
lish imitator, but he has achieved the far 
higher honour of vanquishing, in this single 
instance, his two great forerunners. Masters 
Shakspeare and Fletcher. For, although the 
royal dame of Anjou had a considerable talent 
for vituperation, and Petruchio's two wives, 
Catherine and Maria, f were scolds of promise; 
none of the three, in my mind, could be said 

*I cannot resist the temptation ofsubjoining, at the 
end of this paper, some part of that inimilahle scene; 
believing that, like other great writers of an older 
date, Moliere has been somewhat " pushed from his 
slool" by later dramatists, and is more talked of than 
road. At all events, any one who does remember 
Madame Pernelle will not be sorry to meetwilh her 
again. — Vide note, at the end of this paper. 

t Shaks|)eare's fine extravaganza, "The Taming of 
the Shrew," gave rise to an equally pleasant continua- 
tion by Fletfhor, entitled "'J'he VVomaii's Prize; or, 
The 'I'amer Tamed ;" a play lillle known, except to 
the professed lovers of the old drama, in which Pe- 
truchio, having lost his good wife Catherine, is be- 
trayed into a second marriage to a gentle, quiet, de- 
mure damsel, called Maria, who, after their nuptials, 
changes into an absolute fury, turns the table ujwn 
him completely, and suceeeds in establishing the Ce- 
male dominion upon the firmest possible basis, being 
aided throughout by a sort of chorus of married wo- 
men from town and country. 



MRS. TOMKINS, THE CHEESE-MONGER. 



401 



to approach Madame Pernelle, — not to men- 
tion the superior mode of giving tongue (if I 
may affront the beautiful race of spaniels by 
applying in such a way a phrase appropriated 
to their fine instinct,) — to say nothing of the 
verbal superiority, Flipote's box on the ear 
remains unrivalled and unapproached. Cath- 
erine breaking the lute over her master's head 
is a joke in comparison. 

Now, notwithstanding the great French- 
man's beating his English rivals so much in 
the representation of a shrew, I am by no 
means disposed to concede to our Continental 
neighbours any supremacy in the real living 
model. I should be as sorry that French wo- 
men should go beyond us in that particular 
gift of the tongue, which is a woman's sole 
weapon, her one peculiar talent, as that their 
soldiers should beat ours in the more manly 
way of fighting with sword and with gun, or 
their painters or poets overpass us in their re- 
spective arts. The art of scolding is no tri- 
fling accomplishment, and I claim for my 
countrywomen a high degree of excellence in 
ail the shades and varieties thereunto belong- 
ing, from the peevish grumble to the fiery re- 
tort — from " the quip modest" to " the coun- 
tercheck quarrelsome." The gift is strictly 
national too; for although one particular dis- 
trict of London (which, indeed, has given its 
name to the dialect*) has been celebrated, 
and I believe deservedly celebrated, for its 
breed of scolds ; yet I will undertake to pick 
up in any part of England, at four-and-twenty 
hours' notice, a shrew that shall vie with all 
Billingsgate. 

To go no farther for an instance than our 
own market-town, I will match my worthy 
neighbour, Mrs. Tomkins, cheesemonger, in 
Queen-street, against any female fish-vender 
in Christendom. She, in her single person, 
simple as she stands there behind her counter, 
shall outscold the whole parish of Wapping. 

Deborah Ford, such was Mrs. Tomkins's 
maiden appellation, was the only daughter of 
a thrifty and thriving yeoman in the county 
of Wilts, who having, to her own infinite dis- 
satisfaction and the unspeakable discomfort of 
her family, remained a spinster for more years 
than she cared to tell, was at length got rid 
of by a manoeuvring stepmother, who made 
his marrying Miss Deborah the condition of 
her supplying Mr. Simon Tomkins, cheese- 



* Even the Americans — although, in a land so cele- 
brated for freedom of speech, and so jealous of being 
outdone in any way by the mother country, one would 
think that they might by this time have acquired an 
eslabhshed scolding-place of their own — still use the 
word " Billingsgaie" to express the species of vitupe- 
ration of which I am treating. I fijund the phrase in 
that sense in a very eloquent speech of their very 
eloquent advocate, Mr. Mason, as reported in a New 
York paper, no longer ago than last June : a diffusion 
of liime which our fish-wives owe to the wide spread 
of our language. Who in the New World ever heard 
of their Parisian rivals, les Dames de la Halle! 



monger, in Belford, with the whole produce j 
of her dairy, celebrated for a certain mock I 
Stilton, which his customers, who got it at I 
about half the price of the real, were wont to , 
extol as incomparably superior to the more ■ 
genuine and more expensive commodity. 

Simon hesitated — looked at Deborah's sour 
face ; for she had by strong persuasion been i 
induced to promise not to scold — that is to | 
say, not to speak, (for, in her case, the terms 1 
were synonymous;) — muttered something I 
which might be understood as a civil excuse, 
and went to the stable to get ready his horse 
and chaise. In that short walk, however, the 
prudent swain recollected that a rival cheese- 
monger had just set up over-against him in 
the same street of the identical town of Bel- 
ford ; that the aforesaid rival was also a bach- 
elor, and, as Mrs. Ford had hinted, would 
doubtless not be so blind to his own interest 
as to neglect to take her mock Stilton, with 
so small an encumbrance as a sour-looking 
wife, who was said to be the best manager in 
the county : so that by the time the crafty 
stepmother reappeared with a parting glass of 
capital currant wine, (a sort of English stir- 
rup-cup, which she positively afiirmed to be 
of Deborah's making,) Simon had changed, 
or, as he expressed it, made up his mind to 
espouse Miss Deborah, for the benefit of his 
trade and the good of his customers. 

Short as was the courtship, and great as- 
were the pains taken by Mrs. Ford who per- 
formed impossibilities in the way of concilia- 
tion) to bring the marriage to bear, it had yet 
nearly gone off three several times, in conse- 
quence of Deborah's tongue, and poor Simon's 
misgivings, on whose mind, especially on one 
occasion, the night before the wedding, it was 
powerfully borne, that all the excellence of the 
currant wine, and all the advantages of the 
mock Stilton, were but poor compensations, 
not only for "peace and happy life," and 
"awful rule and just supremacy," but for the 
being permitted, in common parlance, to call 
his soul his own. Things, however, had gone 
too far. The stepmother talked of honour and 
character, and broken hearts; the father hinted 
at an action for damages, and a certain nephew, 
Timothy, an attorney-at-law; whilst a younger 
brother, six feet two in height, and broad in 
proportion, more than liinted at a good cudgel- 
ling. So Simon was married. 

Long before the expiration of the honey- 
moon, he found all his worst fears more than 
confirmed. His wife — " his mistress," as in 
the homely country phrase he too truly called 
her — was the greatest tyrant that ever ruled 
over a household. Compared with our tigress, 
Judith .Jenkins, now Mrs. Jones, was a lamb. 
Poor Simon's shopman left him, his maid 
gave warning, and his apprentices ran away; 
so that he who could not give warning, and 
was ashamed to run away, remained the one 
solitary subject of this despotic queen, the 



34* 



3A 



402 



BELFORD REGIS. 



luckless man-of-all-work of that old and well- 
accustomed shop. Bribery, under the form of 
high wages and unusual indulgences, did to a 
certain point remedy this particular evil ; so 
that they came at last only to change ser- 
vants about once a fortnight on an average, 
and to lose tlieir apprentices, some by running 
Hway and some by buying themselves off, not 
oftener than twice a year. Indeed, in one re- 
markable instance, they had the good fortune 
to keep a cook, who happened to be stone 
deaf, upwards of a twelvemonth ; and, in an- 
other still more happy case, were provided 
with a permanent shopman, in the shape of 
an old pliant rheumatic Frenchman, who had 
lived in some Italian warehouse in London 
until fairly worn off his legs, in which plight 
his importers had discarded him, to find his 
way back to la belle France as best he could. 
Happening to fall in with him, on going to 
the London warehouse with an order for Par- 
mesan, receiving an excellent character of him 
from his employers, and being at his wit's end 
for a man, Mr. Simon Tomkins, after giving 
him due notice of his wife's failing, engaged 
the poor old foreigner, and carried him home 
to Queen-street in triumph. A much-enduring 
man was M. Leblanc ! Next after his master, 
he, beyond all doubt, was the favourite object 
of Deborah's objurgation ; but, by the aid of 
snuff and philosophy, he bore it bravely. 
" Mais je siiis philosophe T^ cried the poor old 
Frenchman, shrugging his shoulders, and tap- 
ping his box when the larum of his mistress's 
tongue ran through the house — " Toutefois je 
suis philosnphe !'''' exclaimed he with a patient 
sigh ; and Deborah, who, without compre- 
hending tiie phrase, understood it to convey 
some insinuation against herself, redoubled 
her clamour at the sound. 

Tobacco in its various forms seems to have 
been the chief consolation of her victims. If 
snuff and philosophy were Leblanc's resour- 
ces, a pipe and a tankard were his master's; 
and in both cases the objects to which they 
resorted for comfort drew down fresh lectures 
from their liege lady. She complained of the 
smell. And of a surety the smell is an abomi- 
nation ; only that, her father and her seven 
brothers, to say nothing of half-a-dozen uncles 
and some score of cousins, having been as 
atrociously given to smoking as if they had 
been born and bred in Germany, so that eight 
or ten chimneys had been constantly going in 
one room in the old farm-house of Bevis-land, 
the fumes of tobacco might be said to be her 
native air; and Mr. Tomkins's stock-in-trade 
consisting, besides the celebrated cheese which 
had so unluckily brought him acquainted with 
her, of soap, candles, salt-butter, bacon, pic- 
kles, oils, and other unsavoury commodities, 
one would really think that no one particular 
stench could greatly increase the ill odours 
of that most unfragrant shop. She, however, 
imputed all the steams that invaded her nos- 



trils either to her shopman's snuff or her hus- 
band's smoking, and threatened ten times a 
day to demolish the pipes and the boxes, 
which were good for nothing, as she observed, 
but to keep "the men-folk idle and to poison 
every Christian thing about them ;" an affront 
which both parties endured with a patient si- 
lence, which only served to exasperate her 
wrath.* 

Find it where he would, much need had 
poor Mr. Tomkins of comfort. Before his 
marriage, he had been a spruce dapper little 
man, with blue eyes, a florid complexion, and 
hair of the colour commonly called sandy, — 
alert in movement, fluent in speech, and much 
addicted to laughing, whether at his own jokes 
or the jokes of his neighbours; he belonged 
to the Bachelors' Club and the Odd Fellows, 
was a great man at the cricket-ground, and a 
person of some consideration at the vestry ; 
in short was the beau ideal of the young thri- 
ving country tradesman of thirty years ago. 

He had not been married half a year before 
such an alteration took place as really would 
have seemed incredible. His dearest friends 
did not know him. The whole man was 
changed — shrunk, shrivelled, withered, dwin- 
dled into nothing. The henpecked husband 
in the farce, carrying his wife's clogs in one 
hand and her bandbox in the other, and living 
on the "tough drumsticks of turkeys, and the 
fat flaps of shoulders of mutton," w^as but a 
type of him. The spirit of his youth was 
departed. He gave up attending the coffee- 
house or the cricket-ground, ceased to joke or 
to laugh at jokes ; and he who had had at club 
and vestry " a voice potential as double as the 
»i«?/or's," could hardly be brought to answer 
Yes or No to a customer. The man was evi- 
dently in an atrophy. His wife laid the blame 
to his smoking, and his friends laid it to his 
wife, whilst poor Simon smoked on and said 
nothing. It was a parallel case to Peter Jen- 

* Nothing is so provoking in an adversary as silence. 
During ihe great dispute in France about the Ancients 
and Moderns, in Madame Dacier's time, one of the 
combatants published a pamphlet with the title Re- 
ponse an Silence de M. de la Motle. I confess that I 
liave some sympathy with the writer. It was but 
the other day that [ and another lady were engaged 
in an argument with one of the stronger sex, and had 
just beaten him out of tlie field — were on the very 
point of giving him tlie coup de grace, when all on a 
sudden my gentleman made us a low Iww, and de- 
('lared that we should have it in our own way — liiat 
he wouhj not say another word on the subject. I 
don't know that I was ever so much provoked in my 
life. To ho defrauded of our just victory (for of course 
we were right.) whilst the cunning wretch fa clever 
man, too, which made it worse) looked as complacent 
and as smiling as if he had yielded the fwint from 
pure compassion to our weakness! Mrs. Tomkins 
would have boxed his ears. It is just as if an oppo- 
nent at che.ss, whose pawns are almost gone, and 
whose pieces are taken, whose game, in sliorl, is des- 
perate — and who must in a move or two be check- 
mated — should suddenly proclaim himself tired, and 
sweep away the board. 1 wonder what Mrs. Tomkins 
would say to that! 



MRS. TOMKINS, THE CHEESE-MONGER. 



403 



kins's, and Stephen Lane might have saved 
him ; but Stephen not being amongst his 
cronies, (for Simon was a Tory,) and Simon 
malving no complaint, that chance was lost. 
He lingered through the first twelve months 
after their marriage, and early in the second 
he died, leaving his widow in excellent cir- 
cumstances, the possessor of a flourishing 
business and the mother of a little boy, to 
whom she (the will having of course been 
made under her supervision) was constituted 
sole guardian. 

Incredible as it may seem, considering the 
life she had led him while alive, Deborah was 
really sorry for poor Simon — perhaps from 
a touch of remorse, perhaps because she lost 
in him the most constant and patient listener 
to her various orations — perhaps from a mix- 
ture of both feelings ; at all events, sorry she 
was; and as grief in her showed itself in the 
very novel form of gentleness, so that for four 
and twenty hours she scolded nobody, the 
people about her began to be seriously alarmed 
for her condition, and were about to call in the 
physician who had attended the defunct, to 
prescribe for the astounding placability of the 
widow, when something done or left undone, 
by the undertaker or his man, produced the 
effect which medical writers are pleased to 
call "an effort of nature;" she began to scold, 
and scolding all through the preparations for 
the funeral, and the funeral itself, and the suc- 
ceeding ceremonies of will-reading, legacy- 
paying, bill-settling, stock-valuing, and so 
forth, with an energy and good-will, and an 
unwearying perseverance that left nothing to 
be feared on the score of her physical strength. 
John Wesley preaching four sermons, and 
Kean playing Richard three times in one day, 
might have envied her power of lungs. She 
could have spoken Lord Brougham's famous 
six hours' speech on the Law Reform without 
exhaustion or hoarseness. But what do I 
talk of a six hours' speech 1 She could have 
spoken a whole night's debate in her own sin- 
gle person, without let or pause, or once drop- 
ping her voice, till the division, so prodigious 
was her sostenuto. Matthews and Miss Kelly 
were nothing to her. And the exercise agreed 
with her — she throve on it. 

So for full twenty years after the death of 
Mr. Tomkins did she reign and scold in the 
dark, dingy, low-browed, well-accustomed 
shop of which she was now the sole direct- 
ress. M. Pierre Leblanc continued to be her 
man of business ; and as, besides his boasted 
philosophy, he added a little French pliancy 
and flattery of which he did not boast, and a 
great deal of dexterity in business and integ- 
rity, as well as clearness in his accounts, they 
got on together quite as well as could be ex- 
pected. The trade flourished ; for, to do De- 
borah justice, she was not only a good man- 
u'^er, in the lowest sense of the term — which, 
'Xiin'.nonly speaking, means only frugal, — but 



she was, in the most liberal acceptation of the 
words, prudent, sagacious, and honest in her 
pecuniary dealings, buying the very best com- 
modities, and selling them at such a fair and 
moderate profit as ensured a continuation of 
the best custom of the county — the more es- 
pecially as her sharp forbidding countenance 
and lank raw-boned figure were seldom seen 
in the shop. People said (but what will not j 
people say "?) that one reason for her keeping 1 
away from such excellent scolding-ground 
was to be found in les doux yeux of M. Pierre I 
Leblanc, who, withered, wizened, broken- 
down cripple as he was, was actually sus- 
pected of having made an offer to his mis- ; 
tress ; — a story which I wholly disbelieve, not i 
only because I do not think that the poor phi- ; 
losopher, whose courage was rather of a pas- j 
sive than an active nature, would ever have 
summoned resolution to make such a proposal ; 
but because he never, as far as I can discover, 
was observed in the neighbourhood with a 
scratched face — a catastrophe which would as 
certainly have followed the audacity in ques- 
tion, as the night follows the day. Moreover, 
it is bad philosophy to go hunting about for a 
remote and improbable cause, when a sufficient 
and likely one is close at hand ; and there 
was, in immediate juxtaposition with Mrs. 
Tomkins's shop, reason enough to keep her out 
of it to the end of time. 

I have said that this shop, although spacious 
and not incommodious, was dark and low- 
browed, forming a part of an old-fashioned 
irregular tenement, in an old-fashioned irregu- 
lar street. The next house, with a sort of 
very deep and square bay-window, which 
was, by jutting out so as to overshadow it, in 
some sort the occasion of the gloom which, 
increased, perhaps, by the dingy nature of the 
commodities, did unquestionably exist in this 
great depository of cheese and chandlery-ware, 
happened to be occupied by a dealer in whale- 
bone in its various uses, stays, umbrellas, 
parasols, and so forth, — a fair, mild, gentle 
Quakeress — a female Friend, with two or 
three fair smiling daughters, the very models 
of all that was quiet and peaceful, who, with- 
out even speaking to the furious virago, were 
a standing rebuke to that " perturbed spirit." 
The deep bay-window was their constant 
dwelling-place. There they sat tranquilly 
working from morning to night, gliding in and 
out with a soft stealing pace like a cat, sleek, 
dimpled, and dove-eyed, with that indescriba- ! 
ble nicety and purity of dress and person, and 
that blameless inodesty of demeanour, for 
which the female Friend is so generally dis- 
tinguished. Not a fault could Mrs. Tomkins 
discover in her next neighbour, — but if ever 
woman hated her next neighbour, she hated 
Rachel May. 

The constant sight of this object of her de- 
testation was, of course, one of the evils of 
Mrs. Tomkins's prosperous life ; — but she had 



^404 



BELFORD REGIS. 



many others to fight with — most of them, of 
course, of her own seeking'. What she would 
have done witliout a grievance, it is difficult 
to gness; but she had so great a genius for 
making one out of every thing and every per- 
son connected with her, that she was never at 
a loss in that particular. Her stepmother she 
had always regarded as a natural enemy ; and 
at her father's death, little as she, generally 
speaking, coveted money, she contrived to 
quarrel with her w-hole family on the division 
of his property, chiefly on the score of an old 
japanned chest of drawers, not worth ten shil- 
lings, which her brothers and sisters were too 
much of her own temper to relinquish. 

Then her son, on whom she doted with a 
peevish, grumbling, fretful, discontented fond- 
ness that always took the turn of finding fault, 
was, as she used reproachfully to tell him, 
just like his father. The poor child, do what 
he would, could never please her. If he were 
well, she scolded ; if he were sick, she scold- 
ed ; if he were silent, she scolded ; if he 
talked, she scolded. .She scolded if he 
laughed, and she scolded if he cried. 

Then the people about her were grievances, 
of course, from Mr. Pierre Leblanc downward. 
She turned off her porter for apprehending a 
i swindler, and gave away her yard-dog for 
barking away some thieves. There was no 
foreseeing what would displease her. She 
caused a beggar to be taken up for insulting 
her, because he, with his customary cant, 
blessed her good-humoured face ; and she 
complained to the mayor of the fine fellow 
Punch for the converse reason, because he 
stopped before her windows and mimicked 
her at her own door. 

Then she met with a few calamities of 
which her temper was more remotely the 
cause; — such as being dismissed from the 
dissenting congregation that she frequented, 
for making an over-free use of the privilege 
which pious ladies sometimes assume of quar- 
relling with their acquaintance on spiritual 
grounds, and venting all manner of angry 
anathema for the love of God ; an affront that 
drove her to church the very next Sunday. 
Also, she got turned off by her political party, 
in the heat of a contested election, for insult- 
ing friends and foes in the bitterness of her 
zeal, and thereby endangering the return of 
her favourite candidate. A provincial poet, 
whose works she had abused, wrote a song in 
her dispraise ; and three attorneys brought 
actions against her for defamation. 

These calamities notwithstanding, Debo- 
rah's life might, for one and twenty years, be 
accounted tolerably prosperous. At the end 
of that lime, two misfortunes befell her nearly 
at once, — Pierre Leblanc died, and her son 
attained his majority. 

" Mother !" said the young man, as they 
were dining together off a couple of ducks 
two days after the old shopman's funeral ; 



" Mother !" said .lohn Tomkins, mustering up 
his courage, " I think I was one and twenty 
last Saturday." 

"And what of that]" replied Deborah, put- 
ting on her stormiest face; "I'm mistress 
here, and mistress I '11 continue: your father, 
poor simpleton that he was, was not fool 
enough to leave his house and business to an 
ignorant boy. The stock and trade are mine, 
sir, and shall be mine, in spite of all the un- 
dutiful sons in Christendom. One and twen- 
ty, forsooth ! What put that in your head, I 
wonder ■? What do you mean by talking of 
one and twenty, sirrah?" 

" Only, mother," replied John, meekly, 
" that, though father left you the house and 
business, he left me three thousand pounds, 
which, by your prudent management, are now 
seven thousand; and uncle William Ford, he 
left me the new Warren Farm ; and so, mo- 
ther, I was thinking, with your good will, to 
marry and settle." 

" Marry !" exclaimed Mrs. Tomkins, too 
angry even to scold — " marry !" and she laid 
down her knife and fork, as if choking. 

"Yes, mother!" rejoined John, taking 
courage from his mother's unexpected quiet- 
ness, " Rachel May's pretty grand-daughter 
Rebecca; she is but half a Quaker, you know, 
for her mother was a Churchwoman : and so, 
with your good leave — " and smack went all 
that remained of the ducks in poor John's 
face ; an eflfort of nature that probably saved 
Deborah's life, and enabled her to give vent 
to an oration to which I have no power to do 
justice ; but of which the non-effect was so 
decided, that John and his pretty Quakeress 
were married within a fortnight, and are now 
happily settled at the new Warren House ; 
whilst Mrs. Tomkins, having hired a good- 
humoured, good-looking, strapping Irishman 
of three and twenty, as her new foreman, is 
said to have it in contemplation, by way, as 
she says, of punishing her son, to make him, 
the aforesaid Irish foreman, successor to Si- 
mon Tomkins, as well as to Pierre Leblanc, 
and is actually reported, (though the fact 
seems incredible,) to have become so amiable 
under the influence of the tender passion, as 
to have passed three days without scolding 
any body in the house or out. The little God 
of Love is, to be sure, a powerful deity, es- 
pecially when he comes somewhat out of sea- 
son ; but this transition of character does seern 
to me too violent a change even for a romance, 
much more for this true history; and I hold it 
no lack of charity to continue doubtful of De- 
borah's reformation till after the honey-moon. 



Note. 

MADAME PERNELLE, EI,MIRE, MARIANNE, 
CLEANTE, DAMIS, DOUINE, FLIPOTE. 

MADAME PEHNELLE. 

Allons, l^lipote, allons ; quo d'eux je me delivre. 



THE YOUNG MARKET-WOMAN. 



405 



ELMIRE. 

Vouz marchez d'un tel pasqu'on a peine a vous suivre. 

MADAME PERNELLE. 

Laissez, ma bni, laissez; ne venez pas plus loin: 
Ce sunt loutes facons dont je n'ai pas besoin. 

ELMIRE. 

De ceqiie Ton votis doit envers vous Ton s'acquitte. 
Mais, ma mere, d'ou vient que vous sortez si vite ? 

MADAME PERNELI.E. 

C'est que je ne puis voir tout ce menage-ci, 
Et que de me complaire on ne prend nul souci. 
Oui, je sors de chez vous fort mal edifiee ; 
Dans toutes mes lecons j'y suis contrariee; 
On n'y respecte rien, chacun y parle hatit, 
Et c'est tont justemenl la cour du roi Petaud. 

DORINE. 

Si... 

MADA3IE PERNELLE. 

Vous etes, ma mie, une fille suivante 
Un peu trop forte en gueule, et fort mipertinente; 
Vous, vous melez sur tout de dire votre avis. 

DAMIS. 

Mais . . . 

MADAME PERNELLE. 

Vous etes un sot, en trois lettres, mon fils ; 
C'est moi! qui vous le dis, qui suis votre grand'raere; 
Et j'ai predit cent fois a mon fils, votre pere. 
Que vous preniez tout Fair d'un mechant garnement, 
Et ne lui donneriez jamais que du tourraenl. 



MARIANNE. 



Je crois 



MADAME PERNELLE. 

Mon Dien ! sa soeur, vous faites la discrete ; 
Et vous n'y touchez pas, tant vous semblez doucette! 
Mais il n'est, comme on dit, pire eau que I'eau qui dort,- 
Et vous menez, sous cape, un train que je hais Ibrt. 

ELMIRE. 

Mais, ma mere ... 

MADAME PERNELLE. 

Ma bru, qu'il ne vous en deplnise, 
Votre conduite en tout est tout-a-fait mauvaise; 
Vous devriez leur meltre un bon exemple aux yeux ; 
Et leur defunte mere en usait beaucoup mieux. 
Vous etes depensiere ; et cet etat meblesse. 
Que vous alliez vetue ainsi qu'une princesse, 
Quiconque a son mari veut plaire seuiement, 
Ma bru, n'a pas besoin de tant d'ajustement. 

CLEANTE. 

Mais, madame, apres tout . . . 

MADAME PERNELLE. 

Pour vous, monsieur son frere, 
Je vous estime (ort, vous aime. et vous revere ; 
i Mais enfin, si j'etais do mon fils, son epoux, 
I Je vous prierais bien fort de n'entrer point chez nous. 
I Sans cesse vous prechez des maximes de vivre 
Qui par d'bonnetes gens ne se doivent point suivre. 
Je vous pf>rle un peu franc; mais c'est la mon humeur, 
Et je ne laache point ce que j'ai sur le cosur. 

DAMIS. 

Votre mcnaieur Tartufe est bien heureux, sans doute. 

MADAME PERNELLE. 

C'est un homme de bien, qu'il faut que Ton ecoute; 
Et je no pjis soutTrir, sans me mettre en courroux, 
De le voit quereller par un fbu comme vous. 

DAMIS. 

Quoi ! je souffrirai, moi, qu'un cagot de critique 
ViPnne usur^e^ ceans un pouvoir tyrannique; 
Et que nous ne puissions a rien noiis divertir. 
Si ce beau iconsieur-lau'y daigne consentir? 



DORINE. 

S'il le faut ecouter et croire a ses maximes. 

On ne peut faire rien qu'on ne fasse des crimes : 

Car il controle tout, ce critique zele. 

MAIiAME PERNELLE. 

Et tout ce qu'il contrf;le est fort bien controle. 

***** 

MADAME PERNELLE, a EhnirC. 

\''oila les contes bleus qu'il vous laut pour vous 

plaire. 
Ma bru. L'on est chez vous contrainte de se taire : 
Car madame, ajaser, tient le de tout le jour. 
Mais enfin je pretends discourir a mon tour: 
Je vous dis que mon fils n'a rien fait de plus sage 
Qu'en recueillant chez soi ce devot personnage ; 
Que le ciel, an besoin, I'a ceans envoye 
Pour redresser a tons votre esprit fourvoye; 
Que, pour votre salut, vous le devez entendre; 
Et qu'il ne reprend rien qui ne soit a reprendre. 
Ces visites, ces bals, cos conversations, 
Sont du malin esprit toutes inventions. 
La, jamais on n'entend de pieuses paroles ; 
Ce sont propos oisifs, chansons et fariboles : 
Bien souvent le prochain en a sa bonne part, 
Et l'on y salt medire et du tiers et du quart. 
Enfin les gens senses ont leurs tetes troublees 
De la confusion de telles assemblees: 
Mille caquets divers s'y font en moins de rien ; 
Et, comme I'autre jour un docteur dit fort bien, 
C'est veritableraent la tour de Babylone, 
Car chacun y babiUc, et tout du long de I'aune: 
Et, pour conter I'histoire oii ce point I'engagea . . . 

{monlrant Clcante.) 
Voiia-t-il pas monsieur qui ricane deja. 
Allez chercher vos fous qui vous donnent a rire, 

{a Elmire.) 
Et sans . . . Adieu, ma bru ; je ne veux plus rien dire. 
Sachez que pour ceans j'en rabats de moitie, 
Et qu'il fera beau temps qiiand j'y mettrai le pie. 

(donnant un soufjlet a Flipote.) 
A lions, vous, vous revez, et bayez aux corneilles. 
Jour de Dieu! je saurai vous frotter les oreilles. 
Marchons, gaupe, marchons. 

Tartufe — Acte I., Scene I 



THE YOUNG MARKET-WOMAN. 

Belford is so populous a place, and the 
coiintry round so thiclcly inhabited, that the 
Saturday's market is almost as well attended 
as an ordinary fair. So early as three or four 
o'clock in the morninof, the heavy waggons 
(one with a capital set of bells) begin to pass 
our house, and increase in number — to say 
nothinsr of the admixture of other vehicles, 
from the humble donkey-cart to the smart g^ior, 
and hosts of horsemen and foot-people — until 
nine or ten, when there is some pause in the 
affluence of market folk till about one, when 
the lightened wains, laden, not vi'ith corn, but 
with rosy-cheeked country lasses, begin to 
show signs of travelling homewcrd, and con- 
tinue passing at no very distant intervals until 
twilight. There is more traffic on our road 
in one single Saturday than on all .the other 
days of the week put together. And if we 
feel the stirring movement of " market-day" 



406 



BELFORD REGIS. 



so strongly in the country,* it may be ima- 
gined how much it must enliven the town. 

Saturdny at noon is indeed the very time to 
see Beitord, which in general has the fiiult, 
not uncommon in provincial towns, of want- 
ing bustle. The old market-place, always 
picturesque from its shape (an unequal trian- 
gle), its size, the diversified outline and irreg- 
ular architecture of the houses, and the beau- 
tiful Gothic church by which it is terminated, 
is then all alive with the busy hum of traffic, 
the agricultural wealth and the agricultural 
population of the district. From the poor 
farmer with his load of corn, up to the rich 
mealman ana the great proprietor, all the 
" landed interest" is there, mixed with jobbers 
and chapmen of every description, cattle- 
dealers, millers, brewers, maltsters, justices 
going to the Bench, constables and overseers 
following to be sworn, carriers, carters, errand- 
boys, tradesmen, shopmen, apprentices, gen- 
tlemen's servants, and gentlemen in their own 
persons, mixed with all the rifl-ratf of the 
town, and all the sturdy beggars of the coun- 
try, and all the noisy urchins of both. 

Noise indeed is the prime characteristic of 
the Belford market-day — noise of every sort, 
from the heavy rumbling of so many loaded 
wagons over the paved market-place, to the 
crash of the crockery-ware in the narrow pas- 
sage of Princes' Street, as the stall is knocked 
down by the impetus of a cart full of turnips, 
or the squall of the passengers of the South- 
ern caravan, upset by the irresistible momen- 
tum of the Hadley-mill team. 

But the noisiest, and perhajjs the prettiest 
places, were the Piazza at the end of Saint 
Nicholas's church, appropriated by long usage 
to the female venders of fruit and vegetables, 
where certain old women, as well known to 
the habitues of the market as the church-tow- 
er, were wont to Jlyte at each other, and at 
their customers, with the genius for vitupera- 
tion for which ladies of their profession have 
long been celebrated ; and a detached spot 
called the Butter-market, at the back of the 
Market-place proper, where the more respect- 
able basket-women, the daughters and wives 
of farmers, and the better order of the female 
peasantry, used to bring eggs, butter, and 
poultry for sale on Wednesdays and Satur- 
days. 

A pretty and a diversified place was the 
Butter-market; for besides the commodities, 
dead and alive, brought by the honest coun- 
trywomen, a few stalls were set out with 
straw hats, and caps and ribbons, and other 
feminine gear, to tempt them in return ; and 



* My dog Dash, who regularly attends his master 
to the Bench, where he is the only dot? admilled, and 
a great [)et, knows Saturday as well as I do; iolk)\\s 
my lalher a.s closely as his shadow from the monicnl 
that he comes down stairs; and would probahly break 
through the door or jump through a closed window, 
rather than sutler the phaeton to set otl" without hnn. 



here and there an urchin of the more careful 
sort would bring his basket of tame rabbits, 
or wood-pigeons, or young ferrets, or squeak- 
ing guinea-pigs, or a nest of downy owls or 
gaping jackdaws, or cages of linnets and 
thrushes, to tempt the townsfolk. Nay, in 
the season, some thoughtful little nnaid of 
eight or ten would bring nosegays of early 
primroses or sweet violets, or wall-flow ers, or 
stocks, to add a few pence to the family store. 

A pleasant sight was the Butter-market, 
with its comely country wives, its modest 
lasses and neat children, — pleasant and cheer- 
ful, in spite of the din of so many women, 
buyers and sellers, all talking together, and 
the noise of turkeys, geese, ducks, chickens, 
and guinea-pigs; — but the pleasantest sigiil 
there was a young damsel famous for eggs 
and poultry, and modest beauty, known by 
the name of " pretty Bessy," — but not a regu- 
lar attendant of the market, her goods being 
in such request that she seldom had occasion 
to come so far, the families round, ourselves 
among the rest, dealing constantly with her. 

We are persons of great regularity in our 
small atTairs of every class, from the petty 
dealings of housekeeping to the larger com- 
merce of acquaintanceship. The friends who 
have once planted us by their fireside, and 
made us feel as if at home there, can no more 
get rid of our occasional presence, than they 
could root out that other tenacious vegetable, 
the Jerusalem artichoke ; even if they were 
to pull us up by the stalk and toss us over 
the wall (an experiment by the way, which, 
to do them justice, they have never tried,) I 
do verily believe, that in the course of a few 
months we should spring up again in the very 
same place : and our tradespeople, trifling as 
is the advantage to be derived from our cus- 
tom, may yet reckon upon it with equal cer- 
tainty. They are, as it ha])pens, civil, honest, 
and respectable, the first people in their line 
in the good town of Belford ; but, were tiiey 
otherwise, the circumstance would hardly 
affect our invincible constancy. The world is 
divided between the two great empires of 
habit and novelty ; the young following pretty 
generally in the train of the new-fangled sove- 
reign, whilst we of an elder generation adhere 
with similar fidelity to the amien regime. I, 
especially, am the very bond-slave of habit — 
love old friends, old faces, old books, old sce- 
nery, old flowers, old associations of every 
sort and kind — nay, although a woman, and 
one not averse to that degree of diicoration 
which belongs to the suitable and the becom- 
ing, I even love old fashions and old clothes; 
and can so little comprehend why we should 
tire of a thing because we have had it long, 
that, a favourite pelisse having become shab- 
by, I this very day procured with some difli- 
culty silk of the exact colour and shade, and, | 
having ordered it to be made in direct con- I 
fortuity with the old pattern, shall have the 



THE YOUNG MARKET-WOMAN. 



407 



satisfaction next Sunday of donninor a new 
dress, wliich my neighbours, the shoemaker's 
wife and the baiier's daughters, who have in 
their heads an absolute inventory of my appa- 
rel, will infallibly mistake for the old one. 

After this striking instance, the courteous 
reader will have no difficulty in comprehend- 
ing that the same " auld-lang-syne" feeling, 
which leads me to think no violets so fragrant 
as those which grow on a certain sunny bank 
in Kibes Lane, and no cherries so sweet as 
those from the great mayduke, on the south 
wall of our old garden, should also induce me 
to prefer before all oranges those which come 
from Mrs. Hollis's shop, at the corner of the 
churchyard — a shop which we have frequented 
ever since I knew what an orange was ; and, 
for the same reason, to rank before all the bis- 
cuits which ever were invented, a certain most 
seducing, thin, and crisp composition, as light 
as foam and as tasteless as spring-water, the 
handiwork of Mrs. Purdy, of the Market- 
place in the good town of Belford ; as well 
as to place above all other poultry that which 
cackles in the baskets of " pretty Bessy." 
The oranges and biscuits are good in them- 
selves, and so are the ducks and chickens; 
but some of their superiority is undoubtedly 
to be ascribed to the partiality generated by 
habit. 

Another of the persons with whom we had 
in our small way dealt longest, and whom we 
liked best, was old Matthew, the matseller. 
As surely as February came, woultl Matthew 
present his bent person and withered though 
still ruddy face at our door, vi'ith the three 
rush mats which he knew that our cottage 
required ; and as surely did he receive fifteen 
shillings, lawful money of Great Britain, in 
return for his commodity, notwithstanding an 
occasional remonstrance from some flippant 
housemaid or domineering cook, who would 
endeavour to send him off with an assurance 
that his price was double that usually given, 
and that no mat ever made with rushes was 
or could be worth five shillings. " His honour 
always deals with me," was Matthew's mild 
response, and an appeal to the parlour never 
failed to settle matters to his entire satisfac- 
tion. In point of fact, Matthew's mats were 
honestly worth the money; and we enjoyed 
in this case the tri[)le satisfaction of making a 
fair bargain, dealing with an old acquaintance, 
and relieving, in the best way — that of em- 
ployment — the wants of age and of poverty ; 
for, although Matthew's apparel was accu- 
rately clean and tidy, and his thin, wrinkled 
cheek as hale and ruddy as a summer apple, 
yet the countless patches on his various gar- 
ments, and the spare, trembling figure, bent 
almost double and crippled with rheumatism, 
told a too legible story of infirmity and penury. 
Except on his annual visit with his merchan- 
dise, we never saw the good old matmaker; 
nor did I even know where he resided, until 



the want of an additional mat for my green- 
house, towards the end of last April, induced 
me to make inquiry concerning his habitation. 

I had no difficulty in obtaining a direction 
to his dwelling; and found that, for a poor 
old matmaker, Matthew was a person of more 
consideration and note in our little world than 
I could have expected, being, in a word, one 
of the honestest, soberest, and most industri- 
ous men in the neighbourhood. 

He lived, I found, in Barkham Dingle, a 
deep woodland dell, communicating with a 
large tract of unenclosed moors and commons 
in the next parish, convenient doubtless to 
Matthew, as aflfording the rushes of which his 
mats were constructed, as well as heath for 
brooms, of which he was said to have lately 
established a manufacture, and which were 
almost equally celebrated for durability and 
excellence with the articles that he had made 
for so many years. In Barkham Dingle lived 
old Matthew, with a grand-daughter, who 
was, I found, also renowned for industry and 
good-humour ; and, one fine afternoon towards 
the end of April, I set forth in my little pony- 
phaeton, driven by that model of all youthful 
serving-men, our boy John, to make my pur- 
chase. 

Our road lay through a labyrinth of cross- 
country lanes, intermingled with tiny patches I 
of village greens, v^ere every here and there ! 
a score or two of slieep, the small flock of 
some petty farmer, were nestled with their 
young lambs among the golden gorse and the 
feathery broom, and which started up, bleat- 
ing, at the sound of our wheels and the sight 
of Dash (far too well-bred a dog to dream of ' 
molesting them), as if our peaceful procession 
had really been something to be frightened at. 
Rooks were wheeling above our heads, wood- 
pigeons flying across the fields ; the shrill cry 
of the plover mixed with the sweet song of : 
the nightingale and the monotonous call of 
the cuckoo; whilst every hedge echoed with : 
the thousand notes of the blackbird, the lin- j 
net, the thrush, and " all the finches of the I 
grove." Geese and ducks, with their train I 
of callow younglings, were dabbling in every 
pool ; little bands of straggling children were ' 
wandering through the lanes ; everything, in i 
short, gave token of the loveliest of the sea- j 
sons, the fresh and joyous spring. Vegeta- 
tion was, however, unusually backward. The 
blossom of the sloe, called by the country 
people " the blackthorn winter," still lingered ! 
in the hedges, mingling its snowy garlands j 
with the deep, rich brown of the budding oak i 
and the tender green of the elm ; the primroses ' 
of March still ""mingled with the cowslips, j 
pansies, orchises, and wild hyacinths of April; 
and the flower of the turnip was only just be- 
ginning to difluse its honeyed odours (equal 
in fragrance to the balmy tassels of the lime) 
in the most sheltered nooks or the sunniest 
exposures. The " bjessed sun" himself 



408 



BELFORD REGIS. 



seemed rather brijjht than warm : the season 
was, in short, full three weeks backwarder 
than it should have been accordinjj to the al- 
manac. Still it was sprino^, beautiful sprint ! 
and, as we drew near to the old beech-wood 
called Barkham Dingle, we felt in its perfec- 
tion all the charm of the scene and the hour. 

Although the country immediately round 
was unenclosed, as had been fully proved by 
the last half mile of undulating common, in- 
terspersed by old shaggy trees and patches, 
(islets, as it were) of tangled underwood, as 
well as by a few rough ponies and small cows 
belonging to the country people; yet the lanes 
leading toit had been intersected by frequent 
gates, from the last of which a pretty, little, 
rosy, smiling girl, to whom I had tossed a 
penny for opening it, had sprung across the 
common, like a fawn, to be ready with her 
services at that leading into the Dingle, down 
which a rude cart-track, seldom used unless 
for the conveyance of fagots or brushwood, 
led by a picturesque but by no means easy 
descent. 

Leaving chaise, and steed, and driver, to 
wait our return at the gate. Dash and I pur- 
sued our way by a winding yet still precipi- 
tous path to the bottom of the dell. Nothing 
could be more beautiful than the scene. On 
every side, steep, shelving banks, clothed 
with magnificent oaks and beeches, the growth 
of centuries, descended gradually, like some 
vast amphitheatre, to a clear, deep piece of 
water, lying like a mirror in the midst of the 
dark woods, and letting light and sunshine 
into the picture. The leav'es of the beech 
were just bursting into a tender green from 
their shining sheaths, and the oaks bore still 
the rich brown, which of their unnumbered 
tints is perhaps the loveliest; but every here 
and there a scattered horse-chestnut, or plane, 
or sycamore, had assumed its summer ver- 
dure: the weeping birch, "the lady of the 
woods," was breaking from the bud, the holly 
glittering in its unvarying glossiness, the haw- 
thorn and the briar-rose in full leaf, and the 
ivy and woodbine twisting their bright wreaths 
over the rugged trunks of the gigantic forest- 
trees ; so that green formed even now the pre- 
vailing colour of the wood. The ground, 
indeed, was enamelled with flowers like a 
parterre. Primroses, cowslips, pansies, or- 
chises, ground-ivy, and wild hyacinths, were 
blended in gorgeous profusion with the bright 
wood-vetch, the light vvodd-anemone, and the 
delicate wood-sorrel,* which sprang from the 
mossy roots of the beeches, unrivalled in 
grace and beauty, more elegant even than the 
lily of the valley that grew by its side. No- 
thing could exceed the delightfulness of that 
winding wood-walk. 

I soon came in sight of the place of my 



* There is a pink variety of this beautiful wild 
flower; but the pencilled while is the most elegant. 



destination, a low-browed, thatched cottage, 
perched like a wild-duck's nest at the very 
edge of the pool, and surrounded by a little 
garden redeemed from the forest — a small 
clearings where cultivated flowers, and beds 
of berry-bushes, and pear and cherry trees, in 
full blossom, contrasted strangely yet plea- 
santly with the wild scenery around. 

The cottage was very small, yet it had the 
air of snugness and comfort which one loves 
to associate with the dwellings of the indus- 
trious peasantry. A goodly fagot-pile, a don- 
key-shed, and a pig-sty evidently inhabited, 
confirmed this impression ; and geese and 
ducks swimming in the water, and chickens 
straying about the door, added to the cheer- 
fulness of the picture. 

As I approached, I recognised an old ac- 
quaintance in a young girl, who, with a straw 
basket in her hand, was engaged in feeding 
the cocks and hens — no less a person than 
pretty Bessy the young market-woman, of 
whom I have before spoken, celebrated for 
rearing the earliest ducks and the fattest and 
whitest chickens ever seen in these parts. 
Any Wednesday or Saturday morning, during 
the spring or summer, might Bessy be seen 
on the road to Belford, tripping along by the 
side of her little cart, hardly larger than a 
wheelbarrow, drawn by a sedate and venerable 
donkey, and laden with coops full of cackling 
or babbling inmates, together with baskets of 
fresh eggs — for Bessy's commodities were as 
much prized at the breakfast as at the dinner 
table. She meant, as I have said, to keep the 
market ; but, somehow or other, she seldom 
reached it; the quality of her merchandise 
being held in such estimation by the families 
around, that her coops and baskets were gene- 
rally emptied before they gained their place 
of destination. 

Perhaps the popularity of the vender had 
something to do with the rapid sale of her 
poultry-ware. Never did any one more com- 
pletely realize the beau ideal of a young, hap- 
py, innocent, country girl, than Matthew's 
grand-daughter. Fresh and fair, her rosy 
cheeks mantling with blushes, and her cherry 
lips breaking into smiles, she was the very 
milk-maid of Isaac Walton; and there was 
an old-fashioned neatness and simplicity, a 
complete absence of all finery, in her attire, 
together with a modest sweetness in her round 
young voice, a rustic grace in her little curtsy, 
and, above all, a total unconsciousness of her 
charms, wiiich not only heightened the efl^ect, 
but deepened and strengthened the impassion. 
No one that ever had seen them could forget 
Bessy's innocent smiles. 

At present, however, the poor girl was evi- 
dently in no smiling mood ; and, as I was 
tiiridding with care and labour the labyrinths 
of an oak newly felled and partly barked, 
which lay across the path, to the great im- 
provement of its picturesqueness (there are 



THE YOUNG MARKET-WOMAN. 



409 



few objects that so much enhance the beauty 
of woodland scenery) and ttie equal augment- 
ation of its difficulty, I could not help observ- 
ing how agitated and preoccupied the little 
damsel seemed. Her cheek had lost its col- 
our, her step was faltering, and the trembling 
hand with which she was distributing the corn 
from her basket could hardly perform its task. 
Her head was turned anxiously towards the 
door, as if something important were going 
forward within the house; and it was not un- 
til I was actually by her side, and called her 
by name, that she perceived me. 

The afternoon, although bright and pleasant 
for the season, was one of those in which the 
sun sometimes amuses himself by playing at 
bopeep. The sky had become overcast shortly 
after 1 entered the Dingle, and, by the time I 
had surmounted the last tall jetting bare bough 
of the oak, some of the branches of which I 
was fain to scramble over and some to creep 
through, and had fairly reached the cottage 
door, a sudden shower was whistling through 
the trees with such violence as to render both 
Dash and myself very glad to accept Bessy's 
embarrassed invitation and get under shelter 
from the pelting of the storm. 

My entrance occasioned an immediate and 
somewhat awkward pause in a discussion that 
had been carried on, apparently with consider- 
able warmth, between my good old host, Mat- 
thew, who, with a half-finished mat in his 
hand, was sitting in alow wicker chair on one 
side of the hearth, and a visiter, also of my 
acquaintance, who was standing against the 
window; and, with the natural feelings of 
repugnance to such an intrusion, I had hardly 
taken the seat otlered me by Bessy and given 
my commission to her grandfather, before 1 
proposed to go away, saying that I saw they 
were busy, that the rain was nothing, that I 
had a carriage waiting, that I pariicularlj'^ 
wished to get home, and so forth — all the civil 
falsehoods, in short, with which, finding one- 
self madame de trap, one attempts to escape 
from an uncomfortable situation. 

My excuses were, however, altogether use- 
less. Bessy would not hear of my departure ; 
Farmer White, my fellow-visiter, assured me 
that the rain was coming down harder than 
ever; and the old matmaker declared that, so 
far from my being in the way, all the world 
was welcome to hear what he had to say, and 
he had just been wishing for some discreet 
body to judge of the farmer's behaviour. And, 
the farmer professing himself willing that 1 
should be made acquainted with the matter, 
and perfectly ready to abide by my opinion — 
provided it coincided with his own — 1 resum- 
ed my seat opposite to Matthew, whilst poor 
Bessy, blushing and ashamed, pla-ced herself 
on a low stool in the corner of the little room, 
and began n^aking friends with Dash. 

" The long and the short of the matter is, 
ma'am," quoth old IMatthew, " that Jem White 



— I dare say you know Jem ; he's a good lad 
and a 'dustrious — and my Bessy there — and 
she's a good girl and a 'dustrious too, thof I say 
it that should not say it — have been keepinuf 
company, like, for these two years past; and 
now, just as 1 thought they were going to 
marry and settle in the world, down comes his 
father, the farmer there, and wants him to 
marry another wench and be false-hearted to 
my girl." 

" I never knew that he courted her, ma'am, 
till last night," interrupted the farmer. 

"And who does he want Jem to marry?" 
pursued the old man, warming as he went on. 
" Who but Farmer Brookes's fine daughter 
'Gusta — Miss 'Gusta as they call her — who's 
just come back from Belford boarding-school, 
and goes about the country in her silks and 
her satins, with her veils and her fine worked 
bags, — who but she ! as if she was a lady 
born like madam there ! Now my Bessy " 

" I have not a word to say against Bessy," 
again interrupted the farmer ; " she's a good 
girl, and a pretty girl, and an industrious girl. 
1 have not a word to say against Bessy. But 
t!ie fact is, that I have had an ofi'er of the 
Holm Farm for Jem, and therefore " 

" And a fine farmer's wife 'Gusta Brookes 
will make !" quoth the matmaker, interrupting 
Master White in his turn. " A pretty farm- 
er's wife ! She that can do nothing on earth 
but jabber French, and read story-books, and 
thump on the music ! Now, there's my girl 
can milk, and churn, and bake, and brew, and 
cook, and wash, and make, and mend, and 
rear poultry — there are not such ducks and 
chickens as Bessy's for ten miles round. Ask 
madam — she always deals with Bessy, and so 
do all the gentlefolks between here and Bel- 
ford." 

" I am not saying a word against Bessy," 
replied Farmer White ; " she's a good girl, 
and a pretty girl, as I said before ; and I am 
very sorry for the whole atfair. But the Holm 
Farm is a largish concern, and will take a 
good sura of money to stock it — more money 
than I can command ; and Augusta Brookes, 
besides what her father can do for her at his 
death, has four hundred pounds of her own 
left her by her grandmother, which, with what 
I can spare, will be about enough for the pur- 
pose ; and that made me think of the match, 
though the matter is still quite unsettled. You 
know, Master Matthew, one can't expect that 
Bessy, good girl as she is, should have an}' 
money " 

" Oh, that's it !" exclaimed the old man of 
the mats. " You don't object to the wench 
then, nor to her old grandfather, if 'twas not 
for the money ■?" 

"Not in the least," replied the farmer; 
" she's a good girl, and a pretty girl. I like 
her full as well as Augusta Brookes, and I am 
afraid that Jem likes her much better. And, 
as for yourself, Master. Matthew, why I've 



35 



3B 



410 



BELFORD REGIS. 



known you these fifty years, and never heard 
man, woman, or child speak a misword of you 
in my life. I respect you, man ! And I am 
heartily sorry to vex you, and that good little 
girl yonder. Don't cry so, Bessy ; pray don't 
cry !" And the good-natured farmer well-nigh 
cried for company. 

" No, don't cry, Bessy, because there's no 
need," rejoined her grandfather. "I thought 
mayhap it was out of pride that Farmer White 
I would not suffer .Tern to marry my little girl. 
I But, since it's only the money," continued the 
I old man, funihling amidst a vast variety of 
well-patched garments, until from the pocket 
of some uiider-jacket he produced a greasy 
brown leather book — "since 'tis only Miss 
'Gusta's money that's wanted to stock the 
Holm, why that 's but reasonable; and we'll 
see whether your four hundred won't go as far 
as hers. Look at them dirty bits of paper, 
farmer — they're of the right sort, an't they ]" 
cried Rlatthew, with a chuckle. " I called 'em 
in, because I tiiought they'd be wanted for her 
portion, like; and, when the old matmaker 
dies, there'll be a hundred or two more into 
the bargain. Take the money, man, can't ye ? 
and doat look so 'atounded. It's honestly 
come by, I promise you, — all 'dustry and 
'conomy, like. Her father he was 'dustrious, 
and he left her a bit; and her mother, she was 
'dustrious too, and she left her a bit ; and I, 
thof I should not say it, have been 'dustrious 
all my life; and she, poor thing, is more 'dus- 
trious than any o' us. Ay, that's right. Give 
her a hearty kiss, man ; and call in Jem — I'll 
warrant he's not far off — and we'll fix the wed- 
ding-day over a jug of home-brewed. And 
madam there," pursued the happy old man, 
as with most sincere congratulations and food 
wishes I rose to depart, "madam, there, who 
looks so pleased and speaks so kindly, may 
be sure of her mat. I'm a 'dustrious man, 
thof I say it that should not say it ; and Bessy's 
a 'dustrious girl ; and, in my mind, there's no- 
thing beats 'dustry in high or in low." 

And, with this axiom from the old mat- 
maker. Dash and I took our leave of four as 
happy people — for by this time Jem had joined 
the party — as could well be found under the 
sun. 



HESTER. 

Amoxi;st the most prominent of the Bel- 
fordians who figured at the Wednesday night's 
club at the King's Arms, was a certain person- 
age, rather broader than he was long, who 
was known generally through the town by the 
familiar appellation of Nat Kinlay. By call- 
ing, Nat 

" Was, — could he help it ? — a special attorney ;" 

by habit and inclination, a thorough good fel- 



low — played the best rubber, sang the best 
song, told the best story, made the best punch 
— and drank the most of it when made, of any 
man in Belford. Besides these accomplish- 
ments, he was eminently agreeable to men of 
all ranks ; had a pleasant word for everybody ; 
was friendly with the rich, generous to the 
poor, never out of spirits, never out of humour, 

j and, in spite of the quips and cranks in which 
he delighted, never too clever for his company ; 
the most popular person in the place was, be- 
yond all doubt, Nat Kinlay. 

j In spite, however, of his universal populari- 
ty, and of a gentle tendency to overrate his 

i colloquial talents, no attorney in the town had 
so little employment. His merits made against 

[ him in his profession almost as strongly as 

j his faults : frank, liberal, open-hearted, and 
indulgent, as well as thoughtless, careless, 
daring, and idle; a despiser of worldly wis- 
dom, a hater of oppression, and a reconciler of 
strife — he was about the last person to whom 
t!ie crafty, the overbearing, or the litigious, 
would resort for aid or counsel. The prudent 
were repelled by his heedlessness and pro- 
crastination, and the timid alarmed at his 
levity ; so that the circumstance which he told 
as a good joke at the club, of a spider having 
spun a web over the lock of his office-door (as 
over the poor-box in Hogarth's famous pic- 
ture), was no uncommon occurrence at his 
residence. Except by a few of the poorest 
and wildest of his boon companions, — penni- 
less clients, who lived at his table all the 
while their suits were pending, and took care 
to disappear just before their cause was lost, 
— the mysterious looking brass knob, with 
" Office-Bell" underneath it, at Mr. Kinlay's 
excellent house in Queen-street, remained un- 
rung from term to term. 

Startling as such a circumstance would have 
seemed to most professional men, it was long 
before this total absence of profitable employ- 
ment made the slightest impression on Nat 
Kinlay. The son of an affluent tradesman in 
a distant county, he had been articled to a 
solicitor, rather as a step in station, an advance 
towards gentility, than with any view to the 
money-making facilities of that lucrative call- 
ing. His father, judging from his own frugal 
habits, thought that Nat, the only child 
amongst a large family of wealthy brothers, 
would have money enough, without making 
himself a slave to the law; and when the 
early death of his parents put him in posses- 
sion of thirty thousand pounds lawful money 
of Great Britain, besides the great draper's 
shop in the little town of Cranley where that 
money had been accumulated, — to say nothing 
of the stock and good-will, and divers mes- 
suages and tenements, gardens and crofts, in 
and about the aforesaid town — Nat w'as most 
decidtidly of the same opinion. 

But, extravagant in every sense of the word, 
luxurious in his habits, prodigal in his gene- 



HESTER. 



411 



I rosit5s expensive in liis tastes, easy and uncal- 
1 culatingras achild, the tiiiity tliousand pounds, 
! between building and driving-, and card-play- 
I ing and gond-feliowship — (for sporting he was 
I too unwieldy and too idle, or that would un- 
I doubted ly have been added to the catalogue 
I of the spendthrift's sins,) the thirty thousand 
I pounds melted away like snow in the sun- 
shine ; the produce of the shop, gardens, crofts, 
messuages, and tenements — even the humble 
dwelling in which his father had been born, 
and [lis grandfatlier had laid the foundation of 
the family prosperity in the humble vocation 
of a tailor. — disappeared with equal rapidity; 
and Nat Kinlay was on the very verge of ruin, 
when the death of a rich uncle relieved him 
from his didlculties, and enabled him to re- 
commence his career of dissipation. 

In the course of a few years his funds were 
again nearly exhausted, and again he was re- 
lieved by the bequest of a doting aunt, whom 
two of her brothers, indignant at the hope of 
the house, had made their heiress; and the 
only lesson that her dutiful nephew drew from 
this second and near approach of poverty, was 
a vague confidence in his own good fortune, 
and that callousness to a particular danger 
which is the result of repeated escape from 
the same sort of peril. Good advice, which, 
of all valuable commodities, is the one most 
frequently wasted, was particularly thrown 
away in his case ; he trusted in his lucky star 
— Napoleon himself not more implicitly — and 
replied to his friendly advisers only by a know- 
ing wink, a good-humoured nod, and a scrap 
of some gay Anacreontic : 

" Pleased let us trifle life away. 
And think of care when we grow old," 

might have been his motto. 

This faith in his peculiar good fortune was 
not diminished in liis own eyes, or in those of 
his flatterers, when, just as Aunt Dorothy's 
tens of thousands were going where so many 
tens of thousands had gone before, Nat had 
the happiness to secure the affections of a very 
amiable woman of considerable fortune, and 
far greater expectations, since she was the pre- 
sumptive heiress of her mother's brother, with 
whom she had resided during the greater part 
of her life, and who was a man of ancient 
family and large landed property in the neigh- 
bourhood. 

He, it is true, opposed the match as violent- 
ly as a man well could do. His partialities 
and his prejudices were equally against such 
a connexion. His alTection for his niece made 
him dread the misery which must follow a 
union with a confirmed spendthrift; and his 
own personal habits rendered him exceedingly 
averse to parling with one who had been for 
so many years his principal companion and 
friend. That a young woman educated by him 
in a stately retirement, immured amidst the 
splendid solitude of Cranley Park in the pur- 



suits of art and of literature, should " abase 
her eyes" on a low-born and unlettered pro- 
digal many years older than herself, without 
even the attraction of personal graces ; that 
Elizabeth Chudleigh, the steadiest of the 
steady, the gravest of the grave, demure and 
pensive as a nun, should be in love with Nat 
Kinlay, — seemed to her uncle not merely 
monstrous, but impossible. 

Such, however, was the case. And, perhaps, 
many of the striking discrepancies that existed 
between them in character and situation tend- 
ed to foster their mutual affection rather than 
to check its growth. To Nat, little accustom- 
ed to the best female society, the gentle re- 
serve and quiet eleganceof Elizabeth, accident- 
ally thrown in his way at the house of a neigh- 
bouring gentleman, proved infinitely more cap- 
tivating than the mere girlish prettiness, or the 
showy dashing vulgar style of beauty, with 

which he was familiar; whilst she Oh! 

have we not all seen some sage and sedate 
damsel of six-and-twenty — staid, demure, and 
coy, as the prude of Pope's and Gibber's days 
— carried off her feet by the mere charm of a 
buoyant, merry, light-hearted rattle, thought- 
less, generous, and good-natured 1 Alas ! the 
tale is common. And the want of good looks 
in the hero of the present story (though his 
head was good, and his figure at four or five- 
and-thirty was by no means so unsightly as 
it afterwards became,) was amply compen- 
sated by manners so agreeable, and a kind- 
ness so real, that personal beauty seemed as 
nothing in the comparison. There was a spice 
of romance in the affair too, — a horse that had 
run away, and had been stopped by the courage 
and address of the gentleman; so poor Eliza- 
beth said, and thought, that he had saved her 
life. Could she do less than devote that life 
to his happiness] And when he vowed that, 
with her for his companion and guide, he 
should never go astray again, could she do less 
than believe him 1 

Accordingly the lady being of age, her pa- 
rents dead, and her own fortune absolutely in 
her power, they were married, with no other 
drawback to her happiness than the total and 
solemn renunciation of the kind uncle who 
had been to her as a parent. Nat indeed, with 
his usual sanguine spirit, made sure of his re- 
lenting; but Elizabeth, better acquainted with 
the determined and somewhat stubborn temper 
which they had to encounter, felt a sad fore- 
boding that the separation was final. She 
soon, however, forgot this evil in the bustle 
and excitement of the wedding excursion, and 
in the total alteration of scene and of habits 
which ensued upon their settling down into 
married life. 

One of the few stipulations which his fair 
bride had made was, that Nat should change 
his residence and resume his profession. Ac- 
cordingly he bought the house and business 
of old John Grove, one of the most thriving 



412 



BELFORD REGIS. 



practitioners thateverlaid down the law in Bel- 
ford, and soon became an eminent and popular 
denizen of the crood town, where he passed 
his time mnch to his satisfaction, in furnishincr 
and alterinorhis already excellent house, throw- 
intr out bow-windows, stickino- up verandas, 
addingr to the coach-houses and stables, erect- 
inor a conservatory, and buihlinsxa tjarden-wail. 
He took a pasture farm about half-a-miie off, 
stocked it with cattle, built a fancy dairy, and 
boufi'ht a flock. 

These were his graver extravagances, his 
business way of spending money. Society, 
or rather perhaps company in all varieties and 
degrees, formed his gayer mode of outlay. 
Parties at home and parties abroad, club-din- 
ners and tavern-supjjers, — meetings of all 
sorts and degrees, so that they ended in cards 
and jollity, from the patrician reunions of the 
hunt, to which his good songs, and good sto- 
ries, and good-humour gained him admittance, 
down to the pigeon-shooting matches at the 
Rose and Crown, of which he was the idol, — 
wine and billiards, whist and punch, — divided 
his days and niofhts amongst them ; and poor 
Elizabeth soon found how truly her uncle had 
prophesied when he had told her, that to mar- 
ry Nat Kinlay was to give herself to present 
care and future penury. She did not cease to 
love him ; perliaps she would have suffered 
less if she had. Selfish, utterly and basely 
selfish, as he was in pursuing his own ignoble 
pleasures at the expense of his wife's happi- 
ness, there was still that about him which it 
was impossible to dislike — a sweet and merry 
temper, a constant kindness of look and of 
word, and a never-failing attention to procure 
everything which he even fancied could give 
her pleasure; so that Elizabeth, who, con- 
scientiously refraining from every sort of per- 
sonal expense, took care never to express the 
desires wiiich he would be so sure to have 
gratified, often wondered how he could have 
divined her wishes and her tastes. No wo- 
man could dislike such a husband. 

They had no child ; but after they had been 
two or three years married, a beautiful little 
girl, about four years old, fair as alabaster, 
with shining ringlets of the texture and colour 
of undyed silk, made her appearance in Queen- 
street. They called her Hester; and Mrs. 
Kinlay said to those of her acquaintance 
whom she thought entitled to an explanation, 
that the child was an orphan whom Mr. Kin- 
lay had permitted her to adopt. It was ob- 
served that, once when she had made this de- 
claration before him, the tears stood in his 
eyes, and he caught up the little girl in seem- 
ing [>lay, and buried his face in her silky curls 
to conceal his emotion. One or two of his 
old Cranley friends remembered, too, a vague 
story concerning a pretty country-girl in that 
neighbourhood. She bad died — and some had 
said that she had died in ciiildbed, about four 
years before; and her name had been Hetty. 



Be that as it might, the little Hester was 
firmly established in the house, the darling of 
the gay and jovial master, and perhaps even 
more decidedly the comfort of his mild and 
pensive wife. 

Time wore on ; Hester was seven, eight, 
nine years old, and this, the fourth fortune 
that he had spent, began to wax low. Eliza- 
beth's prudence had somewhat retarded the 
evil day, but poverty was fast approaching ; 
and, with all his confidence in his own good 
fortune, and in her uncle's relenting, even Nat 
began to be conscious of his situation. Of 
the forgiveness of her rich relation, indeed, 
she well knew that there was no hope. Bad 
news seldom fai'.s to reach those most inte- 
rested ; and she had heard from authority 
which she could not doubt, that the adoption 
of Hester had annihilated all chance of par- 
don. Severely strict in his own morals, the 
bringing home that motherless innocent seem- 
ed in his eyes a dereliction of feminine dig- 
nity, of wifely delicacy, — an encouragement 
of libertinism and vice, which nothing could 
induce him to tolerate. He was inexorable; 
and Elizabeth, determined not to abandon the 
helpless child, loved her the better for the in- 
justice of which she was the object. 

In herself, Hester was singularly interest- 
ing. Surrounded by comforts and luxuries, 
and the object of constant and affectionate at- 
tention from both Mr. and Mrs. Kinlay, there 
was about her a touch of thoughtfulness and 
melancholy, a mild and gentle pensiveness, 
not a little striking in so young a girl. Nat, 
when at home, spent more than half his time 
in playing with and caressing her; but his 
jokes, usually so exhilarating, failed to enliven 
Hester : she smiled at them indeed, or rather 
she smiled at him with fond and innocent 
gratitude ; but no one ever remembered to 
have heard her laugh ; and to read, or rather 
devour, in the room which she was permitted 
to call hers, whatever books she could come 
by, or to wander in the extensive and highly- 
cultivated garden with a beautiful Italian grey- 
hound belonging to Mrs. Kinlay, or to ramble 
with the same graceful companion through the 
picturesque fields of the Dairy Farm, formed 
the lonely child's dearest amusements. Whe- 
ther this unusual sadness proceeded from her 
being so entirely without companions of her 
own a<re, or was caugiit unconsciously from 
Mrs. Kinlay's evident depression, and from 
an intuitive perception, belonging to children 
of quick feeling, that beneath an outer show 
of gaiety all was not going well — or whether 
it were a mere accident of temperament, none 
could ascertain. Perhaps each of these causes 
might combine to form a manner most unusual 
at her age; a manner so tender, so gentle, so 
diffident, so full of pleading sweetness, that 
it added incalculably to the elfect of her soft 
and delicate beauty. Her look seemed to im- 
plore at once for love and for pity ; and hard 



HESTER. 



413 



mns*, have been the heart that could resist 
such an appeal. 

Every day increased Hester's sadness and 
Mrs. Kinlay's depression ; but the reckless 
gaiety of the master of the house suffered no 
diminution. It had, however, changed its 
character. The buoyancy and light-hearted- 
ness had vanished ; even the confidence in his 
inalienable good fortune was sensibly lessened 
— it was not, however, gone. No longer ex- 
pecting a pardon from his wife's offended 
kinsman, and not yet hardened erfbugh to 
wish, or at least to confess to himself in the 
face of his own conscience that he wished, 
for his death, he nevertheless allowed himself 
(so do we cheat our own souls) to think that, 
if he should die, either without a will, or with 
a will drawn up in a relenting mood, all would 
again go right, and he be once more prosper- 
ous and happy; and, this train of ideas once 
admitted, he soon began to regard as a cer- 
tainty the speedy death of a temperate and 
hale man of sixty, and the eventual softening 
of one of the most stern and stubborn hearts 
that ever beat in a human bosom. His own 
relations had forgiven him : — why should not 
his wife's 1 They had died just as the money 
was urgently wanted : — why should not he 1 

He was not, however, so thoroughly com- 
fortable in this faith but that he followed the 
usual ways of a man going down in the world, 
spending more prodigally than ever to conceal 
the approach of poverty, and speculating deep- 
ly and madly in hopes of retrieving his broken 
fortunes. He played higher than ever, bought 
brood-mares and merino flocks, took shares in 
canals and joint-stock companies ; and having 
in his prosperous days had the ill fortune to 
pick up at a country broker's a dirty, dingy 
landscape, which when cleaned turned out to 
be a Both, (ever since which unlucky moment 
he had fancied himself a connoisseur,) he fil'ed 
his house with all the rubbish to be picked up 
in such receptacles of trash, whether in town 
or country, — Raphaels from Swallow-street, 
and Claudes from the Minories. 

These measures had at least the effect of 
shortening the grievous misery of suspense 
without hope, the lingering agony of waiting 
for ruin. Almost as soon as poor Nat knew 
the fact himself — perhaps even before — his 
creditors discovered that he was penniless, 
and that his debts far exceeded his assets; a 
docket was struck, assignees appointed, the 
whole property given up, (for Mrs. Kinlay, in 
her imprudent and hasty marriage, had neg- 
lected the precaution of having even a part of 
her own money settled upon herself,) and the 
destitute family removed to London. Only 
a month before, Juliet, the graceful Italian 
greyhound, had died, and Hester had grieved 
(as older and wiser persons than Hester do 
grieve) over the loss of her pretty favourite ; 
but now, as for the last time she paced mourn- 
fully those garden-walks where Juliet had so 



often gambolled at her side, and sat for the 
last time on the soft turf under the great mul- 
berry-tree where they had so often played to- 
gether, she felt that Juliet, lying peacefully in 
her quiet grave amidst a bed of the pure and 
fragrant rose unique, had escaped a great evil, 
and that, if it pleased God, she could be con- 
tent to die too. 

Still more did that feeling grow upon her 
on their removal to a dark and paltry lodging 
in a dreary suburb of that metropolis where 
every rank and degree, from the most wretch- 
ed penury to the most splendid affluence, finds 
its appropriate home. A wretched home was 
theirs ; — small without comfort, noisy without 
cheerfulness, wanting even the charm of clean- 
liness or the solace of hope. Nat's spirit 
sank under the trial. Now, for the first time, 
he viewed before his eyes, he felt in his very 
heart's core, the miserable end of a life of 
pleasure ; and, when he looked around him 
and saw the two beings whom he loved best 
on earth involved in the irremediable conse- 
quences of his extravagance; condemned, for 
his fault, to sordid drudgery and squalid want ; 
punished, not merely in his own self-indulgent 
and luxurious habits, but in his fondest and 
purestaffections, — his mind and body gave way 
under the shock; he was seized with a dan- 
gerous illness, and, after lying for many weeks 
at the point of death, arose, weak as an infant, 
to suffer the pains and penalties of a premature 
old age, and that worst penalty of all — the 
will but not the power of exertion ! Oh, if 
he could but have called back one year of 
wasted strength, of abused intellect ! The 
wish was fruitless, in a worldly sense; but 
his excellent wife wept tears of joy and sor- 
row over the sincere though tardy expiation. 
She had again written to her uncle, and had 
received a harsh and brief reply : — " Leave 
the husband w'ho is unworthy of you, and the 
child — his child — whom his influence pre- 
vailed on you to adopt, and I consent to re- 
ceive you to my heart and my dwelling ; but 
never whilst you cling with a fond preferenct 
to these degrading connexions — never, even ii 
one should die, until you abandon both, will ] 
assist you as a friend, or own you as a kins 
woman." 

Mrs. Kinlay felt this letter to be final, and 
applied no more. Indeed, had she wished to 
address the obdurate writer, she knew not 
where to direct to him; for she ascertained 
from an old friend in the neighbourhood of 
Cranley that, a few weeks after the date of 
this letter, he left his beautiful residence, the 
seat of the family for many generations, — that 
the house was shut up, the servants discharged, 
and nothing known of the master beyond a 
vague report that he was gone abroad. 

That hope over, they addressed themselves 
to the task of earning a humble living, and 
were fortunate enough to find an old friend, a 
solicitor of great practice and high character, 



35* 



414 



BELFORD REGIS. 



who, although he had of late years shunned 
the prosperous prodigral, was most ready to 
assist the needy and repentant one. Nat, 
always quick, adroit, and neat-handed, had 
been in his youth a skilful enorosser; and 
Mr. Osborne, findintr on trial that he could 
depend upon him, not only employed him in 
his ofTice when his failincr health allowed him 
to leave the house, but trusted him with deeds 
to take home, in the completion and sometimes 
the entire execution of which Mrs. Kinlay, 
applying .herself to master the difficulties of 
the art, proved a most able and willing assist- 
ant. Hester, too, helped them and waited on 
them to the extent of her little power; and, 
once plunged into the healthful tide of virtu- 
ous industry and active exertion, the impover- 
ished family found their sufferings greatly 
diminished. Even poor Nat, after a hard 
day's scrivening, felt his mind lightened and 
his conscience soothed. But this was a solace 
that become more and more rare ; the attacks 
of disease pressed on him with increasing fre- 
quency and added severity, and Mrs. Kinlay 
and Hester were the chief bread-winners of 
the family. 

In the meanwhile, all their property at Bel- 
ford had been disposed of, — plate, china, lin- 
en, the superb collection of greenhouse and 
hot-house plants, the trumpery pictures and 
the handsome furniture ; and, persons not 
otherwise unfeeling, had committed the com- 
mon but unfeeling act of crowding emulously 
to the sale, and talking quietly over the ruin 
of the acquaintance whom, not a month be- 
fore, they had visited and liked, — for not to 
like Mrs. Kinlay, under all the disadvantage 
of low spirits, was impossible. Even the 
dairy-house, with its pretty garniture of old 
china and Dutch tiles, was dismantled and 
sold o'*'- a dividend was paid on the debts, 
and every trace of poor Nat was swept away 
from Belford ; the house where he had resided, 
which had hung longest on hand, as being 
almost too expensive a residence for a town, 
having at last found a purchaser, who, if out- 
ward indications might be trusted, was as 
different as possible from its late jovial but 
unthrifty proprietor. 

Tlie new occupant, who took possession in 
the dusk of the evening and retired immedi- 
ately to the back drawing-room, which had 
been fitted up for his reception, kept himself 
so close within his citadel, the garden and the 
apartments looking into it, (the shutters of the 
front windows not being even opened,) that 
the inhabitants of Queen-street, especially 
our friend Mrs. Colby, who lodged in one of 
a row of small houses nearly opposite, and 
kept aj)retty keen look-out on her neighbours, 
particularly on a fresh arrival, began to think 
that they had been misinformed as to the sale 
of the house, and that a cross-looking old 
woman, and a strong homely country-girl who 
seemed to officiate under her as a drudge, and 



might be seen every morning upon her knees 
scrubbing the steps before the door, (those 
steps which no foot ever defiled !) were merely 
put in by the assignees to take care of the 
premises. Influenced by these suspicions, 
Mrs. Colby, who felt at once defrauded and 
aiTronted bj' not being able to answer the natu- 
ral questions respecting her opposite neigh- 
bour, and not even knowing whether she had 
an opposite neighbour or not, took an oppor- 
tunity one fine morning, when both the young 
and the old woman were at the door, the one 
at her usual scrubbery, the other taking in 
some butcher's meat, to inquire if their mas- 
ter were arrived. The poor lady took nothing 
by her motion; the Cinderella-looking maid 
was stupid, and cried Anan ! the crone was 
surly, and banged the door in her face. No 
inquiry ever appeared more completely baffled ; 
and yet Mrs. Colby had pretty nearly satisfied 
herself as to the ostensible object of her ques- 
tion, (/. e. whether the purchaser were arrived,) 
having caught a glimpse in the tray (our friend 
Stephen Lane used to say that Mrs. Colbv 
could see through a deal board) of some prime 
rump-steaks and a quarter of house-lamb, 
viands usually reserved for a master's table; 
and having also discerned, standing a little 
back in the ]jassage, as if cogitating the ques- 
tion 'Shall I barkl' a beautiful Italian grey- 
hound, so closely resembling the deceased 
Juliet, who had been of Mrs. Colby's ac- 
quaintance, that if such a thing as the ghost 
of a dog had been ever heard of, and that 
shrewd and unimaginative lady had been a 
believer in the unprofitable mysteries of the 
Gothic superstition, the light and graceful 
little animal might have passed for an appa- 
rition, 

A week, nay a month passed away, and 
still Mrs. Colby, although keeping constant 
watch, had not been fortunate enough to see 
the stranger. It would almost seem that he 
had returned her compliment, and kept watch 
over her goings and comings likewise ; for 
twice at least, as she had the mortification to 
hear, he had gone out during the short time 
that she had been off guard ; once, as it ap- 
peared, to visit the nursery-garden, fresh stock 
the hothouses and greenhouses, and hire suit- 
able gardeners; the second time, to exchange 
his roomy and excellently situated pew in St. 
Stephen's church, (in the fitting up of which 
poor Nat had spent much money,) for a small 
niche in an obscure nook, which had no earth- 
ly recommendation but that of being close to 
a side-door at which the occupant might go 
out or come in without observation, and being 
so placed that it could be surmounted by a 
brass rod and a green curtain without causing 
annoyance or inconvenience to any one. 

This last circumstance gave an insight into 
his character which every subsequent indica- 
tion strengthened and confirmed. The man 
was evidently that plant of English growth 



HESTER. 



415 



called an oddity. He neither received nor 
returned visits, made no acquaintance and 
seemed to have no associate in the world be- 
sides his cross housekeeper and his beautiful 
dog. Gradually he fell into the habit of go- 
ing into the streets, and entering the shops to 
which business called him ; and then it was 
seen that he was a tall, erect, elderly gentle- 
man, muscular and well proportioned, with a 
fine intellectual head, bald on the crown and 
forehead, and surrounded by short curly dark 
hair scarcely touched with grey, a firm intel- 
ligent countenance, and a general air of care- 
less gentility — the air of one too sure of his 
station to take anything like trouble in its 
assertion. 

After a time he began to haunt the book- 
sellers' shops, and showed himself a man well 
acquainted not only with literature, but with 
bibliography, — a hunter after choice editions, 
and a dear lover of that perhaps not very ex- 
tensive class of scarce works which are val- 
uable for other qualities besides their scarcity. 
In the old English drama particularly, and old 
ballads and romances in all languages, he was 
curious; and his library would have formed 
as good a subject for a grand incremation, in 
the hands of the Curate and Barber, as that 
of Don Quixote himself, whom he also emu- 
lated in the liberality of his orders and his 
total regardlessness of expense. 

Another of his haunts was the shop of an 
intelligent printseller in the town, whom he 
employed in burnishing the frames and assist- 
ing him to hang a small but splendid collec- 
tion of the finest Italian masters, — such pic- 
tures as it was sin and shame to shut up with- 
in doors more rigidly barred than those of a 
prison, inasmuch as none could find entrance; 
and such as collectors — who, even the most 
tasteful, often find the pleasure their pictures 
afford to their own eyes not a little enhanced 
by their value in the eyes of others — are gen- 
erally ready enough to display. 

From the report made by the printseller of 
these magnificent paintings, and of the rich- 
ness and tastefulness of the furniture, together 
with his large orders and punctual payments 
amongst the different tradespeople of the town, 
a strong and probably exaggerated notion of 
the recluse's great wealth began to prevail 
amongst the genteel — that is to say, the idle 
circles of Belford, to whom, in the absence of 
individual occupation, anything in the shape 
of mystery and news proved a welcome re- 
source from the sameness and ennui of their 
general condition. During six months that 
he had been in the place, nothing more had 
been known of him than that his newspapers 
came addressed to Oliver Carlton, Esq. Be- 
yond that, not a tittle of intelligence had Mrs. 
Colby been able to extract from the postman. 
He could not even tell her what the papers 
were ; and she felt that it would somewhat 
have mitigated the fever of curiosity to know 



whether Mr. Carlton (if Carlton were indeed 
his name — if he were not rather some illus- 
trious incognito,) amused his solitude by the 
perusal of the Times or the Chronicle, the 
Standard or the Courier. Then she could at 
least have guessed at his politics, have learnt 
to think of him as Whig or Toxj. Now he 
was worse than the Veiled Prophet — the most 
provoking puzzle in existence ! 

This feeling was shared in no small degree 
by our friend King Harwood ; for if curiosity 
ever were a female monopoly, (which, by the 
by, I have not the slightest intention of admit- 
ting,) that time has long since passed away, 
and this identical personage, Mr. King Har- 
wood, was in himself a bright example of a 
man possessing as much inquisitiveness and 
impertinent curiosity as all the sex put to- 
gether. He it was who proposed to Mrs. 
Colby to storm Mr. Carlton's castle severally, 
and see whether their united powers or obser- 
vation could not elicit some circumstance that 
might tend to elucidate the mystery; and, 
after some hesitation, Mrs. Colby consented ; 
she being armed with the fair ))retence of cha- 
rity, as one of the lady collectors of a penny 
society ; whilst King had provided himself 
with a letter from a young clergyman, who 
was standing for an evening lectureship at a 
public institution in London, and had requested 
Earl Harwood to canvass any of the govern- 
ors with whom he chanced to be acquainted, 
enclosing a list in which appeared the name 
of Oliver Carlton. 

Furnished with this document, our friend 
the beau approached, though with some cau- 
tion, the grand object of his curiosity — the 
Bluebeard's chamber of Queen street. The 
point of admission had been regarded by both 
parties as a question of considerable difficulty, 
" Not at home" being the regular answer to 
all visiters; and our adventurer had deter- 
mined to watch Mr. Carlton home to dinner, 
and walk boldly after him into the house; a 
plan which was the more easily accomplished, 
as the milkman, happening to stop at the door 
at the same instant, favoured the manoeuvre, 
by engaging the attention of the stupid maid, 
who answered her master's knock. What 
passed between them, we have no business to 
know. Mr. Harwood would not tell, and Mr. 
Carlton did not; (even Mrs. Colby's ingenuity 
could not extract more from the crest-fallen 
King, than that the interview had been short 
and decisive,) indeed having been watching 
him from her window with Dr. Fenwick's 
stop-watch in her hand, she knew that the 
time which elapsed between this stealthy en- 
trance and his rapid exit was exactly four 
minutes and forty-three seconds, and that Mr. 
Carlton was a brute ! Upon which encourage- 
ment, Mrs. Colby forthwith took up the So- 
ciety's documents, and marched over the way 
herself' — curious, perhaps, to know what sort 
of brute she might find. him. 



416 



BELFORD REGIS, 



The lady was admitted without diiRculty, 
and found herself, with a facility which she 
had not expected, and which put her a good 
deal out of iier play, in the presence of Mr. 
Carlton, and compelled by his manner to 
plunge at once into the affairs of the charity. 
" A penny society !" exclaimed her host, with 
an expression of sarcasm which only a long- 
habit of scorn can give to any lips ; " you 
come for a penny subscription ! Madam, I 
have just had the honour of a visit from a gen- 
tleman, who is, he tells me, called King — 
King, doubtless, of the Busybodies ! Do not 
compel me to tell a lady that she is well fitted 
to be their Queen." 

And Mrs. Colby found it convenient to take 
up her papers and march off, as her luckless 
predecessor had done before her. 

From this time Mr. Carlton continued inac- 
cessible and unmolested, holding intercourse 
with none but the poor of the place, whom he 
relieved with great munificence and some ca- 
price. He was evidently a man of fortune 
and education ; of retired and studious habits, 
of very good principles, and very bad temper 
(soured probably by some domestic calamity, 
for it is our English way to quarrel with the 
whole world if injured by one individual) ; 
and as the Belford people got used to his 
oddities, and ceased to watch his comings and 
goings, and he, in his turn, came to regard 
the persons amongst whom he lived no more 
than the passing and unobservant crowds of 
London or Paris — those mighty streams of 
human life, amongst which an isolated indi- 
vidual is but as a drop of water in a great 
river, — his dislike to being seen insensibly 
wore away, and he walked in and out of his 
house as freely and quietly as his neighbours. 

It was now more than four years since the 
Kinlays had left Belford, and little had been 
heard of them during their absence. Poor 
Nat, who, at his height of popularity, had 
won only the undesirable distinction of being 
liked, but not esteemed even by the thought- 
less, whilst by the sober-minded he was uni- 
versally condemned, had been succeeded by 
another " good fellow" amongst the parties 
which he frequented, whose newer songs and 
fresher jokes had entirel)' effaced the memory 
of their old boon companion — such are tiie 
friendships of men of pleasure ! — whilst his 
wife, though universally respected, had shrunk 
so completely from every sort of intimacy, 
that, amongst her many acquaintances, there 
was not one who lived with her upon more 
familiar terms than is implied by a polite in- 
terchange of visits. Well-wishers she had 
many, friends she had none; and almost the 
first tidings that were heard of her in Belford 
during those three years were, that she had 
returned there a widow ; that her Imsband had 
died after a tedious illness ; and that she her- 
self, in a state of failing health and utter po- 
verty, had arrived in the town, accompanied 



only by Hester, had taken a small lodging 
nearly opposite her own old house, and intend- 
ed to support herself by needlework. 

Why she chose for her place of abode a 
spot so well calculated to revive melancholy 
recollections, can be accounted for only on the 
principle which none can understand, but all 
have felt, that endears to us the scene of past 
sufferings. This was undoubtedly her chief 
reason; although she sometimes said to her- 
self, with desperate calmness, " This is my 
parish, and I will not give the overseers the 
trouble of removing me in case I am compelled 
to apply to them." Another cause for her fix- 
ing in Belford might be found in its being the 
residence of a favourite old servant, now a 
respectable mantuamaker in the town, who 
was likely to be useful to her in procuring 
employment, and to whom, in case of her own 
death, she could entrust the child of her pity 
and her love — her own dear Hester. 

Through this attached old servant, — why 
did I say that she had no friend in Belford 1 — 
it was soon made known to the ladies of the 
place that Mrs. Kinlay declined all visiting 
and all assistance, but would be thankful for 
employment at her needle, at the customary 
rate of payment ; and she and Hester (her 
zealous and most efficient assistant) were soon 
in full occupation; any interval in the supply 
of plain-work (always so precarious) being 
supplied by dresses or millinery, to begin or 
to finish, from the shop of their humble but 
faithful friend Mrs. Boyd. 

Hester, for whom Mrs. Kinlay felt that she 
had sacrificed much, and whom she loved all 
the better for that sacrifice, was a most sweet 
and gentle creature. Tall of her age — slender 
and graceful, though rather with a bending 
willowy grace — than the erect deportment of 
the dancing-school — with a profusion of curl- 
ing hair darkened into the soft colour of the 
ri|)e hazel-nut, a skin fair and polished as that 
of the garden-lily, a high open forehead, a 
mild grey eye, and a cheek pale until she 
spoke or smiled, and then glowing with the 
very tint of the maiden-blush-rose : all this — 
and, above all this, that smile so full of ten- 
derness and sweetness, and that timid manner, 
and that low and pleading voice, were irresist- 
ibly charming. And her mind was as charm- 
ing as her person. W^holly unaccomplished, 
since for accomplishments she had had no 
time, she iiad yet had the great and solid ad- 
vantage of the society of a refined and culti- 
vated woman, who talked to her not as a child 
to be instructed, but as a companion, to whom 
she was pouring out the fulness of her own 
knowledge and information, and unlocking the 
stores of a memory rich, above all, in the 
highest poetry of our language. Even the 
drudgery of the quill, had had its use in Hes- 
ter's education, first by forming her mind to 
habits of patient attention, and then by allow- 
ing her, when the mystery was conquered and 



HESTER. 



417 



the task of copying was become merely me- 
chanical, long intervals for silent thought. So 
that, at little more than thirteen j'ears of age, 
her reflective and somewhat imaginative cha- 
racter had the maturity of twenty; those cir- 
cumstances of her situation which would be 
commonly called disadvantages having acted 
upon her mind as the wind and rain of March 
npon the violet, strengthening the flower, and 
raising it into a richer tint and more exceeding 
fragrance. 

Her pleasure in returning to Belford, — "to 
the country," as she fondly called it — was 
excessive. Accustomed to fresh air and clear 
sunny light, the closeness and gloom of Lon- 
don had seemed to double the labour to which 
she had been condemned ; and to inhabit again 
a street on the very outskirts of the town, in 
which three minutes' run would lead her 
through the by-lane she knew so well, into 
the beautiful meadows and pastures of the 
Dairy Farm, was a blessing for which she 
could never, she thought, be sufficiently grate- 
ful. A few " natural tears she shed " to the 
memory of her kind protector — her father, as 
she had been taught to call him ; but for her- 
self, and even for her dear mother (for " mo- 
ther" was the fond name by which she had 
always been permitted to address Mrs. Kin- 
lay), she was full of hope. "The air would 
restore that dear mother's health, and she 
should be able to support them both — she was 
sure she should. Half an hour's run in the 
fields and lanes in the early morning, or in the 
dusk of twilight, and a long, long ramble 
every Sunday afternoon, would make her 
strong enough for any exertion ; she. wished 
her dear mother would let her work only for 
one week without helping her — she was sure 
she could keep them both." And as she said 
this, her sweet face gladdened and glowed 
with her earnestness, the sad expression van- 
ished, and she looked as happy and as hopeful 
as she really felt. 

Neither she nor Mrs. Kinlay had made any 
inquiry respecting their opposite neighbour, 
the occupier of the house where they had 
lived for so many years. Their landlady, a 
vi'ell-intentioned but very common person, was 
not of a class to tempt them into any commu- 
nication on a subject so painful and so affect- 
ing; and Mrs. Boyd — who had lived with 
Mrs. Kinlay from childhood, had pressed her 
coming to Belford, and had engaged for her 
her present lodging, with a vague intimation 
that she thought the situation would be bene- 
ficial, and hoped her dear mistress would not 
object to its vicinity to her former dwelling — 
had never entered on the subject. Ten days 
had passed without their happening to see 
their misanthropic neighbour, when one bright 
autumn morning, (for it was early in October 
that they arrived in Queen-street,) Hester sit- 
ting at work at the open window, her landlady 
and Mrs. Kinlay being both in the room, saw 

3C 



him issue from his own door followed by the 
beautiful Italian greyhound, and exclaimed at 
its resemblance to her own regretted pet, her 
faithful Juliet: "Never was such a likeness!" 
cried she ; "look! dear mother! only look!" 

"It's Mr. Carlton and his dog — Romeo, I 
think they call him," observed the landlady, 
advancing to the w-indow. 

"Romeo! how strange! my dog's name 
was Juliet," replied Hester. " Do, dearest 
mother, come and see how like this little dog 
is to her in all her pretty ways. See how he 
frisks round his master and jumps almost into 
his arms ! Pray look !" 

And turning round to demand still more 
earnestly Mrs. Kinlay's attention, she saw her 
leaning back in her chair pale and motionless, 
the needlework on which she had been em- 
ployed fallen from her hands, and her whole 
appearance and attitude bespeaking her ina- 
bility to speak or move. She had not fainted, 
and yet she seemed scarcely conscious of the 
caresses of poor Hester, or of her efforts to 
revive and rouse her. Her first articulate 
words were a desire to see Mrs. Boyd; and 
by the time she arrived, Mrs. Kinlay was 
sufficiently collected to send the anxious girl 
for a walk, while she conversed in private 
with their humble but faithful friend. 

The result of this consultation was a long 
letter written by Mrs. Kinl'ay and dispatched 
to the post-office by Mrs. Boyd ; and, until 
the reply arrived on the second morning, an 
evident increase of illness and agitation on 
the part of the writer. 

This reply consisted of a large packet, ap- 
parently, as Hester thought from a transient 
glance which she was too delicate to repeat, 
of her dear mother's own letter returned with 
two or three lines in the envelope. Whatever 
might be the contents, the effect was exqui- 
sitely painful ! Inured as the unhappy lady 
had long been to suffering, this stroke seemed 
the most severe of any, and Hester could 
scarcely repress the affectionate anxiety which 
prompted her twenty times a day to implore 
that this new grief might be confided to her. 
Someway or other she could not avoid connect- 
ing it in her own mind with Romeo and his 
master; she even thought that the name of 
Carlton came across her as a sound once 
familiar; she could not recall when she had 
heard it, or where — the trace on her memory 
was faint and indistinct as the recollection of 
a dream — but assuredly the name was not new 
to her. Again and again she was onUhe point 
of making some inquiry either of Mrs. Kinlay 
or of Mrs. Boyd ; but respect in the one in- 
stance and delicacy in the other — and, above 
all, the early and salutary habit of self-restraint 
— withheld her from touching on the subject. 
The only approach to it that she ventured was 
a remark on the singular coincidence of the 
name in the two dogs : "Romeo and Juliet — 
surely it was strange !" 



413 



BELFORD REGIS. 



" Both are common names for Italian grey- 
hounds," was Mrs. Kinlay's quiet reply ; and 
nothincr more passed between them. 

In the mean while Christmas approach- 
ed, and the invalid's health became more and 
more precarious ; and their united labours (al- 
though liberally paid) became more and more 
inadequate to the additional expenses of win- 
ter and of sickness. Mrs. Kinlay, whose 
hoard of jewels and trinkets had been nearly 
exhausted by the long illness and the burial 
of her husband, now disposed even of her laces 
and linens, reserving nothing but mere neces- 
saries for herself and Hester, and a small but 
beautiful and valuable repeater — the last gift, 
as she said, of a dear friend. 

This resource and Hester's incessant labours 
kept them through the dark months ; for the 
poor child found that November, and Decem- 
ber, and January could be dark even out of 
London : and the winter passed away unmark- 
ed by any occurrence, except the formation of 
a warm and lasting friendship between her- 
self and Romeo. One day, by some strange 
accident, the graceful little creature, shy and 
timid as a fawn, had lost his master, missed 
him in some of the booksellers' and printsel- 
lers' shops that he frequented ; and when, 
after a fruitless search, he addressed himself 
in distress and perplexity to the task of find- 
ing his way home, he encountered a tribe of 
noisy urchins, the pest of the streets, ripe for 
mischief, who seeing the poor little animal 
panting and breathless for fear, surrounded it 
shouting and hooting, halloed their own curs 
upon it, chased it as if it had been a wild beast, 
and finally followed it up the street with the 
cry of " A mad dog !" 

In this plight, Hester, going to the chemist's 
for medicine, met the worried and bewildered 
little creature, who, on her calling " Romeo !" 
came to her at once, and sprang into her arms ; 
and little as the slight gentle girl seemed cal- 
culated to encounter the small mob of mis- 
chievous boys already emulating the hero of 
Hogarth's Progress of Cruelty, and promising 
candidates for a similar catastrophe, yet, strong 
in womanly scorn and righteous indignation, 
she succeeded in rescuing her trembling pro- 
tege and kept his pursuers at bay until, still 
carrying him in her arms, she took refuge with 
her frightened charge in a respectable shop. 
There she sat down with him in her lap, and 
soothed and caressed him until his fear seemed 
lost in love and gratitude to his fair preserver. 
Dogs are great physiognomists, — tliat is ad- 
mitted on all hands ; they are also voice- 
fanciers ; and Romeo showed his discrimina- 
tion in both these points, by being never weary 
of looking at his new friend's sweet face, or 
of listening to her melodious tones. They 
were obliged to part, for Hester felt it a point 
of duty to return him as speedily as might be 
to the master who seemed to love nothing else 
in the world, and accordingly she took him 



to the door before he had been even missed i 
but from that moment an attachment of the 
warmest kind was established between them. 
Romeo loved Hester as the most grateful of 
' all animals loves those who have served him ;* 
I and Hester loved Romeo with that still strong- 
er and more delightful affection which a young 
and generous girl feels for one whom she has 
served. 

Under the guidance of this sentiment, it 
was quite extraordinary, considering how little 
either party went out, that they should so of- 
ten contrive to meet each other. Romeo 
watched for Hester, and Hester watched for 
Romeo. It was an innocent romance, a rare 
instance of a clandestine intercourse without 
guilt or shame. Whether Mr. Carlton knew 
of their meetings, never appeared. Mrs. Kin- 
lay did, and felt a pleasure which few things 
now could give her when Romeo bounded up 
stairs with Hester to pay her a visit. Frugal 
as they were, denying themselves all but ne- 
cessaries, they could not resist the temptation 
of keei)ing a supply of the delicate biscuits 
which that choice and fragile race of dogs are 
known to prefer to any other food ; and Ro- 
meo, however difficult to coax into eating at 
his own home, never refused the cates pre- 
pared for him by the fair hands of his new 
friends. It was a very singular and very gen- 
uine attachment. 

The winter, although gloomy, had been 
mild; and even in the Christmas week Hes- 
ter, who knew every dell where the starry 
primrose grew, and every hedge-row where 
tbe violet blossomed, had cheered the sick- 
room of Mrs. Kinlay by a nosegay of prim- 
roses ; whilst during the whole of February 
she had contrived to find on southern banks, 
and in nooks sheltered from almost every 
wind, covered by withered grass or couching 
amongst short mossy turf, a few, and a very 
few, early violets ; — for those sweet flowers 
know and obey their season, and although an 
occasional straggler, tempted by the mildness 
of the weather, may steal into day, yet the 
countless multitude, the mass of fragrant blos- 
soms (unlike the primrose, which, provided 
not checked by frost, will cover the ground in 
mid-winter,) reserves its simple beauty and 
its exquisite perfume for its own month of 
March. And now March had arrived — a 
March soft and genial as April ; and Mrs. 
Kinlay appearing much reviv^ed bythe beauty 
of the weather and the fresh impulse given to 
all nature by the breath of sj)riug, Hester was 
most anxious to win her into walking with her 
one fine Sunday as far as the pastures of the 
Dairy Farm, now let to an old milkman, who, 
churlish to all the world, but courteous to 
Hester, had extended to her, and to her alone, 
the privilege of gathering violets in his hedge- 
rows. The first day that she had attempted 



* Vide note at the end of the story. 



HESTER. 



419 



to revisit her old haunts, she had found the 
high-boarded gate which separated the street 
from the lane — a by-lane running along the 
side of Mr. Carlton's premises, then winding 
between a double row of tall elms, and open- 
ing into the rich enclosures of the Dairy Farm 
— she had found the gate triply locked, and 
had been seen peeping wistfully through the 
barrier by Giles Cousins, the milkman afore- 
said — who had, and not without having fairly 
earned the title, the reputation of being the 
veriest churl in Belford — in, as it seemed, the 
least auspicious moment that could have been 
chosen for such an encounter, inasmuch as he 
was in the very act of driving- before him a 
small rabble of riotous boys whom he had 
caught breaking his fences in search of a 
gleaning of hazel-nuts. The young imps 
(some of that same band of ne'er-do-well ur- 
chins who subsequently signalized themselves 
in the attack on poor Romeo) resisted amain, 
screaming, and shouting, and struggling in all 
manner of ways ; but Giles Cousins, armed 
with the long and powerful whip with which he 
was accustomed to gather together a tribe of 
unruly cows, was too many for the gentlemen. 
He drove them to the gate, unlocked it, and 
thrust them forth into the street. Hester was 
meekly turning away; but the same strong 
hand that had thrust the rioters out so roughly, 
kindly seized the gentle girl, and drew her in ! 

" Miss Hester ! to be sure it ts Miss Hes- 
ter ! and how she is grown ! Don't you go, 
Miss ; pray don't you go. Yon have a right, 
sure, to come here whenever you choose; and 
so has madam — I heard she was to come to 
Belford ; and I'll send you a key, to let your- 
self in as often as you like. The cows are 
as quiet as quiet can be; and my dame will 
be glad to see you at the cottage — main glad 
she'll be. It looks quite natural to see you 
here again." 

" Poor thing !" thought he within himself, 
as he turned away from Hester's tearful 
thanks; "poor thing! she must have known 
hard usage up in London, if a kind word 
makes her cry. And such a pretty harmless 
creature as it is ! just as harmless-looking as 
when it was no higher than that dock," (be- 
ginning to tug away at the strong-rooted weed) 
"■ which Jack Timms ought to be ashamed of 
himself for not having pulled up, passing it as 
he does every day, night and morning, and 
being told of it six times a week into the bar- 
gain. Poor Miss Hester !" continued Giles, 
having by a manful haul succeeded in eradi- 
cating his tough and obstinate enemy, and 
letting his thoughts flow again into their kind- 
ly channel — " poor Miss Hester ! I must get 
my mistress to send her a pat of butter now 
and then, and a few apples from the old or- 
chard ; and we must manage to get her and 
madam to take a drop of milk night and morn- 
ing. We shall never miss it; and if we did 
miss it, it's no more than we ought to do. I 



shall never forget how main kind poor madam 
was to my mistress and me when we lost our 
little Sally. To my mind, Miss Hester fa- 
vours Sally — only she's more delicate, like. 
We must send her the key and the apples, 
and manage about the milk." 

And, with a downright heartiness and hon- 
esty of kindness that Mrs. Kinlay could not 
resist, the aftair of the milk, so great a com- 
fort to an invalid, was managed ; and Mrs. 
Cousins being quite as grateful as her hus- 
band, and entertaining the same fancy of* Hes- 
ter's resemblance to the child whom they had 
lost — the 3foungest and the favourite, — she 
had run to the Dairy-house to see them as 
often as she could ; though, so closely was 
she occupied, that this her brief half-hour's 
holiday occurred far too rarely for their wishes. 
Her last visit had been on that Sunday morn- 
ing, when — in walking u}) the little path, that 
led from the gate to the house, between two 
borders thickly set with bunches of anemones 
of the rich red and purple, as vivid as those 
colours in old stained glass, the secret of pro- 
ducing which is said to be lost now-a-days, 
(luckily Nature never loses her secrets,) alter- 
nating with tufts of double primroses, and of 
the pretty plant called by the country-people 
the milk-blossom, backed first by a row of 
stocks and wall-flowers, and then by a taller 
range of gooseberry and currant bushes steal- 
ing into leaf — and finally, in arriving at the 
rustic porch where the sweet-briar was putting 
forth its first fragrant breath drawn out by the 
bright sunshine succeeding to a balmy shower, 
— Hester had felt in its fullest force the sweet 
influence of the sweetest of the seasons, and 
had determined, if possible, to persuade Mrs. 
Kinlay into partaking her enjoyment, so far at 
least as her strength would permit, by getting, 
if not to the dwelling itself, at least into some 
of the nearest meadows of the Dairy Farm. 

At the outset of the walk, Hester found 
with delight that her experiment had suc- 
ceeded beyond her expectation. The day was 
delicious — bright, sunny, breezy, — for the 
light and pleasant air, though still on the win- 
try side of the vernal equinox, was too mild 
and balmy to deserve the name of wind, — and 
her dear companion seemed to feel in its full- 
est extent the delightful exhilaration so finely 
described by Gray, who, of all the poets of 
his own somewhat artificial time, has best suc- 
ceeded in bringing strikingly and vividly be- 
fore us the commonest and most familiar feel- 
ings of our nature : 

" See the wsetch that long has tost 
On the thorny bed of pain 
At length repair his vigour lost, 
And breathe and walk again ; 
The meanest floweret of the vale, 
The simplest note that swells the gale, 
The common sun, the air, the skies. 
To him are opening paradise." 

Unfinished Ode on the Pleasures arising from 
Vicissilnde. — Mason's Life of Gray. 



420 



BELFORD REGIS. 



The season and the scenery were alike in 
harmony with the buoyant sensations of re- 
turning health. The glorious sun was career- 
ing in the deep blue sky, dappled by a thou- 
sand fleecy clouds which floated at a distance 
around the bright luminary, without for a mo- 
ment dimming his effulgence : the sunbeams 
g-lanced between the tall trees on the grassy 
margent of the lane, striking on the shining 
garlands of the holly and ivy with a sparkling 
radiance; glittering through the dark leaves 
of the bramble, as tliough each particular leaf 
were a pendent emerald ; dwelling with a pur- 
plish flush on the young shoots of tiie wood- 
bine; and illumining the tender green of the 
wintry mosses, and the pure hues of the pale 
primrose and the crimson-tipped daisy, with a 
mingled brilliancy and delicacy to which the 
most glowing colouring of Rubens or of Ti- 
tian would be faint, dim, and spiritless. A 
slender b.ooklet danced sparkling by the road- 
side ; young lambs were bleating in the mea- 
dows ; the song-thrush and the black-bird 
were whistling in the hedge-rows; the skylark 
was chanting overhead ; and the whole scene, 
animate and inanimate, accorded with I\Irs. 
Kinlay's profound and devout feeling of thank- 
fulness to the Providence which, depriving 
her of artificial luxuries, had yet restored her 
to the enjoyment of the commonest but purest 
gifts bestowed on man — the ever-varying and 
never-cloying beauties of Nature. 

She walked on in silence; beguiled, partly 
by the real charm of the scene and the hour — 
the shallow pool on the top of which the long 
grass went trailing — the vigorous and life-like 
look of the leafless elm, into which one might 
almost see the sap mounting — the long trans- 
parent sprays of the willow, seen between the 
eye and the sunbeams like rods of ruddy light 
— the stamped leaves of the budded cowslip 
— the long wreaths of ground-ivy mingling 
its brown foliage and purple flowers with the 
vivid reds and pinks of the wild geranium, 
and the snowy strawberry blossom lurking in 
the southern hedge; and partly by thouglits 
sweet yet mournful — the sweeter perhaps l)e- 
cause mournful of friends who had trodden 
with her that very path in by-gone years, of 
all that she had felt and all that she had suf- 
fered in those quiet scenes ; — when, after pass- 
ing a bit of neglected wild plantation, where 
thf tender green of the young larch contrasted 
with the dark and dusky hue of the Scotch 
fir, and the brown sheaths of the horse-chest- 
nut just bursting into leaf; where the yellow 
flowers of the feathery broom mingled with 
the deeper gold of the richly scented furze, 
and the earth was carpeted with primroses 
springing amidst layers of dropped fir-cones; 
after passing this wild yet picturesque bit of 
scenery, which brought still more fully to 
recollection the faulty but kindly person by 
whom the little wood liad been planned, she 
became suddenly exhausted, and was glad to 



sit down to rest on the trunk of a large beech 
newly cut by the side of the lane, whilst Hes- 
ter passed into an adjacent field to fill her 
basket with the violets, whose exquisite odour, 
drawn out by the sun, penetrated through the 
hedge and perfumed the sheltered retreat 
which she had chosen. She sank into her 
lowly seat with a placid smile, and dismissed 
her young and aflectionate companion to her 
pleasant labour, with a charge not to hurry — 
to ramble where she liked, and enjoy the 
beauty of the flowers, and the summer-like 
feeling of the light and fragrant air. 

And Hester, as she bounded like a fawn 
into those sunny meadows, abandoned herself 
to a fulness of enjoyment such as for many 
years the poor child, surrounded by distress 
and difficulty, and thoughtful far beyond her 
years, had not experienced. Every sense was 
gratified. The sunshine, the flowers, the hum 
of insects, the song of birds, the delicious 
breath of spring, and, more than all, that feel- 
ing — to her so rare, the unwonted sense of 
liberty ! Well sings the old Scottish Poet — 

Ah ! freedom is a noble thing ! 
Freedom makes man to have liking! 
Freedom all solace to man gives; 
He lives at ease that freely lives." 

Barber — The Bruce. 

And Hester tripped along the meadow as 
light as the yellow butterfly brought into life 
by that warm sunshine, and as busy as the 
bee wandering from blossom to blossom. It 
was a lawn-like series of old pastures, divided 
by deep ditches, fringed by two or three of the 
wild irregular plantations, edged by shaggy 
bits of mossy paling, which I have attempted 
to describe ; and dotted about by little islands 
of fine timber trees and coppice-like under- 
wood, the reliques of hedge-rows now long 
cut down, breaking and almost concealing the 
massy buildings, the towers, and spires of the 
town. One short bank, crowned by high 
elms, projected a little way into the pastures 
like some woody headland, at right angles 
froin the hedge under which she was walking; 
the hedge being thickly set with white violets, 
those " pretty daughters of the earth and sun," 
whilst, all around the lofty elms, the very 
ground was covered by the deep purple which 
forms, perhaps, the sweetest variety of the 
sweetest of plants. In the hedge-row, too, 
were primroses yellow and lilac and white, 
all the tints commonly known blossoming 
under the pearly buds of the blackthorn, those 
" locked buttons on the gemmed trees ;" and 
Hester, as slie stooped to fill her basket, first 
mused gravely on a problem which has posed 
wiser heads than hers, — the mystery, still 
unexplained, of the colouring of flowers — and 
then, with a natural transition, applied herself] 
to recollecting the dilferent epithets given to 
these blossoms of spring by the greatest of 
poets ; for Hester loved poetry with an in- 
tensity which might be said to have partly 



HESTER. 



421 



formed her character, and to hear Mrs. Kinlay 
read Shakspeare, or recite some of the stirring 
lyrics of his contemporaries, had been the 
chief solace of her monotonous labours. 

" Pale primrose !" s^id Hester to herself, — 
"upon faint primrose beds" — "violets dim" 
— "the nodding violet" — What pictures ! and 
how often he returns to them, so beautifully, 
and so fondly ! surely he must have loved 
them! And he speaks of the robin-redbreast, 
too !" added she, as, startled by her gentle 
movements, the hen-bird flew from her care- 
less mossy nest in a stump of hawthorn, ex- 
hibiting her five pale egcfs with red spots, to 
one who would not have harmed them for the 
fee-simple of Belford. She passed on rapidly, 
yet cautiously, that the frightened bird might 
the sooner return to her charge; and arriving 
under the clump of elms, was amused by an- 
other set of nest-builders, those pugnacious 
birds the rooks, who had a colony overhead, 
and were fighting for each other's clumsy stick 
mansions — as if they had been the cleverest 
architects that ever wore feathers. The sight 
of these black gentlefolks made a change in 
the current of Hester's poetical recollections, 
and she began "crooning" over to herself the 
elegant and pathetic ballad of " The Three 
Ravens," one of those simple and tender effu- 
sions which have floated down the stream of 
time, leaving the author still unguessed. 
Then, by some unperceived link of associa- 
tion, her mind drifted to another anonymous 
ditty of a still earlier age, the true and plea- 
sant satire called " Sir Penny ;" and when she 
had done with " that little round knave," she 
by an easy transition began recitin-g the fine 
poem entitled "The Soul's Errand," and at- 
tributed to Sir Walter Raleigh; and had just 
arrived at the stanza — 

"Tell fortune of her blindness, 

Tell nature of decay, 
Tel! friendship of unkindness, 

Tell jusliee of delay; 
And if they will reply, 
Then give thena all the lie," 

when she was aware of footsteps passing 
along the adjoining lane, and little Romeo, 
creeping through the thick hedge, flung him- 
self into her arms. 

During her poetical quotations she had ga- 
thered even to satiety from the purple bank, 
and had returned to the hedge-row near the 
gate for the purpose of collecting the white 
violets which grew there in profusion ; so that 
she was now nearly opposite the point where 
she had left Mrs. Kinlay, and was the unin- 
tentional auditress of a conversation which 
cleared at once the mystery that had hitherto 
hung over Mr. Carlton. 

The first sentence that she heard rooted 
Hester to the spot. He seemed to have pass- 
ed, or to have intended passing, and to have re- 
turned on some unexplained but uncontrollable 
impulse. His vnjne v.as at first low and calm 

36 



— studiously calm, though not unkind, but be- 
came impassioned as he proceeded : 

"Elizabeth! No, do not rise! Sit down 
again, I entreat you. You are not well enough 
to stand. You must have been very ill." 

" I have been very ill." 

"Ay, you are greatly altered. We are 
both greatly altered. You have suffered 
much ]" 

" Oh, very much !" 

" Yes ! wc have both suffered ! I am no 
man for general acquaintance, or for the slight 
and trivial companionship which this selfish, 
bustling world dignifies with the name of 
friendship. I lived, as you know, in my 
books, and in the one solitary tie which still 
connected me with the world. Fatherless and 
motherless, the only child of my only sister, 
you were to ine, Elizabeth, as my own daugh- 
ter — endeared to me by the cares of twenty 
years, by habit, by kindred, and by taste. 
And when you, whom I loved as a daughter, 
whom I trusted as a friend, — when you aban- 
doned me for one so unworthy " 

" He is dead. 1 beseech you, spare his 
memory ! He was kind to me — I loved him ! 
For my sake, for your own, spare his memory ! 
— You would not wish to see me die here be- 
fore your eyes !" 

"When for him, then — being such as he 
was — you deserted me, it seemed as if the 
earth were sinking under my feet, as if the 
sun were extinguished in the heavens ; books 
ceased to interest me — my food did not nour- 
ish, my sleep did not refresh me — my blood 
was turned to gall ; I vowed never to see, to 
pardon, or to succour you, (for well I knew 
that you would soon want succour,) whilst 
you remained with him, and acted under his 
guidance; and heartsick and miserable, I left 
the home in which we had been so happy, to 
wander over the world in search of the peace 
and oblivion which I failed to find : and then, 
under some strange and moody influence, I 
settled here, in the spot that 1 should most 
have avoided, to feed my spirit full with bit- 
ter recollections. Elizabeth, those tears and 
sobs seem to respond to my feelings. They 
seem to say, that on your part also the old and 
holy love of near kindred and long association 
is not quite forgotten?" 

" Oh, never ! never !" 

"Why not then accede to my condition — 
my single condition, and return with me to the 
beautiful and deserted home of our common 
ancestors, its heiress and its mistress 1 Come 
with me, my dearest niece, and be, as you 
once M'ere, my companion, my almoner, my 
friend ! Come with me, as the comfort and 
solace of my old age, and find health and 
happiness in the abode of your youth ! Why 
should you hesitate ]" 
" I do not hesitate." 

" It is but to dismiss his daughter — the il- 
legitimate offspring of a low and licentious 



422 



BELFORD REGIS, 



passion — one whom it was an insult t,o bring 
into contact witli his pure and chaste wife !" 

"One who is herself all that is pure and 
innocent, and gentle and good ! I do not de- 
fend my own conduct. In abandoning you, 
my more than father, I deserved all punish- 
ment. Grievously as I have suffered, I have 
felt the chastisement to be merited. But if I 
were to desert this orphan child — his orphan 
— the grateful, tender child who has shared 
all my sorrows, has nursed me in sickness, 
has worked for me in health ; if I were for 
any worldly good — even for that best of all 
blessings, your affection — to cast her friend- 
less and helpless upon the world, — I should 
never know another quiet moment — I should 
sink under grief and remorse ! What would 
become of her, growing as she is into such 
elegant, such exquisite beauty, and with a 
mind pure, graceful, and delicate as her per- 
son ] What would be her fate] Her mother 
has long been dead. She has no kindred, no 
natural friend — none but myself, poor, feeble 
helpless, sick, and dying as I am ; but, while 
I live, I will never abandon her — never! 
never! It breaks my heart now to part from 
you. But I cannot desert my Hester; as you 
have felt for me, so do I feel for her. Do not 
ask me to abandon the child of my love !" 

"I ask nothing. I offer you the choice be- 
tween her and me. I am rich, Elizabeth; 
my large estates have accumulated, during my 
long absence, until I can hardly count my own 
riches; and you are poor — grievously poor — 
think before you decide." 

"I have decided. Poor I am — grievously 
poor; but in giving up your affection, I resign 
more than riches. I have decided — I have 
chosen — I do not hesitate. But say, Good- 
by ! Bid God bless me! Do not leave me 
in unkindness. Speak to me before you go, 
or you will break my heart. Speak to me, if 
only one word !" 

"Farewell, Elizabeth! May you be hap- 
pier than I shall be!" 

" Oh, God bless you ! God for ever bless 
you, my best and earliest friend !" 

And then Hester heard Mr. Carlton move 
slowly away — she felt rather than heard that 
he turned away; and Mrs. Kinlay remained 
weeping bitterly. Hester was glad to hear 
her sobs. She herself could not cry. Some- 
thing rose in her throat, and she felt as if it 
would suffocate her — but she could not cry. 
She lay upon the ground lost in thought, with 
her little basket by her side, and Romeo still 
in her arms, until he sprang from her at his 
master's call, oversetting her violets in his 
haste : and then she roused herself, and rose 
from the bank on which she had been lying, 
picked up her scattered flowers, and walked 
with a strange calmness to the other end of 
the field, that if Mrs. Kinlay sliould seek her, 
she might not be led to suspect that she had 
overheard the conversation. And by the time 



Mrs. Kinlay did join her, each was sufficiently 
composed to conceal her misery from the other. 

On the Friday of the ensuing week, a low 
and timid knock was heard just before sunset 
at the house of Mr. Carlton ; and on opening 
the door, the housekeeper was at once aston- 
ished and |)erplexed to discover Hester, who 
inquired gently and firmly if she could see 
her master; and who, on his passage acci- 
dentally through the hall, settled the question 
herself, by advancing with a mixture of de- 
cision and modesty, and requesting to speak 
with him. Perplexed even more than his 
wondering housekeeper, he yet found it im- 
possil)le to repulse the innocent child ; and 
leading the way into the nearest room, he sat 
down on the first chair, and motioned for her 
to be seated also. 

It happened that this room was the one in 
which Mrs. Kinlay had principally lived, and 
where Hester had passed the happiest days 
of her childhood. The windows ojiened on 
the pretty velvet lawn on which stood the 
great mulberry tree ; and her own particular 
garden, the flower-bed that was called hers, 
and sowed and planted by her own hands un- 
der Mrs. Kinlay's direction, was right before 
her, glowing with the golden jonquil, and the 
crisp curled hyacinth — the choicest flowers of 
the season. There too, on that short turf 
where she had so often played with her own 
fond and faithful dog, lay the equally fond and 
faithful Romeo, basking in the last rays of the 
setting sun. The full tide of sad and tender 
recollection gushed upon her heart; the firm- 
ness which she had summoned for the occa- 
sion deserted her, her lip quivered, and she 
burst into tears. 

Stern and misanthropic though be were, Mr. 
Carlton was not only a man, but a gentleman, 
by birth, education, and habit; and could not 
see female tears, especially in his own house, 
and caused, as he could not but suspect, by 
himself, without feeling more discomposed 
than he would have cared to acknowledge. 
He called immediately for water, for wine, for 
reviving essences, and himself administered 
a plentiful aspersion of eaa de Culogne, and 
loosened the strings of her cottage bonnet. 

Whilst so engaged, he could not help 
dwelling on her exquisite and delicate beauty. 
" How like a lily !" was the thought that 
passed through his mind as he gazed on the 
fair broad forehead, with its profusion of pale 
brown ringlets lianging down on either side; 
the soft dovelike eyes, the pencilled brows, 
and the long lashes from which the tears drop- 
ped on the polished chcieks ; the fine carving 
of the youtiiful features, the classical grace 
of the swan-like neck, the pliant grace of the 
slender figure, the elegant moulding of those 
trembling hands with their long ivory fingers; 
and, above all, the mixture of sweetness and 
intelligence, of gentleness and purity, by 
which, even in her present desolation, the or- 



HESTER. 



423 



})han girl was so eminently distinguished. 
She still wore mourning for Mr. Kinlay ; and 
the colour of her dress, though of the simplest 
form and the commonest material, added to 
the resplendent fairness of her complexion: — 
" How like a lily ! how elegant! how lady- 
like! how pure!" was the thought that clung 
to Mr. Carlton ; and when, recovering her 
calmness hy a strong effort, Hester raised her 
eyes to the person whom she feared most in 
the world, slie met his fixed on her with a 
look of kindness which she did not think those 
stern features could have worn. 

Her first words banished the unwonted soft- 
ness, and recalled all the haughtiness of his 
common expression. 

" I beg you to forgive me, sir, for having 
been so foolish as to cry and to occasion you 
this trouble. But I could not help it. This 
room brought to my mind so many past scenes 
of joy and sorrow, and so many friends that 
I shall never see again — dear, dear Mrs. Kin- 
lay ! — and my poor father ! it seems but yes- 
terday that he was sitting by the fireside just 
where you do now, with me upon his knee, 
talking so gaily and so kindly ! And to think 
that he is dead, and how he died!'" — And 
Hester turned away and wept without re- 
straint. 

She was aroused from her grief by the stern 
interrogatory of Mr. Carlton: "I understood 
that you desired to speak to mel" 

"I did so, sir," was the reply; "but this 
strange foolishness!" — and for a moment 
Hester paused. She resumed, however, almost 
instantly; her sweet voice at first a little fal- 
tering, but acquiring strength as she proceeded 
in her story, which Mr. Carlton heard in at- 
tentive silence. 

" I did take the liberty of asking to speak 
with you, sir, that I might confess to you, 
what perhaps you may think wrong, that be- 
ing within hearing last Sunday of your con- 
versation with Mrs. Kinlay, I remained an 
undetected listener to that which was certainiy 
not meant by either party for my knowledge. 
I was on the other side of the hedge accident- 
ally, gathering violets; and I suppose — I dare 
say — that I ought to have come into the lane. 
But I could not move ; I was as if spell-bound 
to the place. What you said, and what she 
aaid, explained to me things which had puz- 
zled me all my life long. Though taught to 
call him father, — and a kind father he was to 
me ! — and her mother — such a mother as never 
poor girl was blest with ! — I yet knew, I can- 
not tell how, that I was not their rightful child ; 
I used to think that I was some poor orphan 
— such as indeed I am ! — whom their kind- 
ness had adopted. But that which I really 
was, I never suspected, — far less that I had 
been the means of separating my benefactress 
from such a kinsman — such a friend ! When 
I heard thal,m\A remembered all her goodness 
and all her sulferings, I thought my very heart 



would have broken ! She did not say a word 
to me, nor I to her. She does not know that 
I overheard the conversation ; but all the even- 
ing she was so sad, and so ill — so very, very 
ill ! Oh, if you could but have seen her pale 
face and have heard how she sighed ! I could 
not bear it ; so as soon as it was light I slip- 
ped out of the house, and ran up to the Dairy 
Farm to consult Giles Cousins and his dame, 
who have been very kind to me, and who 
would, I know, prevent my acting wrongly 
when I most wished to do right, as a young 
girl without the advice of her elders might 
do. They both agreed with me, that it was 
rny plain duty to remove the cause of discord 
between two such near and dear relations by 
going to service; and happily, providentially, 
Mrs. Cousins's sister, who is cook in a cler- 
gyman's family, had written to her to look out 
for some young person to wait on her mis- 
tress's two little girls, walk out with them, 
and teach them to read and spell. Mrs. Cou- 
sins wrote immediately, and all is settled. 
Her husband — oh, how kind they have been ! 
— her good generous husband has advanced 
the money wanting for the journey and some 
needful trifles, and won't hear of my paying 
him out of my wages : — but God will reward 
him !" pursued poor Hester, again bursting 
into grateful tears : " God only can reward 
such goodness! He is even going with me 
to the very house. I sleep to-night at the 
Dairy Farm, and we set off to-morrow morn- 
ing ; — Mrs. Kinlay, who knows nothing of 
my intentions, imagining only that I am going 
to assist Mrs. Cousins in some needlework. 
Oh, what a thing it was to see her for the last 
time, and not to dare to say farewell ! or to 
ask her to bless me ; or to pray for her on my 
bended knees, and bid God bless her for her 
goodness to the poor orphan. What a thing 
to part from such a friend for ever as if we 
were to meet to-morrow ! But it is right, I 
am sure that it is right — my own internal feel- 
ing tells me so. And you must go to her be- 
fore she misses me, and bring her home to 
your house; and in the full happiness of such 
a reconciliation, smaller sorrows will be lost. 
And you must tell her that I shall be very 
comfortable, very safe, for I am going to good 
people, with whom it will be my fault if I do 
wrong; and that in knowing her to be happy, 
I shall find happiness. Will you condescend, 
sir, to tell her this] and to pardon me for this 
intrusion ! I could not steal away like a thief 
— I could not write, for I tried ; and besides, 
there was only you that could comfort Mrs. 
Kinlay for the loss of one to whom she had 
been as kind as if she were her born daughter. 
Oh, sir, tell her, I beseech you, that the poor j 
Hester is not ungrateful ! If I leave her, it is | 
from the truest and strongest affection," said | 
poor Hester, unconsciously clasping her fair j 
hands. "It is," added she, taking up a volume j 
which lay open on the table, and which even ' 



424 



BELFORD REGIS. 



in her emotion and excitement had caught the 
eye of the verse-lovinir airl — " It is on the 
principle of these beautiful lines : 

' I could not love thee, dear, so well. 
Loved 1 not honour more !' 

Tell her this, I entreat of you ! Tell her — " 

" I shall not tell her a word of this, Hes- 
ter," interrupted Mr. Carlton, taking her hand 
and drawing her kindly towards him, — "not 
a single word ! But you must tell me one 
thing, must answer me one question : — You 
that seem to have a taste for the rough and the 
crabbed — a talent for softening the veriest 
churls, — do you think now in your little heart 
that you can ever like me half so well as Giles 
Cousins'?" 

" Oh, sir !" ejaculated Hester hopefully, 
yet doubtinoly. 

" Can you forgive meV added Mr. Carlton 
more seriously; "can you pardon the foolish 
and wicked prejudice for which I can never 
forgive myself? I believe that you can, and 
that you will : and instead of setting off to 
this place of yours to-morrow morning, we 
must send your good friend Giles to make 
your excuses ; and you must make my peace 
with Elizabeth, and we must all go together 
to Cranley Park. And here is Romeo knock- 
ing to be let in, and jumping and skipping as if 
he were conscious that his best friend was 
come home. I must give you Romeo, Hester ; 
for he has given you the best part of him, that 
loving heart of his, long ago. And now, my 
dear little faithful girl, we must go to poor 
Elizabeth. To think of her having taught you 
to love the poetry of Richard Lovelace !" 

Six weeks after this interview, Hester and 
Romeo, two of the happiest creatures in ex- 
istence, were tripping gaily along a pathway 
which led from the tine mansion of Cranley 
Hall to a beautiful cottage at the edge of the 
picturesque and neatly-wooded park. It was 
the day famous for the ancient sports and cus- 
toms of England — the lovely May-day; and 
the green earth and brilliant sky, the light air 
and the bright sunshine, were such as to realize 
the most enchanting description of the old 
poets. The young grass was studded with 
cowslips, and cuckoo-flowers, and the enamel- 
led wild hyacinth; and the thickets no less 
richly set with the fragile wood-anemone, the 
elegant wood-sorrel, the brightly coloured 
wood-vetch, and the fragrant wood-roof. The 
bright green beeches with their grey and shin- 
ing bark, and the rich brown foliage and rug- 
ged trunks of the oaks, set off the old magni- 
ficent thorns, whose long garlands of pearly 
blossoms scented the very air; huge horse- 
chestnuts, with their pyramidal flowers, were 
dispersed amongst the chase-like woodlands ; 
and two or three wild cherries, of the size and 
growth of forest-trees, flung tlieir snowy blos- 
soms across the deep-blue sky. A magnifi- 
cent piece of water, almost a lake, reflected the 



beautiful scenery by which it was surrounded, 
— the shores broken into woody capes and 
lawny bays, in which the dappled deer lay 
basking, listening, as it seemed, to the concert 
of nightingales, whose clear melody filled the 
air. 

All spoke of affluence, of taste, of innocent 
enjoyment. To breathe that fragrant air, to 
gaze on that lovely landscape, was to Hester 
nnmingled happiness. She bounded on gay 
as the pretty favourite who frolicked around 
her, her sweet face radiant with pleasure, and 
her melodious voice bursting into spontaneous 
quotations of the thousand exquisite verses 
which the spring-loving poets, from Chaucer 
to Milton, have consecrated to the merry 
month of May. 

One chant of the season particularly haunt- 
ed her, and would not go out of her head, al- 
though she repeated it over and over, purely 
to get rid of it, — the charming little poem from 
"The Paradise of Dainty Devices," of which 
this is the burthen : — 

" When May is gone, of all the year 
The pleasant time is past." 

Now it was with this burthen that Hester 
quarrelled. 

" When May is gone, of all the year 
The pleasant Ume is past," 

quoth Hester. — " But that is a story, is it not, 
Romeo ?" added she : " at least, I am sure it 
cannot be true at Cranley; for June will have 
roses and lilies, and strawberries, and hay- 
making," continued Hester. And then relaps- 
ing into her ditty, 

" May makes the cheerful hue — " 
"I won't think of that pretty story-telling 
song, — shall I, Romeo ■? June will have roses 
and lilies; July will have jessamine and 
myrtle," said Hester. And then again the 
strain came across her — 

" May pricketh tender hearts, 
'J 'heir warbling notes to tune. 
Full strange it is " 

" There is nothing so strange as the way in 
which these lines haunt me," pursued poor 
Hester : — 

" When May is gone, of all the year 
Tlie pleasant tune is past." 

" One would think," added she to herself, 
"that I was spell-bound, to go on repeating 
these verses, which, pretty as they are, have 
no truth in them; for at Cranley all times and 
all seasons, spring, summer, autumn, winter, 
must be pleasant. Oh, what a sweet place it 
is ! and what happiness to live here with dear, 
dear Mrs. Kinlay, and dear Mr. Carlton ! and 
to see her so well and cheerful, and him so 
considerate and kind! — so very kind! Oh,' 
how can I ever be sufticiently thankful for; 
such blessing? !" thought Hester to herself, j 
pausing and clasping her hands, while the | 
tears ran gently down her fair cheeks in the j 



HESTER. 



425 



energy of her tender crratiuide; and the May- 
day verses were effectually banished from lier 
mind by the stronger impulse of affectionate 
feeling. " How can I ever be half thankful 
enough, or take half enough pains to please 
one who seems to have no wish so much at 
heart as that of pleasing me? Oh, how happy 
I am ! — how thankful I ought to be I" thought 
Hester, again walking on towards the beauti- 
ful rustic building which she had now nearly 
reached; "the slightest wish cannot pass 
through my mind, but somehow or other Mr. 
Carlton finds it out, and it turns into reality — 
as if I had the slaves of the lamp at command, 
like Aladdin! This Dairy-house, now ! I did 
but say how much I liked the old one at Bel- 
ford, and here is one a thousand times prettier 
than that! But I shall not like this better, 
beautiful as it is, — no! nor so well," thought 
the grateful girl ; " for here will be no Giles 
Cousins with his good wife to welcome me 
as they used to do there and contrive a hun- 
dred ways to cheat me into taking the gifts 
they could ill spare themselves. Dear Giles 
Cousins! — he, that was called so crabbed, 
and who was so generous, so delicate, so 
kind ! — Dear, dear Giles Cousins ! how glad 
he would be to see me so happy ! I wonder 
what I can send him, dear old Giles ! Oh, 
how I should like to see him !" 

This train of thought had brought Hester 
to the rustic porch of the Dairy-house, which 
was, as she had said, an enlarged and improved 
copy of that at Belford, constructed with the 
magical speed which wealth (the true lamp 
of Aladdin) can command, to gratify a fancy 
which she had expressed on her first arrival 
at Cranley Park. Filled with grateful recol- 
lections of her good old friend, Hester reached 
the porch, and looking up to admire the excel- 
lent taste displayed in its construction, she 
saw before her — could she believe her eyes 1 
— the very person of whom she had been 
thinking, Giles Cousins himself, with a smile 
of satisfaction softening his rugged counte- 
nance, his good wife peeping over his shoul- 
der, and Mr. Carlton and Mrs. Kinlay in the 
background, delighted witnesses of the joyful 
meeting. He clasped her in his arms, and 
kissed her as he would have kissed the daugh- 
ter whom he fancied she resembled ; and 
then, seized with a sudden recollection of the 
difference of station, he begged pardon, and 
let her go. 

"Oh, Master Cousins!" cried Hester, still 
retaining his hard rough fist, and pressing it 
between her delicate hands ; " dear Master 
Cousins ! how very, very glad I am to see 
you and your good dame ! It was the only 
wish I had in the world. Oh, I shall be too 
happy ! And you are come to stay 1 — I know 
you are come to stay I" 

" To be sure I be. Miss," responded honest 
Giles : " come to stay till you be tired of me ; 
— come for good." 



" Oh, it is too much happiness !" exclaimed 
Hester. " How strange it is, that as soon as 
a wish passes through my mind, Mr. Carlton 
sees it, and makes it come to pass. Oh, I 
shall be too happy !" cried poor Hester, the 
tears chasing each other over cheeks glowing 
like maiden-roses ; " I shall be too happy ! 
and I never can be thankful enough ! Was 
ever any one half so happy before] — did ever 
any one deserve such happiness !" exclaimed 
Hester, as, her tears flowing faster and faster, 
she fluno- herself into Mr. Carlton's arms. 



Note. — That that beautifnl race nf dogs, the Italian 
greyhound, is susceplible of a personal partiality dis- 
tinct from the coinnion attachment of a dog to its 
master — a preference tliat may almost be called friend- 
sliip, I have had a very pleasant and convincing proof 
in my own person. Several years ago I passed some 
weeks with a highly-valued iriend, the vi'iiij of an 
emment artist, in one of the large, old-fashioned 
houses in Newman-street— a house so much too large 
for their small family, that a part of it was let to an- 
other, and a very interesting couple, a young artist 
and his sister, just then rising into the high reputation 
which they have since so deservedly sustained. The 
two families lived with their separate establishments 
in this roomy and commodious mansion on the best 
possible terms of neighbourhood, but as completely 
apart as if they had resided in different houses; the 
only part which they shared in common being the 
spacious entrance-hall and the wide stone staircase: 
and on that staircase I had the happiness of ibrming 
an acquaintance, which soon ripened into intimacy, 
with a very beaatiful Italian greyhound, belonging 
to the young painter and his sister. 

I, who had from childhood the love of dogs, which 
is sometimes said to distinguish the future old maid, 
was enchanted with the playfjil and graceful creature, 
who bounded about the house with the elegance and 
sportiveness of a tame fawn, and omitted no opjxir- 
tnnity of paying my court to the pretty and gentle 
little animal; whilst Romeo (for such was his name 
also) felt, with the remarkable instinct which dogs 
and children so often display, the truth of my proies- 
sions, the reality and sincerity of my regard, and not 
only returned my caresses with interest, but showed 
a marked preference for my society; would waylay 
me in the hall, follow me up stairs and down, accom- 
pany me into my friend's drawing-room, steal alter 
me to my own bedchamber, and, if called by his mas- 
ter and mistress, would try to entice me into their 
part of the domicile, and seem so glad to welcome 
me to their apartments, that it furnished an additional 
reason for my frequent visits to those accomplished 
young people. 

In short, it was a regular flirtation; and when I 
went away, next to the dear and excellent friends 
whom I was leaving, I lamented the separation from 
Romeo. Although I had a pet dog at home, (when 
was I ever without one?) and that dog afic-ctionate 
and beautiful, I yet missed the beautiful and affec- 
tionate Italian greyhound. And Romeo missed me. 
My friends wrole me word that he wandered up the 
house and down ; visited all my usual haunts ; peeped 
into every room whore he had ever seen me; listened 
to every knock ; and was for several days almost as 
uneasy as if he had lost his own lair mistress. 

Two years passed before I again visited JN'ewman- 
street : and then, crossing (he hall in conversation 
with my kind hostess, just as I reached the bottom of 
the staircase I heard, first a cry of recognition, then a 
bounding step, and then, almost before I saw him, 
with the speed of lightning Romeo sprang down a 
whole flight of stairs, and -threw himself on my bo- 



36* 



3D 



426 



BELFORD REGIS. 



som, trembling and quivering with delight, and nest- 
ling his delicate glossy head close to my cheek, as he 
had been accustomed to do during our former inter- 
course. 

Poor, pretty Romeo! he must be dead long ago! 
But Mr. John Hayter may reiiiemb(;r, perhaps, giving 
me a drawing of him, trailing a wreath ol" roses in 
front of an arititjue vase; — a drawing which would 
be valuable to any one, as it combines the fine taste 
of one of our most tasteful painters with the natural 
grace of his elegant favourite; but which, beautil'ul 
as it is, I value less as a work of art than as a most 
fiiithful and characteristic portrait of the gentle and 
loving creature, whom one must have had a heart of 
stone not to have loved after such a proof of aflec- 
tionate recognition. 



FLIRTATIOiN EXTRAORDINARY. 

Thehe is a fasliion in everything^ — more 
especially in everythintr femininp, as We luck- 
less wearers of caps and petticnnts are, of all 
other writers, bound to allov/ : the very faults 
of the ladies (if ladies can have faults), as 
well as the terms by which those faults are 
distinoriiished, chanixe with the chanoing time. 
The severe but honest puritan of the" Com- 
monwealth was succeeded by the less rigrid, 
but probably less sincere prude, who, from 
the Restoration to Georije the Third's day, 
seems, if we may believe those truest paint- 
ers of manners, the satirists and the comic 
poets, to have divided the realm of beauty 
with the fantastic coquette — UAllea^ro reign- 
inor over one half ofrfhe female world, II Pen- 
seroso over the other. 

With the decline of the artificial comedy, 
these two ofrand divisions amongst woiTien, 
which had given such life to the acted drama, 
and had added humour to the prose of Addison 
and point to the verse of Pope, gradually died 
away. The Suspicious Husband of Dr. Hoad- 
ly, one of the wittiest and most graceful of 
those graceful and witty pictures of manners, 
which have now wholly disappeared from the 
comic scene, is, I think, nearly the last in 
which the characters are so distinguished. 
The wide-reaching appellations of prude and 
coquette,* the recognized title, the definite 
classification, the outward profession w-ere 
gone, whatever might be the case wiih the in- 
ternal propensities ; and the sex, somewhat 
weary, it may be, of finding itself called by 
two names, neither of thein very desirable, 
the one being very disagreeable and the other 
a little naughty, branched off into innumera- 
ble sects, with all manner of divisions and 
sub-divisions, and has contrived to exhibit 
during the last sixty or seventy years as great 
a variety of humours, good or bad, and to de- 



* Perhaps flirt may be held to be no bad substitute. 
Yes! dirt and coquette mav pass tur synonymous. 
But under what class of women of this world shall 
we find the prude ? The very species seems extinct. 



serve and obtain as many epithets (most of 
them sufficiently ill-omened), as its various 
and capricious fellow-biped called man. 

Amongst these epithets were two which I 
well remember to have heard api)lied some 
thirty years ago to more than one fair lady in 
the good town of Belford, but which have now 
passed away as completely as their dispara- 
ging predecessors, coquette and prude. The 
" words of fear" in question were " satirical" 
and " sentimental." With the first of these 
sad nicknames we have nothing to do. Child 
as I was, it seemed to me at the time, and I 
think so more strongly on recollection, that in 
two or three instances the imputation was 
wholly undeserved ; that a girlish gaiety of 
heart on the one hand, and a womanly fineness 
of observation on the other, gave rise to an 
accusation which mixes a little, ami a very 
little cleverness, with a great deal of ill-nature. 
But with the fair satirist, be the appellation 
true or false, we have no concern ; our busi- 
ness is with one lady of the class sentimental, 
and with one, and one only, of those adven- 
tures to which ladies of that class are, to say 
the least, peculiarly liable. 

Miss Selina Savage, (her detractors said 
that she was christened Sarah, founding upon 
certain testimony, of I know not what value, 
of aunts and godmothers ; but I abide by her 
own signature, as now lying before me in a 
line slender Italian hand, at the bottom of a 
note somewhat yellow* by time, but still 
starnped in a French device of penses and 
soticis, and still faintly smelling of ottar of 
roses ; the object of the said note being to 
borrow " IMr. Pratt's exquisite poem of Sym- 
pathy,") — IMiss Selina Savage (I hold by the 
autograph) was a young lady of uncertain age; 
there being on this point also a small variation 
of ten or a dozen years between her own as- 
sertions and those of her calumniators; but of 
a most sentimental aspect (in this respect all 
were agreed) ; tall, fair, pale, and slender, she 
being so little encumbered with flesh and 
blood, and so little tinted with the diversity 
of colouring thereunto belonging, — so com- 
pletely blonde in hair, eyes, and complexion, 
that a very tolerable portrait of her might be 
cut out in white paper, provided the paper 
were thin enough, or drawn in chalks, white 
and black, upon a pale brown ground. No- 
thing could be too shadowy or too vapoury ; 
the Castle Spectre, flourishing in all the glory 
of gauze drapery on the stage of Drury-Lane 
— the ghosts of Ossian made out of the mists 
of the hills — were but types of Miss Selina 
Savage. Her voice was like her aspect, — 
sighing, crying, dying ; and her conversation 
as-lachrymose as her voice : she sang senti- 
mental songs, played sentimental airs, wrote 
sentimental letters, and read sentimental 
books ; has given away her parrot for laugh- 
ing, and turned off her foot-boy for whistling 
a country-dance. 



FLIRTATION EXTRAORDINARY. 



427 



The abode of this amiable damsel was a 
small neat dwelling^, somewhat inconveniently 
situated, at the back of the Holy Brook, be- 
tween the Abbey Mills on the one side, and 
a great timber-wharf on the other, witli the 
stream runninij between the carriaore-road and 
the house, and nothinjr to unite them but a 
narrow foot-bridg^e, which must needs be 
crossed in all weathers. It had, however, 
certain recommendations which more tiian 
atoned for these defects in the eyes of its ro- 
mantic mistress : three middle-sized cypress- 
trees at one end of the court; in the front of 
her mansion two well-ajrown weepinor-wil- 
lows ; an address to " Holy Brook Cottai^e," 
absolutely invaluable to such a correspondent, 
and standing in most advantageous contrast 
with the streets, terraces, crescents, and places 
of which Belford was for the most part com- 
posed ; and a very fair chance of excellent 
material for the body of her letters by the 
abundant casualties and Humane Society cases 
alTorded bj^ the footbridge — no less than one 
old woman, three small children, and two 
drunken men having been ducked in the 
stream in the course of one winter. Drown- 
ing would have been too much of a good 
thing; but of that, from the shallowness of 
the water, there was happily no chance. 

Miss Savage, with two quiet, orderly, light- 
footed, and soft-spoken maidens, had been for 
some years the solitary tenant of the pretty 
cottage by the Holy Brook. She had lost her 
father during her early childhood ; and the 
death of her mother, a neat quiet old lady, 
whose interminable carpet-work is amongst 
tlie earliest of my recollections, — I could draw 
the pattern now, — and the absence of her bro- 
ther, a married man with a large family and 
a prosperous business, who resided constantly 
in London, — left the fair Selina the entire 
mistress of her fortune, her actions, and her 
residence. That she remained in Belford, al- 
though exclaiming against the place and its 
society — its gossiping morning visits and its 
evw.niug card-parlies, as well as the general 
wi.nt of refinement amongst its inhabitants — 
might be imputed partly perhaps to habit, and 
an aversion to the trouble of moving, and 
partly to a violent friendship between herself 
and another damsel of the same class, a good 
deal younger and a great deal sillier, who 
lived two streets otT, and whom she saw every 
day and wrote to every hour. 

Martha, or, as her friend chose to call her, 
Matilda Marshall, was the fourth or fifth 
daughter of a spirit-merchant in the town. 
Fre(juent meetings at the circulating library 
introduced the fair ladies to each other, and a 
congeniality of taste brought about first an 
acquaintance, and then an intimacy, which 
difference of station (for Miss Savage was of 
the highest circle in this provincial society, 
and poor Martha was of no circle at all,) only 
seemed to cement the more firmly. 



The Marshalls, flattered by Selina's notice 
of their daughter, and not sorry that that no- 
tice had fallen on the least useful and cheerful 
of the family — the one that amongst all their 
young people they could the most easily spare, 
put her time and her actions entirely into her 
own power, or rather into that of her patron- 
ess. Mr. Marshall, a calculating man of busi- 
ness, finding flirtation after flirtation go off 
without the conclusion matrimonial, and know- 
ing the fortune to be considerable, began to 
look on Matilda as the probable heiress ; and 
except from her youngest brother William, a 
clever but unlucky schoolboy, who delighted 
in plaguing his sister and laughing at senti- 
mental friendships, this intimacy, from which 
all but one mentiber was sedulously excluded, 
was cherished and promoted by the whole 
family. 

Very necessary was Miss Matilda at the 
Holy Brook Cottage. She filled there the 
important parts of listener, adviser, and con- 
fidant ; and filled them with an honest and 
simple-hearted sincerity which the most skil- 
ful flatterer that ever lived would have failed 
to imitate. She read the same books, sang 
the same songs, talked in the same tone, 
walked with the same air, and wore the same 
fashions ; which upon her, she being naturally 
short and stout, and dark-eyed and rosy, had, 
as her brother William told her, about the 
same effect that armour similar to Don Quix- 
ote's would have produced upon Sancho 
Panza. 

One of her chief services in the character 
of confidant was of course to listen to the 
several love passages of which, since slie was 
of the age of Juliet, her friend's history might 
be said to have consisted. How she had re- 
mained so long unmarried might have moved 
some wonder, since she seemed always im- 
mersed in the passion which leads to such a 
conclusion : but then her love was something 
like the stream that flowed before her door — 
a shallow brooklet, easy to slij) into, and easy 
to slip out of. From two or three imprudent 
engagements her brother had extricated her; 
and from one, the most dangerous of all, she 
had been saved by her betrothed having been 
claimed the week before the nuptials by an- 
other wife. At the moment of which we 
write, however, the fair Selina seemed once 
more in a fair way to change her name. 

That she was fond of literature of a certain 
class, we have already intimated ; and, next 
after Sterne and Rousseau, the classics of her 
ocder, and their horde of vile imitators, whe- 
ther sentimental novelists, or sentimental es- 
sayists, or sentimental dramatists, she delight- 
ed in the horde of nanneless versifiers whom 
Gifford demolished; in other words, after bad 
prose her next favourite reading was bad verse; 
and as this sort of verse is quite as easy to 
write as to read — I should think of the two 
rather easier — she soon became no inconsider- 



428 



bp:lford regis. 



able perpetrator of sonnets without rhyme, 
and songs without reason ; and elegies, hy an 
ingenious combination, equally deficient in 
both. 

After writing this sort of verse, the next 
step is to put it in print ; and in those days, 
(we speak of above thirty years ago,) when 
there was no Mrs. Henians to send grace and 
beauty, and purity of thought and feeling, 
into every corner of the kingdom — no Mary 
Howitt to add the strength and originality of 
a manly mind to the charm of a womanly 
fancy — in those days the Poet's Corner of a 
country newspaper was the refuge of every 
poetaster in the country. So intolerably bad 
were the acrostics, the rebuses, tlie epigrams, 
and the epitaphs which adorned those asylums 
for fugitive pieces, that a selection of the 
worst of them would really he worth printing 
amongst the Curiosities of Literature. A less 
vain person than Miss Selina Savage might 

have thought she did the H shire Courant 

honour in sending them an elegy on the death 
of a favourite bullfinch, with the signature 
' Eugenia.' 

It was printed forthwith, read with ecstatic 
admiration by the authoress and her friend, 
and with great amusement by William Mar- 
shall, who, now the spruce ch^rk of a spruce 
attorney, continued to divert himself with 
worming out of his simple sister all the secrets 
of herself and her friend, and was then nnfair 
enough to persecute the poor girl with the 
most unmerciful ridicule. The elegy was 
printed, and in a fair way cf being forgotten 
by all but the writer, when in the next num- 
ber of the Courant appeared a ■comi)limentary 
sonnet addressed to the authoress of the elegy, 
and sionpd " Orlando." 

Imagine the delight of the fair Eugenia ! 
She was not in the least astonished, — a bad 
and inexperienced writer never is taken by 
surprise by any quantity of praise; but she 
was charmed and interested as much as wo- 
man could be. She answered his sonnet by 
another, which, by the by, contained, contrary 
to Boileau's well-known recipe, and the prac- 
tice of all nations, a quatrain too many. He 
replied to her rejoinder; compliments flew 
thicker and f ister ; and the poetical corres- 
pondence between Orlando and Eugenia be- 
came so tender, that the editor of the 

H shire Courant thought it only right to 

hint to the gentleman that the post-office would 
be a more convenient medium for his future 
communications. 

As this intimation was accompanied by the 
address of the lady, it was taken in very good 
part; and before the publication of the next 
number of the provincial weekly journal. Miss 
Savage received the accustomed tribute of 
verse from Orlando, enveloped in a prose epis- 
tle, dated from a small town about tliirty miles 
off, and signed ' Henry Turner." 

An answer had been earnestly requested, 



and an answer the lady sent ; and by return 
of post she received a reply, to which she re- 
plied with equal alertness; then came a love- 
letter in full form, and then a petition for an 
interview; and to the first the lady answered 
anything but No ! and to the latter she as- 
sented. 

The time fixed for this important visit, it 
being now the merry month of May, was three 
o'clock in the day. He had requested to find 
her alone ; and accordingly by one p. m., she 
had dismissed her faithful confidant, promi- 
sing to write to her the moment Mr. Turner 
was gone — had given orders to admit no one 
but a young gentleman who sent in his visit- 
ing ticket, (such being the plan proposed by 
the inamorato,) and began to set herself and 
her apartment in order for his reception ; she 
herself in an elegant dishabille, between sen- 
timental and pastoral, and her room in a con- 
fusion equally elegant, of music, books, and 
flowers ; Zimmerman and Lavater on the ta- 
ble ; and one of those dramas — those trage- 
dies bourgeoises, or comedies larmoy antes, which 
it seems incredible that Beaumarchais, he that 
wrote the two matchless plays of Figaro,* 
could have written — in her liaiid. 

It was hardly two o'clock, full an hour be- 
fore his time, when a double knock was heard 
at the door; ^Ir. Turner's card was sent in, 
and a well-dressed and well-lotdving young 
man ushered into the jirespuce of the fair poet- 
ess. There is no describing such an inter- 
view. My readers must imagine the compli- 
ments and the blushes, the fine speeches de 
part et d'' autre, the long words and the fine 
words, the sighiugs and the languishments. 
The lady was satisfied ; the gentleman had 
no reason to conipi un ; and after a short visit 
he left her, promising to return in the evening 
to take his coffee with herself and her friend. 

She had just sat down to exjiress to that 
friend in her accustomed high-flown language, 
the contentment of her heart, when another 
knock was followed by a second visiting tick- 
et. " Mr. Turner again ! Oh ! I suppose he 
has remembered something of consequence. 
Show him in." 

And in came a second and a different Mr. 
Turner ! ! 

The consternation of the lady was inex- 
pressible ! That of the gentleman, when the 
reason of her astonishment was explained to 
him, was equally vehement and flattering. He 
burst into eloquent threats against the impos- 
tor who had assumed his name, the wretch 
who had dared to trifle with such a passion, 

* I speak, of course, of the admirubly brilliant 
French comedies, and not of the operas, vvlielher En- 
glish or Italian, which, retaining ihe situations, and 
hardly Ihe sitnalions, have completely sacrificed the 
wit, the character, and the pleasantry of the delight- 
ful originals, and have almost as much teiuled to in- 
jure Beaumarchais's reputation as his own dullest 
dramas. 



BELLES OF THE BALL-ROOM, No. III. 



429 



and such a ladye-love ; and bein^ equally 
well-looking and fine-spoken, full of rapturous 
vows and ardent protestations, and praise ad- 
dressed equally to the woman and authoress, 
conveyed to the enchanted Selina the complete 
idea of her lover-poet. 

He took leave of her at the end of half an 
hour, to ascertain, if possible, the delinquent 
who had usurped his name and his assigna- 
tion, purposing to return in the evening to 
meet her friend ; and again she was sitting 
down to her writing-table, to exclaim over 
this extraordinary adventure, and to dilate on 
the charms of the true Orlando, when three 
o'clock struck, and a third knock at the door 
heralded a third visiting ticket, and a third 
Mr. Turner ! ! ! 

A shy, awkward, simple youth was this, — 
"the real Simon Pure!" — bowing and bash- 
ful, and with a stutter that would have ren- 
dered his words unintelligible even if time 
had been allowed him to bring them forth. 
But no time was allowed liim. Provoked past 
her patience, believing herself the laughing- 
stock of the town, our sentimental fair one 
forgot her refinement, her delicacy, her fine 
speaking, and her affectation; and calling her 
maids and her footboy to aid, drove out her 
unfortunate suitor witli such a storm of vitu- 
peration — such a torrent of plain, honest, 
homely scolding — that the luckless Orlando 
took to his heels, and missing his footing on 
the narrow bridge, tumbled head-foremost into 
the Holy Brook, and emerged dripping like a 
river god, to the infinite amusement of the two 
impostors, and of William Marshall, the con- 
triver of the jest, who \z.y perdu in the mill, 
and told the story, as a great secret, to so 
many persons, that before the next day it was 
known half over the place, and was the even- 
tual cause of depriving the good town of Bel- 
ford of one of the most inoffensive and most 
sentimental of its inhabitants. The fair Se- 
lina decamped in a week. 



Note. — Whilst correcting the proof-sheet of this 
paper, (January 18ih, 1835,) I see with some amuse- 
ment, in that admirable hterary Journal the Athe- 
iiEBum, an old French anecdote which bears consider- 
able resemblance to the adventure of poor Miss Sa- 
vage. How the coincidence can have occurred I 
have no means of divining; — unless, indeed, our 
wicked friend Mr. William Marshall may have hap- 
pened to meet with the story of " Les trois Racans." 



BELLES OF THE BALL-ROOM, No. IH. 

THE SILVER ARROW. 

Amongst the most recent of our country 
beauties, were a pair of fair young friends, 
whose mutual attachment, in the best sense 
of the word romantic — that is to say, fervent, 



uncalculating, unworldly — was smiled at by 
one part of our little world, and praised and 
adtuired by another ; but, in consideration, 
perhaps, of the youth and the many attractions 
of the parlies, pretty indulgently looked upon 
by all. Never was a closer intimacy. Tiiey 
rode together, walked together, read together, 
sang together, sat in the same pew at church, 
and danced in the same quadrille at the assem- 
bly. Not a day passed without some proof 
of affection de part et d'auire ; and at the last 
target-day at Oakley But I must not fore- 
stall my story. 

Archery meetings are the order of the day. 
We all know that in the days of yore the bow 
was the general weapon of the land ; that the 
battles of Cressy and of Poictiers were won 
by the stout English archers, and the king's 
deer slain in his forests by the bold outlaws 
Robin Hood and Little John, and the mad 
priest Friar Tuck ; that battles were won and 
ships taken, not by dint of rockets and can- 
non-balls, but by the broad arrow ; and that 
(to return to more domestic, and therefore more 
interesting illustrations) Williatn of Cloudes- 
ley, the English William Tell,* saved his 
forfeited life by shooting an apple from his 
son's head, at six-score paces. f But not to 
revert to those times, which were perhaps 
rather too much in earnest, when the dinner, 
or the battle, or the life, depended on the truth 
of the aim ; and the weapon (to say nothing 
of the distance) would be as unmanageable to 
a modern warrior as the bow of Ulysses ; — 
not to go back to that golden age of archery 
and minstrelsy, never since the days of .latiies 
and Elizabeth, when the bow, although no 
longer the favourite weapon, continued to be 
the favourite pastime of the middle classes,:}: 



* Alas! that this pretty story should, both in the 
Swiss and the English version be apocryphal! But 
so 1 fear it is. Saxo Grammaiicns hath the legend 
with a still earlier dale, and a still more northern lo- 
cality. In short, it is probably one of those siories 
current in the annals of many nations, and true in 
none — one of the illusions of history which form such 
fine subjects for the dramatic poet. 

t 120 yards. He had previously cleft a willow 
wand at 400 yards. Vide the fine ballad of " Adam 
Bell, Clym of the Clough, and William of Cloudes- 
ley," in Bishop Percy's " Reliijues of Ancient English 
Poetry," a collection which, in these days of Robin 
Hoods and Maid Marians ought to be reprinted, if 
only for the sake of the archery lore. 

X If the fact were not too well known to need con- 
firmation, abundant proof of the love of shooting at 
the butts, so prevalent amongst our ancestors, might 
be found in the plays of Shakspeare, Beaumont and 
Fletcher, and the other great dramatists of that great 
dramatic age. Their works abound with allusions to 
the subject, and images derived from the sport. Even 
falconry, rich as that is in technical terms, has hardly 
furnished them with so many illustrations. It seems 
to have been the holiday pastime of the lower classes, 
and, in the absence of clubs and newspapers, the 
almost daily recreation of the middling order of the 
gentry ; and probably continued to be so up to the 
time of the Commonwealth, when all amusements 
were suspended by the stern habits of the Puritans 



430 



BELFORD REGIS. 



have bows and arrows been so rife in this 
England of ours, }.s at the present time. 
Every country mansion has its butts and its 
targets, every young lady her quiver; and 
that token of honour, the prize-arrow, trum- 
pery as, sooth to say, it generally is, is as 
much coveted and cherished and envied, as if, 
instead of a toy for a pedlar's basket, it were 
a diamond necklace, or an emerald bracelet. 

To confess the truth, I suspect the whole 
affair is rather more of a plaything now-a-days 
than it was even in the later time to which 
we have alluded ; partly, perhaps, because the 
ladies, with the solitary exception of Maid 
Marian, (who, however, in Ken Jonson's 
beautiful fragment, "The Sad Shepherd," of 
which she is the heroine, is not represented as 
herself taking part in the sylvan exercises of 
her followers,) contented themselves with wit- 
nessing, instead of rivalling, the feats of our 
forefathers ; partly it may be, because, as I 
have before observed, the thews and sinews 
of our modern archers, let them call themselves 
Toxo|)hilites* fifty times over, would tug with 
very little effect at the weapons of Clym of 
the Clough, or of Little .John, so called be- 
cause he was the biggest person of his day. 
Or even if a fine gentleman of the age of Wil- 
liam the Fourth should arrive at bending a 200 
pound bow, think of bis cleaving a willow 
wand at 400 yards' distance ! Modern limbs 
cannot compass such feats. He might as well 
try to lift the Durham ox. 

Nevertheless, although rather too much of a 
toy for boys and girls, and wanting altogether 
in the variety and interest of that great national 
out-door amusement called cricket, it would 
be difficult to find a better excuse for drawing 
people together in a country neighbourhood ; 
an object always desirable, and particularly 
so in this little midland county of ours, where, 
between party squabbles and election squab- 
bles, (affairs of mere personal prejudice, with 
which politics have often nothing to do,) half 
the gentry live in a state of non-intercourse 
and consequent ignorance of each other's real 
good qualities, and of the genial, pardonable, 
diverting foibles, which perhaps conduce as 
much as more grave, solid excellence, not only 
to the amusement of society, but to our mutual 
liking and regard for each other. A man per- 
fect in thought and word and deed is a fine 
thing to contemplate at reverent distance, like 
some rare statue on its pedestal ; but for the 
people who are destined to mix with their fel- 
lows in this work-a-day world — to walk and 
talk, and eat and drink like their neighbours, 
— the greater store of harmless peculiarities 
and innocent follies they bring to keep our 



and the stirring interests of the civil wars. After the 
Restoration, the bowling-green appears to have taken 
the place of the archery-ground. 

* A word from the Greek, signifying, I believe, " a 
bow-man," " a lover of the bow." 



follies in countenance, the better for them and 
for ourselves. Luckily there is no lack of 
these congenial elements in human nature. 
The only thing requisite is a scene for their 
display. 

This want seemed completely supplied by 
the Archery Meeting; an approved neutral 
ground, where politics could not enter, and 

where the Capulets and Montagues of H 

shire might contemplate each other's good 
qualities, and be conciliated by each other's 
defects, without the slightest compromise of 
party etiquette or party dignity. The heads 
of the contending houses had long ago agreed 
to differ, like the chiefs of rival factions in 
London, and met and visited, except just at an 
election time, with as much good-hutnour and 
cordiality as Lady Grey meets and visits Lady 
Beresford ; it was amongst the partisans, the 
adherents of the several candidates, that the 
prejudice had been found so inveterate; and 
every rational person, except those who were 
theiTiselves infected with the prevalent moral 
disorder, hailed the prescription of so pleasant 
a remedy for the county complaint. 

Accordingly, the proposal was no sooner 
made at a country dinner-party than it was 
carried by acclamation ; a committee was ap- 
pointed, a secretary chosen, and the pleasant 
business of projecting and anticipating com- 
menced upon the spot. For the next week, 
nothing could be heard of but the Archery 
Meeting; bows and arrows were 3^our only 
subject, and Lincoln-green your only wear. 

Then came a few gentle difficulties ; diffi- 
culties that seem as necessary preludes to a 
party of pleasure as the winds and rains of 
April are to the flowers of May. The com- 
mittee, composed, as was decorous, not of the 
eager sons and zealous daughters and bustling 
mammas of the principal families, but of their 
cool, busy, indifferent papas, could by no 
chance be got together ; they were hay-making, 
or they were justicing, or they were attending 
the House, or they had forgotten the day, or 
they had not received the letter; so that, in 
spite of all the efforts of the most active of 
secretaries, on Monday four only asseml)lpd 
out of twenty, on Tuesday two and on Wed- 
nesday none at all. 

Then of the three empty houses in the neigh- 
bourhood, on cither of which they had reckon- 
ed so confidently, that they had actually talked 
over their demerits after the manner of bidders 
at an auction who intended to buy, the one 
was point-blank refused to Mr. Secrr-tary's 
courteous application, on the ground of the 
miscbievousness of the parties, the danger of 
their picking the flowers, and the certainty of 
their trampling the grass ; the second, after 
having been twenty years on sale, suddenly 
found a ptirchaser just as it was wanted for 
the Archery Club; and the third, which had 
been for years thirty and odd snugly going to 
ruin under the provident care of the Court of 



BELLES OF THE BALL-ROOM, No.IIL 



431 



Chancery — a case of disputed title, — and of 
whicli it iiad been proposed to take temporary 
{jossession as a sort of " no man's land," found 
itself most unexpectedly adjudged to a legal 
owner by the astounding activity of my Lord 
Brougham. The club was at its wit's end, 
and likely to come to a dissolution before it 
was formed, (if an English-woman may be 
permitted to speak good Irish,) when luckily 
a neighbouring M. P., a most kind and genial 
person, whose fine old mansion was neither on 
sale nor in Chancery, and who patriotically 
sacrificed his grass and his flowers for the 
public good, offered his beautiful place, and 
furnished the Oakley Park Archery Club, not 
only with " a local habitation," but " a name." 

Then came the grand difficulty of all, the 
selection of members. Every body knows 
that in London the question of caste or station 
— or, to use perhaps a better word, of gen- 
tility — is very easily settled, or rather it settles 
itself without fuss ortrouble. Lithe greatcity, 
there is room for every body. No one is so 
high or so low as to be without his equals; 
and, in the immense number of circles into 
which society is divided, he falls insensibly 
into that class to which his rank, his fortune, 
his habits, and his inclinations are best adapt- 
ed. In the distant provinces, on the other 
hand, the division is equally easy, from a re- 
verse reason. There, the inhabitants may al- 
most be comprised in the peasantry, the yeo- 
manry, the clergy, and the old nobility and 
gentry, the few and distant lords of the soil 
living in their own ancestral mansions, and 
mixing almost exclusively with each other, 
not from airs, but from an absolute thinness 
of population amongst the educated or cul- 
tivated classes. But in these small midland 
counties close to London, where the great es- 
tates have changed masters so often that only 
two or three descendants of the original pro- 
prietors are to be found in a circuit of twenty 
miles, and where even the estates themselves 
are broken into small fractions — counties 
where you cannot travel a quarter of a mile 
without bursting on some line of new paling 
enclosing a belt of equally new plantation, and 
giving token of a roomy, commodious, square 
dwelling, red or white, as may suit the taste 
of the proprietor, or some " cot of spruce gen- 
tility," verandahed and beporched according 
to the latest fashion, very low, very pretty, and 
very inconvenient — in these populous country 
villages, where persons of undoubted fortune 
but uncertain station are as plenty as black- 
berries, it requires no ordinary tact in a pro- 
vincial lord-chamberlain to grant or to refuse 
the privilege of the entree. 

Perhaps the very finest definitions of a gen- 
tleman in our own, or in any other language, 
may be found in Mr. Ward's " De Vere,"* 
and in the motto of (I think) the Rutland fa- 

* " By a gentleman, we mean not to draw a line 
that would be invidious between high and low, rank 



mily, " Manners make the man ;" but our 
country practice seems rather to be grounded 
on the inimitable answer of the ineffable Mr. 
Dubster in Madame D'Arblay's " Camilla," 
who, on being asked what made a gentleman? 
gravely replied, " Leaving off business ;" or 
on the still nicer distinction, so admirably 
ridiculed by another great female writer (Miss 
Austen, in "Emma,") where a Mr. Suckling, 
a Bristol merchant, who had retired from trade 
some eight or nine years back, refuses to visit 
another Bristolian who had purified himself 
from the dregs of the sugar-warehouse only 
the Christmas before. 

Now Mr. Dabster's definition, besides being 
sufficiently liberal and comprehensive, had the 
great merit of being clear and practicable ; 
and our good-humoured secretary, a man of 
ten thousand, well-born, well-bred, well-for- 
tuned, and thoroughly well-conditioned, — a 
man light, buoyant and bounding, as full of 
activity as his favourite blood-horse, and 
equally full of kindness, — would willingly 
have abided bj' his rule, and was by no means 
disinclined to extend his invitations to the 
many educated, cultivated, rich, and liberal 
persons, whose fathers were still guilty of 
travelling to London once a week to superin- 
tend some old respectable concern in Austin 
Friars, or St. Mary Axe, or even to visit 
Lloyd's or the Stock Exchange. But unluck- 
ily the Mr. Sucklings of the neighbourhood 
prevailed. "Standing" (to borrow an ex- 
pressive Americanism) carried the day, and 
Mr. Brown, whose mother eighteen years ago 
had purchased the Lawn on one side of Head- 
ingly Heath,"!" had not only the happiness of 
excluding his neighbour Mr. Green, who had 
been settled at the Grove only a twelve-month, 
but even of barring out his still nearer neigh- 
bour Mr. White, who had been established 
in the Manor House these half-dozen years. 



and subordination, riches and poverty. The dis- 
tinction is in the mind. Whoever is open, loyal, and 
true ; whoever is of" humane and affable demeanour ; 
whoever is honourable in himseJfl and candid in his 
judgment of others, and requires no law but his word 
to make him fulfil an engagement; such a man is a 
gentleman, and such a man may be found among the 
tillers of the earth. But high birth and distinction 
for the most part insure the high sentiment which is 
denied to poverty and tiie lower professions. It is 
hence, and hence only, that the great claim their 
superiority; and hence, what has been so beautifully 
said of honour, the law of kings, is no more than true: 

" It aids and strengthens Virtue when it meets her, 
And imitates her actions where she is not." 

De Vere, vol. ii., p. 22. 
tit may convey some notion of the villa population 
in our county, to say that from the centre of Head- 
iiigly Heath we can sec eight gentlemen's houses. A 
young sportsman, who wanted a shooting-bo.\ in a re- 
tired situation, being taken in by a puffing advertise- 
ment of one of these mansions, drove down to look at 
it; but, when he came within view of tlie surround 
ing villas, turned round his phaeton, and trotted off 
without alighting, exclaiming, " Clapham Common, 
by Jove!" 



432 



BELFORD REGIS. 



Such, at least, was the decree passed in full 
committee ; but it is the common and rijrhtful 
fate of over-riajorous laws to be softened in 
practice; and, Mr. White being a most agree- 
able, hospitable man, with a very pleasant 
clever wife, and the Misses Green ranking 
amongst the prettiest girls in the neighbour- 
hood, somehow or other they eventually got 
admittance. 

These greater difficulties being fairly sur- 
mounted at the cost of a few affronts on the 
part of the forgotten, and many murmurs on 
the part of the omitted, then followed a train 
of minor troubles about dinners and crockery, 
targets and uniforms, regulations and rules. 
Drawing up the code of archery laws, al- 
though it seems no mighty effort of legisla- 
tion, cost onr committee almost as much la- 
bour as might have gone to the concoction of 
a second Code Napoleon, or another Bill for 
Local Courts; and the equipment of half the 
regiments in the service would have consumed 
less time and thought than were wasted on the 
male and female costumes of the Oakley Park 
Archery Club. Twelve several dolls were 
dressed in white and green of various patterns 
by the committee-men and their wives ; and 
such a feud ensued between Mr. Giles, haber- 
dasher, in King Street, in our dear town of 
Belford, and Miss Fenton, milliner, in the 
Market Place, each maintaining his and her 
separate and very various version of the ap- 
pointed regulation doll, that nothing but the 
female privilege of scolding without fighting 
prevented that most serious breach of the 
peace called a duel. It has been hinted that 
the unfortunate third partj^ (that is to say, the 
doll) was a sufferer in the fray, the flowers 
being torn from her bonnet, the bows from her 
petticoat, and the pelerine from her bosom. 
For this I do not vouch ; but for the exceeding 
ugliness of the selected regimentals, whether 
male or female, I can most conscientiously 
answer. It required some ingenuity to invent 
anything so thoroughly hideous. The young 
ladies, in clear muslin and green ribands, ar- 
ranged as they thought fit, looked like pretty 
little _ shepherdesses ; but their unfortunate 
mammas, dressed by Mr. Giles, or Miss Fen- 
ton, according to the pattern of the demolished 
doll, in gowns of white chaly, barred like a 
hussar jacket, with dull and dismal green, 
had, from the dim colour of the woollen mate- 
rial, more the air of a flock of sheep or a bevj^ 
of Carmelite nuns, or a troop of shrouded 
corpses escaped from their coffins, or a set of 
statues like that of the commandant in Don 
Giovanni, when seen from behind, or of the 
figure of Orcus (the classical Death), as re- 
presented in the Alcestis, when viewed front- 
wise — than of a group of middle-aged English 
ladies, equipped for a party of pleasure. 

In spite, however, of jostling interests and 
conflicting vanities, the day of the archery 
meeting was anticipated with great and gene- 



ral delight by the young j)eople in H shire; 

nor were their expectations disappointed. For 
once in a Avay, the full fruition of enjoyment 
outran the vivid pleasures of hope. Even as 
a measure of conciliation, the experiment suc- 
ceeded infinitely better than such experiments 
generally do succeed. The diverse factions, 
Neri and Bianchi, Montecchi, and Capuletti, 
met at the target-side, looked each other in 
the face, bowed and curtsied, smiled and 
laughed, talked sober sense and agreeable 
nonsense, according to their several inclina- 
tions and capacities, and became, by the in- 
sensible influence of juxtaposition, the mere 
habit of meeting and speaking, almost as good 
friends as if such a thing as a contested elec- 
tion never had happened, and never could 
happen again : — a happy state of feeling, to 
which I can only say, Esfo jierpehta! 

All went well at Oakley. The dinners were 
excellent and abundant, and the appetites of 
the diners so manageable and complaisant, 
that, although of the class whose usual din- 
ner-hour varies from six to eight, they actually 
contrived to eat their principal meal at three, 
without showing the slightest symptom of its 
arriving before it was wanted. The music 
was also good, and the dancers untirable; and 
although a dose of pleasuring, a course of 
shooting, walking, eating, talking, and dan- 
cing, which beginning at one o'clock post 
meridian, lasted to rather more than the same 
hour the next morning, rivalling in fatigue 
and duration the excursion of a maid-servant 
to a country fair, might naturally be expected 
to produce all sorts of complaints amongst 
our delicate young ladies, I did not hear of a 
single case of illness arising from the archery 
meeting. So omnipotent, in the female con- 
stitution, is will. 

I myself found an unexpected gratification, 
or rather an unexpected relief, at the end of 
the first two meetings. I had taken a sort of 
personal aversion to the female regimentals, 
the regulation dress of the ladies. The thing 
affected my nerves ; I could not abide the 
sight of it. But " there is some soul of good- 
ness in things evil." The odious chaly was 
found to have one capital point : — it wears out 
sooner than any material under the sun, and, 
difficult to make, takes care very speedily to 
unmake itself by fraying in every direction; 
so that, rent and ragged, tattered and lorn, t!ie 
hideous ladies' uniform was, at the third meet- 
ing, pretty uniformly cast aside, and female 
taste again resumed its proper influence over 
the female toilet. 

So far so good. But, when we English 
people take a fancy in our heads, we are apt 
to let it run away with us ; we hoist all sail, 
and cast the ballast overboard. And so it 
happened in the present instance. After the 
first two or three meetings, all the genteel 

population of II shire, men, women, and 

children, went archery mad — a lunacy pre- 



BELLES OF THE BALL-ROOM, No. IH. 



433 



served for these particular dog-days. You 
should not see a lawn of gentility without the 
targets up, or an entrance-hall without bows 
leaning against each corner, and arrows scat- 
tered over every chair. All other amusements 
were relinquished. Dinner-parties were at an 
end ; pic-nics were no more. Nothing would 
go down but private bow-meetings and public 
target-days. Dancing, heretofore the delight 
of a country beauty, was only tolerated after 
the archery, because people could not well 
shoot by candle-light; and, as the autumn 
drew on, even that other branch of shooting, 
in which our young sportsmen used to take 
such pleasure, entirely lost its charm. Guns 
were out of fashion. The ecstatic first of 
September became a common day ; and to 
me, who had watched the prevailing mania 
with some amusement, it appeared likely that, 
unless the birds should make up their minds 
to be killed by bows and arrows, (as Locksley 
brought down the wild goose,) a process 
which I did not think it probable that they 
would consent to, the partridges hereabout 
might have a fair chance of living on till the 
next season. 

Archery was the universal subject. Archery 
songs stood open on the piano. Archery en- 
gravings covered the print-table. The "Arch- 
er's Guide" was tiis only book worth opening, 
and bows and arrows the only topic fit to dis- 
cuss. Political economy was no longer heard 
in the drawing-room, or the East Lidia ques- 
tion in the dining-parlour ; Don Carlos and 
Don Miguel had been "pretty fellows in their 
day," but their reign was over. What was a 
great speech in the House to the glory of pla- 
cing three arrows in the target ? or a great 
victory to a shot in the gold 1* Time was no 
longer computed by the calendar ; almanacks 
were out of fashion. The whole country-side 
dated from the Oakley target-day, as the 
Greeks from the Olympic Games. 

The little boys and girls, at home for the 
holidays, caught the enthusiasm. Bats and 
balls, and dolls and battledores, were all cast 
aside as worthless trumpery : toys, in any 
other than the prevailing shape, were an af- 
front. 

From the manly Etonian, preferring a bow 
to a boat, to his six year old sister taking her 
fairy quiver to bed with her, the whole rising 
generation enrolled themselves in the archery 
band — a supplementary auxiliary legion. They 
added an enclosure called "the Butts" to their 
bab3'-houses, and equipped their dolls with 
bows and arrows. j" 

* This is certainly a modern innovation. To place 
the arrow in the white was the constant aim of the 
old archers, as any one conversant with old poetry 
could prove by scores of quotations from' Massinger 
and his contemporaries. 

t And in so doing, poor dears, they did but reclaim 
the play-things which their elders had borrowed from 
them. What saith that great authority, Mr. Thomas 



Trade, as usual, made its advantages of the 
ruling passion. The bow business became a 
distinct branch of commerce ; yew-trees rose 
in the market; and our good town of Belford 
was enlivened by no less than three dashing 
" archery ware-houses," and a new coach 
called the Dart. Jewellers' shops glittered 
with emblematic trinkets; Cupids fluttered on 
our seals and our breakfast-cups ; and the ex- 
ample of a certain Mr. Dod, a member gf the 
Roxburghe Club, who is recorded to have 
been particularly mad 'on the subject " of 
Robinhood and Archery songs," was, as I 
have said before, followed by all H shire. 

The casualties which occurred in the pur- 
suit of the exercise (as accidents will happen 
in the best-regulated families) were quite inef- 
fectual in datnping the zeal of the professors, 
male and female. One bonnet has been struck 
through the crown, and a bunch of flowers in 
another fairly beheaded ; several fingers (of 
gloves) have been knocked off; and one thumb 
of flesh and blood slightly lacerated. One 
gentleman was shot through the skirts, and 
two young ladies who were walking arm in 
arm were pinned together by the sleeve -^ 
whilst one fair archeress wounded another in 
the foot — the fate of Philoctetes, though not 
with the arrows of Hercules. 

These calamities notwithstanding, the Oak- 
ley Park Archory meetings continued as pros- 
perous as if they had not been puffed in the 
county newspapers. The weather had been 
very fine for English weather in the months 
of June, July, and August, — that is to say, 
on the first meeting it had been a hurricane, 
which had blown down trees and chimneys; 
on the second it had been rather wet and in- 
tolerably cold, so that they were fain to have 
fires ; and on the tiiird so insufferably hot, 
that the spectators sat fanning themselves un- 
der the deep shadow of the great oak-trees. 
But what are these evils to a real genuine en- 
thusiasm ? — drops of water that make the fire 
burn brighter: — oil upon the flame. On the 
whole, the ex})eriment has succeeded to a 
miracle. The members had the pleasure of 
being crowded at dinner and in the ball-rooin, 
— almost as much crowded as at a Quarter 
Sessions' dinner, or a London route ; — ^just the 
sort of grievance which papas and mammas 
like to grumble at. And the sons and daugh- 
ters found amusement in a different line; — for 



Hood, in the admirable account of a schoolboy's life, 
called "A Relro.spective Review," one of the best of 
that great punster's many good things ? Doth he not 
talk of bows and arrows as the toys of his childhood? 
Read, and mark, and ohserve too, the company into 
which he puis his boyish archery. 

" My football's laid upon the shelf, 
1 am a shuttlecock myself 

The world knocks to and fro. — 
My archery is all unlearn'd, 
And grief against myself has turn d 

My arrows and my bow." 



37 



3 E 



434 



BELFORD REGIS. 



the archery-ground proved a capital flirting 
place, and hearts were pierced there in reality, 
as well as in metaphor. For the rest, arrows 
were lost,* and prizes won, and dinners eaten, 
and toasts drunk, and speeches made, and 
dances danced ; and all the world at Oakley 
was merry, if not wise. 

So passed the first three meetings. The 
fourth, at the very end of August, was antici- 
pated with growing and still increasing delight 
by the members of the Club, whose incessant 
practice had much sharpened their desire of 
exhibition and competition ; and to none was 
it more an object of delighted expectation than 
to Frances Vernon, a shy and timid girl who 
generally shrank from public amusements, but 
who looked forward to this with a quite dif- 
ferent feeling, since she was to be accompanied 
thither by her only brother Horace, a young 
man of considerable talents and acquirements, 
who, after spending several years abroad, had 
just returned to take possession of his pater- 
nal mansion in the neighbourhood of Oakley. 



Horace and France? Vernon were the only 
children of a very gallant officer of high family 
and moderate fortune, who had during his 
lifetime been one of the most zealous follow- 
ers of the two factions (the English Mon- 

tecchi and Capuletii) who divided H shire, 

and had bequeathed to his son as abundant a 
legacy of prejudices and feuds as would have 
done honour to a border chieftain of the fifteenth 
century. The good general's prime aversion, 
his pet hatred, had of course fallen upon his 
nearest opponent, his next neighbour, who be- 
sides the sin of espousing one interest in 

H shire, as the general espoused another 

— of being an uncompromising whig, (radical 
his opponent was fain to call him,) as the 
general was a determined tory — had committed 
the unpardonable crime of making his own 
large fortune as a Russia merchant; and, not 
content with purchasing a considerable estate, 
which the general, to clear off old mortgages, 
had found it convenient to sell, had erected a 
huge staring red house within sight of the 
Hail windows, where he kept twice as many 
horses, carriages, and servants, and saw at 
least three times as much company as his 
aristocratic neighbour. If ever one good sort 



* It has often been a puzzle what becomes of the 
innumerable jiins that are -scattered over the wide 
world ; but it is much more difficult to guess the fate 
oi' the lost arrows, and it is really astounding how 
many are lost. The gentlemen's shafts are often, 
probably, lodged in the tree-tops, but those of the la- 
dies are not likely lo fly so far or so high, and gene- 
rally, it is to be presumed, drop to the ground, and 
(to use the technical phrase) go sriaking about in the 
grass; and the fair proprietors wander poring abtjut 
in search of them with admirable perseverance, but 
very indiirereut success. Nobody that has not had 
experience of the (iicl would believe that so large aa 
object should be so i'requently and so completely un- 
discoverable. 



of man hated another, (for they were both ex- 
cellent persons in their way,) General Vernon 
hated John Page. 

John Page, on his side, who scorned to be 
outdone in an honest English aversion by any 
tory in Christendom, detested the general with 
equal cordiality ; and a warfare of the most 
inveterate animosity ensued between them at 
all places where it was possible that disputes 
should be introduced, at vestries and county 
meetings, at quarter-sessions, and at the week- 
ly bench. In these skirmishes the general 
had much the best of the battle. _ Not only 
was his party more powerful and influential, 
but his hatred, being of the cold, courtly, pro- 
voking sort that never 'comes to words, gave 
him rnuch advantage over an adversary hot, 
angry, and petulant, whose friends had great 
difficulty in restraining him within the permit- 
ted bounds of civil disputation. An ordinary 
champion would have been driven from the 
field by such a succession of defeats ; but our 
reformer (so he delighted to style himself) had 
qualities, good and bad, which prevented his 
yielding an inch. He was game to the back- 
bone. °Let him be beaten on a question fifty 
times, and he would advance to the combat 
the fifty-first as stoutly as ever. He was a 
disputant whom there was no tiring down. 

John Page was of a character not uncommon 
in his class in this age and country. Acute 
and shrewd on many subjects, he was yet on 
some favourite topics prejudiced, obstinate, 
opinionated, and conceited, as your self-ed- 
ucated man is often apt to be : add to this that 
he was irritable, impetuous and violent, and 
we have all the elements of a good hater. On 
the other hand, he was a liberal master, a 
hospitable neighbour, a warm and generous 
friend, a kind brother, an affectionate husband, 
and a doting father : note, beside, that he was 
a square-made little man, with a bluff but 
good-humoured countenance, a bald head, an 
eagle eye, a loud voice, and a frank and un- 
poTished but by no means vulgar manner, and 
the courteous reader will have a pretty correct 
idea of Mr. John Page. 

Whether he or his aristocratic adversary 
would finally have gained the mastery at the 
bench and in the vestry, time only could have 
shown. Death stepped in and decided the 
question. The general, a spare, pale, tein- 
perate man, to whom such a disease seemed 
impossible, was carried off by apoplexy ; 
leaving a sickly gentle-tempered widow and 
two children ; a son of high promise, who had 
just left College, and set out on a long tour 
through half of Europe and much of Asia; 
and one daughter, a delicate girl of fourteen, 
whom her mother, in consideration of her own 
low spirits and declining health, sent imme- 
diately to school. 

Six years had elapsed between the general's 
death and the date of my little story, vihen 
Horace Vernon, returning home to his afTec- 



ELLES OF THE BALL-ROOM, No. III. 



435 



tionate relati^hs, eunbrowned by lonor travel, 
but manly, araiih/ul, spirited, and intplligent, 
even beyond iheir expectations, found them on 
the eve of the archeiy meetintr, and M'as pre- 
vailed upon by his moEher, far too ailing a 
woman to attend public places, to escort his 
sister and her chaperone — a female cousin on 
a visit at the house — to the appointed scene 
of amusement. 

A happy party were they that evening ! 
Horace, restored to his owu country and his 
own home, his birthplace, and the scene of 
his earliest and' happiest recollections, seated 
between his mild, placid, gracious mother, 
and the pretty timid sister, with whose sim- 
plicity and singleness of mind he was en- 
chanted, seemed to have nothing more to de- 
sire on earth. He was, however, sensible to 
something like a revulsion of feeling; for, 
bfcsides being a dutiful inheritor of his father's 
aversions and prejudices, he had certain an- 
cient quarrels of his own — demeles with game- 
keepers, and shooting and fisiiing squabbles, 
and such like questions, to settle with Mr. 
Page. He did certainly feel something like 
disappointment when, on inquiring into those 
family details which his long absence had 
rendered so interesting, he found this their 
old hereditary enemy, the man whom he 
thought it meritorious to hate, transmuted 
into their chief adviser and friend. Mr. Page 
had put a stop to a lawsuit in which his mo- 
ther's dower and his sister's small fortune 
were involved, and had settled the matter for 
them so advantageously that they were better 
off than before; Mr. Page had discovered and 
recovered the family plate abstracted by a 
thieving butler, and had moreover contrived, 
to the unspeakable comfort of both ladies, that 
the thief should not be hanged ; Mr. Page 
had sent out to Russia, in a most advantageous 
situation, the pet and protege of the family; 
Mr. Page had transported to the Swan River 
a vauirien cousin, the family plague; Mr. 
Page had new-filled the conservatory ; Mr. 
Page had new-clothed the garden wall; and, 
finally, as Frances declared with tears in her 
eyes, Mr. Page had saved her dear mother's 
life by fetching Mr. Brodie in the crisis of a 
quinsy, in a space of time which, considering 
the distance, would seem incredible. This 
last assertion completely silenced Horace, 
who, to the previous feats, had exhibited a 
fningled incredulity of the benefits being really 
conferred, and an annoyance at receiving ben- 
efits from such a quarter, supposing them to 
be as great as their glowing gratitude repre- 
sented. He said no more; but the feeling 
continued, and when poor Frances began to 
talk of her dear friend and schoolfellow, Lucy, 
Mr. Page's only child — of her talent and 
beauty, and her thousand amiable qualities — 
and when Mrs. Vernon added a gentle hint as 
to the large fortune that she would inherit, 
Horace smiled and said nothing, but went to 



bed as thoroughly determined to hate Mr. 
Page, and to find his daughter plain and disa- 
greeable, as his deceased father, the general, 
could have done for the life of him. " I see 
your aim, my dear mother and sister," thought 
he to himself; "but if my fortune be limited, 
so are my wishes ; and I am not the man to 
enact Master Fenton to this Anne Page of 
yours, or Lucy, or whatever her name may 
be, though she were the richest tallow-mer- 
chant's daughter in all Russia." 

So thinking he went to bed, and so thinking 
he arose the next morning — the great morning 
of the archery meeting; and his spleen was 
by no means diminished when, on looking out 
of his window, the great ugly red house of 
his rich neighbour stared him in the face; and 
on looking to the other side of the park, he 
was differently but almost as unpleasantly 
affected by an object on which most persons 
would have gazed with delight, — his pretty 
little sister, light and agile as a bird, practising 
at the target, and almost dancing with joy as 
she lodged an arrow within the gold: — for 
Horace, just arrived from the continent, was 
not only quite free from the prevailing mania, 
but had imbibed a strong prejudice against the 
amusement, which he considered too frivolous 
for men, and too full of attitude and display 
for women, — effeminate in the one sex, and 
masculine in the other. 

He loved his sister, however, too well to 
entertain the slightest idea ,of interrupting a 
diversion in which she took so much pleasure, 
and which was approved by her mother and 
sanctioned by general usage. He joined her, 
therefore, not intending to say a word in dis- 
approbation of the sport, with a kind observa- 
tion on her proficiency and a prognostic that 
she would win the Silver Arrow, when all 
his good resolutions were overset by her re- 
ply- 

"Oh, brother!" said Frances in a melan- 
choly tone, " what a pity it is that you should 
have stayed all the summer in Germany, 
where you had no opportunity of target prac- 
tice, — or else you too might have won a silver 
arrow, the gentleman's prize !" 

" I win a silver arrow !" exclaimed Horace, 
nearly as much astonished, and quite as much 
scandalized, as Miss Arabella Morris when 
threatened by Poor Jack to be made a first 
lieutenant : — " I win a silver arrow !" 

"Why not]" rejoined Frances. "I am 
sure you were always cleverer than anybody; 
you always carried away the prizes at school 
and the honours at College; and I don't sup- 
pose you have lost your ambition." 

" Ambition !" again echoed Horace, who, 
a very clever young man, and by no means 
devoid of that high quality, thought of it 
only in its large and true sense, as the in- 
spiration which impels the conqueror of na- 
tions, or, better still, the conqueror of arts, 
the painter, the sculptor, the poet, the orator, 



436 



BELFORD REGIS. 



in the noble race of fame. " Ambition !" 
once again exclaimed Horace — "ambition to 
make a hole in a piece of canvass I" 

" Nay, dear brother, surely it is skill." 

" Skill ! What was the name of the em- 
peror who, when a man had attained to the 
art of tbrowincr a grain of millet throiicrh the 
eye of a needle, rewarded his skill with the 
present of a bushel of millet J You remem- 
ber the story, Frances 1 That emperor was a 
man of sense." 

" Oh, brother !" exclaimed Fanchon, shock- 
ed in her turn at this irreverent treatment of 
the object of her enthusiastic zeal, — "dear 
brother ! — But, to be sure, they have nc arch- 
ery on the continent." 

" No," returned Horace ; " they are wiser. 
Though I believe there are bows — bows made 
of whalebone — amongst some of the rudest 
tribes of the Cossacks. They use the wea- 
pon, in common with other savages ; but 
wherever civilization has spread, it has disap- 
peared ; and I don't know," pursued this con- 
tumacious despiser of the bow, " that one 
could find a better criterion to mark the bound- 
ary of cultivated and uncultivated, intellectual 
and unintellectual nations, than their having 
so far kept up with the stream of improvement 
as to abandon so ineffectual a mode of procur- 
ing their food or slaying their enemies, and 
taken to steel and gunpowder." 

" Oh, brother, brother !" rejoined the dis- 
appointed damsel, " what sad prejudices you 
have brought home ! 1 made sure of your 
liking an amusement so chivalrous and aristo- 
cratic !" 

" Chivalrous!" retorted the provoking Ho- 
race: "why not go to the fountain-head — 
to Chaucer — or to Froissart, — Scott, who 
amongst his thousand services to the world 
has taught everybody, even young ladies, the 
usages of by-gone ages, might have told you 
that the knights, vi^hether of reality or of ro- 
mance, fought with the lance, and in armour, 
and on horseback. You should have gotten 
up a tournament, Fanchon, if you wished to 
restore the amusements of the days of chival- 
ry : and, as to the bow being aristocratic — 
why, it was the weapon of thieves and out- 
laws in its most picturesque use, and of the 
common soldiers of the time in its most re- 
spectable. The highwayman's pistols, Fan- 
chette, or the brown musket ! Choose which 
you will." 

" Nay, brother ! I mean in a subsequent 
age — as an amusement," again pleaded poor 
Fancliette. " I am sure, if you were arguing 
my side of the question, you could bring fifty 
quotations from the old poets to prove that in 
that sense it was aristocratic. Could not you, 
now? Confess! you who never forget any- 
thing!" 

" Nay," retorted her brother, laughing, "it 
is hardly handsome to contend with so cour- 
teous an adversary: but, without pleading 



guilty to the memory of which you are pleased 
to accuse me — for, Heaven have mercy upon 
tiiat man who shall recollect all that he reads! 
— I do remember me of a certain passage very 
apropos to my line of argument, in a cer- 
tain comedy called 'The Wits,' written by a 
certain knight yclept William Davenant, who, 
if old Master Aubrey's scandal may be be- 
lieved, (and the gossip of two hundred years 
ago assumes, be it observed, a far more lofty 
and venerable air than the tittle-tattle of yes- 
terday,) might boast a more than dramatic re- 
lationship to the greatest poet that ever lived 
— William Shakspeare.* A dashing gallant 
of those days is promising his fair mistress to 
reform : how he kept his word, is no concern 
of mine ; but thus, amongst other matters, 
saith the gentleman : — 

' This deboshed whingard 



I will reclaim to comely bow and arrows, 
And slioot with haberdashers at Finsbury, 
And be thought the grand-child of Adam Bell.' 

" Now, what do you say to this, fair lady 1 
I'faith I wish that for just ten minutes — no 
longer — I had the memory which you impute 
to me, for the sole ])urpose of smothering you 
with quotations to the same eflect." 

" Well ! it is confined to the gentry now, at 
all events. You cannot deny, brother, that it 
is all the fashion at the present day." 

" Which is tantamount to saying," respond- 
ed the stubborn disputant, "that it will be out 
of fashion to-morrow. Aristocratic indeed ! — 
why, the ' haberdashers' apprentices' will be 
shooting in every tea-garden round London 
before the summer is over. ' And what for 
no V as Meg Dods would say : the recreation 
is just within the reach of their ability, pe- 
cuniary and mental. And here in the country, 
where every body that can command a cow's 
grass can set up the butts and shoot with dou- 
ble ends, as you call them, why, if you expect 
to keep your sport to yourself, Miss Fanny, 
you are mistaken." 

"At all events, Horace, it is classical," 
said Miss Fanny, pushed to her last defence; 
"and that, to a traveller just from Greece, 
ought to be some recommendation. How 
often have I heard you say, that ' Philoctetes' 
is the second tragedy in the world, — that 
which approaches next to Lear in the great 
dramatic purpose of rousing pity and indigna- 

* Sir William Davenant had the luck to be con- 
nected with great names and great events. To say 
nothing of historical matters — wilii whicii, however, 
he was nuich mixed up — and the kings and qurei;? 
and princes amongst whom he lived, he is reported to 
have been .Shaksjienre's illegitimate son ; to have 
been saved from execution at Milton's intercession, 
whose life he had the honour and ha(>pincss of saving 
in return: and ho certainly joined Mallhcw Locke in 
protlucing "Macbeth" with the grandest music; 
helped Dryden to alter — that is, to sjy^il — "The 
'J'empest;" had one of the two theatrical patents, 
iiilruducod panited scenes, and was burn)d close to 
Chaucer. I 



BELLES OF THE BALL-ROOM, No. III. 



437 



tion ! And what is ' Philoctetes' about, from 
first to last, but the bow and arrows of Her- 
cules] And where in all Homer — all Pope's 
Homer, I mean, (for I do not know the orijrin- 
al — I wish I did,) can we find more heautiful 
lines than those which describe Ulysses bend- 
ing the bow. I will match my quotation 
against yours, brother, if you will consent to 
rest the cause upon that issue," continued 
Frances, beginning to repeat, with great ani- 
mation and gracefulness, the verses to which 
she had alluded : 

' ^nd now his well-known bow the master bore, 
Tuni'ii on all sides, and view'd it o'er and o'er: 
Lest time or worms had done the weapon wrong, 
Its owner absent, and untried so long. 
While some deridmg; — How he turns the bow ! 
Some other like it sure the man must know, 
Or else would copy; or in bows he deals; 
Perhaps he makes them — or perhaps he steals. 



Heedless he heard them, but disdained reply; 

The bow perusing with exactest eye. 

Then, as some heavenly minstrel, taught to sing 

High notes responsive to the tremblmg string. 

To some new strain when he adapts the lyre, 

Or the dumb lute refits with vocal wire. 

Relaxes, strains, and draws them to and fro; 

So the great master drew the mighty bow: 

And drew with ease. One hand aloft display'd 

The bending horns, and one the siring essay 'd. 

From his essaying hand the string let fly 

Tvvang'd short and sharp, like the shrill swallow's cry. 

A general horror ran through all the race, 

Siuik was each heart, and pale was every face. 

Signs from above ensued : th' unfolding sky 

In lightning burst; Jove thnnder'd from on high. 

Fired at the call of Heaven's almighty lord. 

He snatch'd the shaft that glitter'd on the board ; 

(Fast by, the rest lay sleeping in the sheath,. 

Bui soon to fly, the messengers of death.) 

Now, sitting as he was, the cord ho drew, 
Through every ringlet levellmg his view; 
Then notch'd the shaft, released, and gave it wing; 
The whizzing arrow vanish'd from the strhig, 
Sung on direct and threaded every ring. 
The solid gate its fury scarcely bounds; 
Pierced through and through, the solid gate resounds.' 

" Bravo, Fanchon !" exclaimed Horace, as 
his sister paused, half blushing at the display 
into which the energy of her defence had pro- 
voked her, — "Bravo! my own dear little sis- 
ter! Beautiful lines they are, and most beau- 
tifully recited ; and Pope's, sure enouo-h — 
none of Broome's or Fenton's botchery. One 
may know the handiwork of that most delicate 
artist, meet it where one will. 

"Or the dumb lute refits with vocal wire.* 

Who but the tuneful hunchback of Twicken- 
ham conid have put such words to such a 
thought ] Then the repetition of the same 
phrase, like the repetitions in Milton, or the 
returns ujion the air in Handel ! Thank you 
a thousand times, my dearest Fanny, for such 
a proof of your good taste. I'll forgive the 
archery, upon the strength of it." 

"And the Apojjo, brother," pursued Fan- 

37* 



chon, following up her victory, — "was not he 
an archer, the Apollo Belvidere ?" 

" Nay, Fanchon," replied her brother, laugh- 
ing, "do not claim too much; that's uncer- 
tain." 

" Uncertain ! How can you say so 1 Don't 
yon reiTiember the first line of Mr. Milnian's 
poein, — that matchless prize-poem, which 
Mrs, Siddons is said to have recited in the 
Louvre, at the foot of the statue, and in pre- 
sence of the author; one of the finest compli- 
ments, as I have heard you say, ever paid to 
man or to poet : 

' Heard ye the arrow hurtle in the sky ? 
Heard ye the dragon monster's deathful cry ?' 

" Is not ' hurtle' a fine word ] And are not 
these great authorities ]" 

"Sophocles, and Homer, and the Apollo, 
and Mr. Miiman] Yes, indeed they are; and 
under tiieir sanction I give you full leave to 
win the Silver Arrow." 

"And you will try to win it yourself, Ho- 
race! I do not mean to-day, but at the next 
meeting." 

" No, Fanchon ! That is too much to pro- 
mise." 

" But yon will go to the archery with me ]" 

"Yes; for I wish to see many old friends 
— amongst the rest, the kind and excellent 
owner of Oakley, and his noble and charming 
lady : and, as I said before, you have my full 
permission to bring home the Silver Arrow." 

" I should like to do so, of all things," re- 
plied Fanchon, " in spite of your contempt ; 
from which I would lay my best arrow that you 
will soon be converted, and my second-best 
that 1 could name the converter. But my 
winning the prize is quite out of hope," con- 
tinued the young lady, who, thoroughly un- 
lucky in her choice of subjects, had no soon- 
er run to earth one of Horace's prejudices, 
than she contrived to start another: "there is 
no hope whatever of my winning the prize; 
for though I can shoot very well here and at 
the other house " 

" At the other house," thought Horace, al- 
most starting, as the staring red mansion, of 
which he had lost sight during the archery 
dispute, and Mr. Page, with all his iniquities, 
passed before his mind's eye, — "the other 
house ! Are they as intimate as that comes 
to?" 

" And can even beat Lucy," pursued poor 
Fanchon. 

" Lucy again !" thought her brother. 

" When we are by ourselves," continued 
she ; " but before strangers I am so awkward, 
and nervous, and frightened, that I always 
fail, I should like dearly to win the arrow, 
though, and you would like that I should win 
it, I ana sure you would," added she ; " atid 
Lucy says, that if I could but think of some- 
thing else, and forget that people were looking 
at me, she is sure I should succeed. I do 



438 



BELFORD REGIS. 



really believe that Lncy would rather 1 should 
win it than herself, because she knows it 
would jTJve so much pleasure, not only to me, 
but to mamma." 

"Nothing^ but Lucy!" atrain thought Ho- 
race. " It seems as if there were nothinjr to 
do in this life but to shoot at a target, and no- 
body in the world but Miss Lucy Pajre. — 
Pray, Fanchette," said he aloud, " what 
brought about the reconciliation between Mr. 
Pajre's family and ours] When I left Eng- 
land, we had not spoken for years." 

" Why, very luckily, brother, just after you 
went abroad," rejoined Fanchette, "one of the 
tenants behaved very unjustly, and insolently, 
and ung-ratefuliy to mamma; and when the 
steward threatened to punish him for his mis- 
conduct, he went immediately to Mr. Pacre, 
knowing that he had been at variance with 
our poor father, to claim his patronage and 
protection. However, Mr. Page was not the 
man to see a woman "and a widow, an unpro- 
tected female, as he said " 

" He might have said, a lady. Miss Fanny!" 
again thought the ungrateful Horace 

" Imposed upon," contiimed Fanny. " So 
he came straight to dear mamma, offered her 
his best services on this occasion and any 
other, and has been our kindest friend and 
adviser ever since." 

" I dare say," said the incorrigible Horace ; 
" and Miss Lucy was your schoolfellow ! 
What is she like now? I remember her, a 
pale, sickly, insignificant, awkward girl. 
Whom does she resemble? The bluff-looking 
father, or the vulgar mamma]" 

"You are very provoking, brother," replied 
poor Fanny, "and hardly deserve any answer. 
But she is just exactly like this rose. She 's 
the prettiest girl in the county ; every body 
allows that." 

" Yes, a true country beauty, a full-blown 
cabbage-rose," again thought Horace; who 
had not condescended to observe that the half- 
blown flower which his sister had presented 
to him, and which he was at that instant 
swinging unconsciously in his hand, was of 
the delicate maiden blush, made to blow out 
of its season, as every gardener knows how, 
by cutting off the buds in the spring. "A 
full-blown blowzy beauty, as vulgar and as 
forward as both her parents, encouraging and 
patronizing my sister, forsooth! — she, the 
daughter of a tallow-m«rchant ! — ^just as the 
father protects my dear mother. Really," 
thought Mr. Vernon, " our family is much in- 
debted to them !" And with these thoughts 
in his mind, and contempt in his heart, he set 
off with Frances to the archery-ground. 

On arriving at the destined spot, all other 
feelings were suspended in admiration of the 
extraordinary beauty of the scene. Horace, 
a traveller of no ordinary taste, felt its charm 
the more strongly from the decided English 
character impressed on every ol)ject. The 



sun was rather veiled than shrouded by light 
vapoury clouds, from which he every now and 
then emerged in his fullest glory, casting all 
the magic of light and shadow on the majestic 
oaks of the park, — oaks scarcely to be rivalled 
in the royal forests, — and on the venerable old 
English mansion which stood embosomed 
amongst its own rich woodland. The house 
was of the days of Elizabeth, and one of the 
most beautiful erections of that age of pic- 
turesque domestic architecture. Deep bay- 
windows of various shapes were surmounted 
by steep intersecting roofs and bits of gable- 
ends, and quaint fantastic cornices and higlv 
turret-like chimneys, which gave a singular 
grace and lightness to the building. Two of 
those chimneys, high and diamond-shaped, 
divided so as to admit the long line of sky 
between them, and yet united at distant inter- 
vals, linked together as it were by a chain- 
work of old masonry, might be a study at 
once for the painter and the architect. The old 
open porch too, almost a room, and the hall 
with its carved chimney-piece and its arched 
benches, the wainscoted chambers, the oak 
staircases, the upstair chapel, (perhaps oratory 
might be the fitter word,) the almost conven- 
tual architecture of some of the arched pas- 
sages and the cloistered inner courts, were in 
perfect keeping ; and the admirable taste 
which had abstained from admitting anything 
like modern ornament was felt by the whole 
party, and by none more strongly than by our 
fastidious traveller. He immediately fell into 
conversation with Mr. Oakley, the kind and 
liberal proprietor of the place, and his charm- 
ing lady, (old friends of his family,) and was 
listening with interest to his detail of the in- 
iquities of some former Duke of St. Albans, 
who, renting the mansion* as being conve- 
nient for the exercise of iiis function of here- 
ditary grand falconer, had, in a series of quar- 
rels with another powerful nobleman (the then 
Duke of Beaufort), extirpated the rnoor-fowl 
which had previously abounded on the neigh- 
bouring heath, when a startling clap on the 
shoulders roused his attention, and that night- 



* There is another still more interesting story con- 
nected with Oakley. An ancestor of ilie present 
proprietor was lost, bewildered, benighted, during 
some tremendous storm on the heath before alluded 
to, and, being of delicate health and nervous habits, 
had fiiirly given up all hupes of reacliing his own 
house alive; when suddenly the cluirrh clock of the 

neigliljouring town of \V striking four, happened 

to make itself heard through the wintry storm, and 
gave him suflicient intiuiution of his position to guide 
him safely home. Iti memory of" this interposition, 
which he considered as nothing less than providen- 
tial, Mr. Oakley assigned f()rty shillings a yenr in pay- 
ment of a man to rnig a bell at four o'clock every 

morning in the parish church of \V : and by that 

tenure the estate is still held. This is literally true. 
A cupumstance somewhat similar occurring to the 
|)roprielor of Bamborongh Castle, in JVortliuuiberland, 
IS said io have been the cause of the erection of the 
famous lighthouse which has warned so many vessels 
from that dangerous coast. 



BELLES OF THE BALL-ROOM, No. III. 



439 



mare of his imagination, Mr. Pa^e, stood be- 
fore him in an agony of good-will, noisier and 
more boisterous than ever. 

Not only Mr. Page, shaking both his hands 
with a swing that almost dislocated his shoul- 
ders, but Mrs. Page, rudd)r, portly, and 
smiling, the very emblem of peace and plenty, 
and Mrs. Dinah Page, Mr. Page's unmarried 
sister, a grim, gaunt, raw-boned woman, 
equally vulgar-looking, in a different way, and 
both attired in the full shroud uniform,* stood 
before him. At a little distance, talking to 
his sister, and evidently congratulating her on 
his return, stood Lucy, simply but exquisitely 
dressed, a light embroidery of oak-leaves and 
acorns having replaced the bows which made 
the other young ladies seem in an eternal 
flutter of green ribands ; and so delicate, so 
graceful, so modest, so sweet, so complete an 
exemplification of innocent and happy youth- 
fulness, that, as Horace turned to address her 
and caught his sister's triumphant eye, the 
words of Fletcher rose almost to his lips — 

" As a rose at fairest, 
Neither a bud, nor blown." 

Never was a more instantaneous conversion. 
He even, feeling that his first reception had 
been ungracious, went back to shake hands 
over again with Mr. Page, and to thank him 
for his services and attentions to his mother 
during his absence; and when his old op- 
ponent declared with much warmth, that any 
little use he might have been of was doubly 
repaid by the honour of being employed by so 
excellent a lady, and by the unspeakable 
advantage of her notice to his Lucy, Horace 
really wondered how he could ever' have dis- 
liked him. 

The business of the day now began — 
" Much ado about nothing," perhaps — but still 
an animated and pleasant scene. The pretty 
processions of young ladies and nicely-equip- 
ped gentlemen marching to the sound of the 
bugle from target to target, the gay groups of 
visiters sauntering in tlie park, and the outer 
circle of country people, delighted spectators 
of the sport, formed altogether a picture of 
great variety and interest. 

Lucy and Frances were decidedly the best 
shots on the ground; and Horace, who was 
their constant attendant, and who felt his aver- 
sion to the sport melting away, he could not 
very well tell how, was much pleased with 
the interest with which either young marks- 
woman regarded the success of the other. 
Lucy had, as she declared, by accident, once 
lodged her arrow in the very centre of the tar- 



* Persons of a lower caste in society are always 
exceedingly oliservanl of (his sort of regulations, with 
wliicii ihiK^e of a superior class (who know exactly 
the worth, or the worthlessness.ofsuch forms) feel tliat 
ihey may dispense, unless they happen to chime in 
Willi llieir convenience or their inclination. An over- 
anxiety to be in the lashion is one of the distinctive 
marks of a parvenu. 



get, and was as far before Frances as Frances 
was before the rest. But Lucy, although the 
favourite candidate, seemed less eager for the 
triumph than her more timid friend, and turned 
willingly to other subjects. 

" You are admiring my beautiful dress, Mr. 
Vernon, as well you may," exclaimed she, as 
she caught his eye resting on her beautiful 
figure : " but it is Frances who ought to blush, 
for this delicate embroidery is her work and 
her taste, one of a thousand kindnesses which 
she and dear Mrs. Vernon have been shower- 
ing upon me during the last six years. vShe 
did not act quite fairly by me in this matter, 
though; for she should have allowed me, 
though I cannot paint with the needle as she 
does, to try my skill in copying her handiwork, 
— and I will, against the next meeting, al- 
though it will be only displaying my inferiority. 
I never saw this dress, or had a notion of it, 
till last night, when she was forced to send it 
to be tried on. You do not know your sister 
yet!" 

"I am better acquainted with her than you 
think I am," exclaimed Horace. " We have 
been holding a long argument this morning: 
and nothing, you know, draws out a young 
lady like a little contradiction. I must not 
tell you the subject, for you would certainly be 
on Frances's side." 

" Yes ! certainly I should," interrupted the 
fair lady; "be the subject what it might — 
right or wrong, I should take part with dear 
Frances. But you must not quarrel with her 
— no, not even in jest, — she loves you so, and 
has so longed for your return. I doubt your 
knowing her yet, even although you have had 
the advantage of a dispute; which is, as you 
say, an excellent recipe for drawing out a 
young lady. I do not think you know half 
her merits yet — but you will find her out in 
time. She is so timid, that sometimes she 
conceals her powers froin those she loves best ; 
and sometimes from mere nervousness they de- 
sert her. I am glad that she has shot so well 
to-day ; for, trifling as the object is, (and yet it 
is a pretty English amusement, an old-fashion- 
ed national sport — is it not]) — triflingas the ob- 
ject may be, everything that tends to give her 
confidence in herself, is of consequence to her 
own comfort in society. What a shot was 
that !" continued she, as Frances's arrow 
lodged in the target, and the bugles struck up 
in honour of " a gold" — " W'hat a shot I and 
how ashamed she is at her own success! 
Now j'ou shall see me fail and not be ashamed 
of my failure." And she shot accordingly, and 
did fail ; and another round, with nearly equal 
skill on the part of Frances, and equal want 
of it on that of her friend, had reversed their 
situations, and put Miss Vernon at the top of 
the list; so that when the company adjourned 
to their early dinner, Frances was the favour- 
ite candidate, although the two young ladies 
were, in sporting phrase, neck and neck. 



440 



BELFORD REGIS. 



After dinner, however, when the gentlemen 
joined the ladies and the sports recommenced, 
Miss Page was nowhere to be found. Mrs. 
Page, on her daughter being called for, an- 
nounced to the secretary that Lucy had al)an- 
doned the contest; and on being anxiously 
questioned by Horace and Frances as to tlie 
cause of her absence, she avowed that she 
could not very well tell what was become of 
her, but that she fancied she was gone with 
her father and Aunt Dinah in search of the 
Ladye Fountain, a celebrated spring, situate 
somewhere or other in the seven hundred acres 
of fir-wood which united the fertile demesne 
of Oakley to another fine estate belonging to 
the same gentleman ; a spring which Aunt 
Dinah had remembered in her childhood, be- 
fore the fir-trees were planted, and had taken 
a strong fancy to see again. "And so Lucy," 
pursued Mrs. Page, "has left the archery and 
her chance of the Silver Arrow, and has even 
run away from Miss Vernon, to go exploring 
the woods with Aunt Dinah." 

"She is gone that Frances may gain the 
prize, sweet creature that she is !" thought 
our friend Horace. 

Two hours afterwards, Horace Vernon 
found his way through the dark and fragrant 
fir plantations to a little romantic glade, where 
the setting sun glanced between the deep red 
trunks of the trees on a clear spring, meander- 
ing over a bed of mossy turf inlaid with wild 
thyme, and dwarf heath, and the delicate hare- 
bell, illumining a figure fair as a wood-nymph, 
seated on the fantastic roots of the pines, with 
Mr. Page on one side and Aunt Dinah on the 
other. " You have brought me good news," 
exclaimed Lucy, springing forward to meet 
him ; " Frances, dear, dear Frances, has won 
the Silver Arrow !" 

" 1 have brought you the Silver Arrow for 
yourself," replied Horace, offering her the 
little prize token, quite forgetting how exceed- 
ingly contemptible that prize had appeared to 
him that very morning; or, if remembering 
it, thinking only that nothing could be really 
contemptible which gave occasion to so pretty 
and so unostentatious a sacrifice of " a feather 
in the cap of youth." 

" But how can that be, when, even before I 
declined the contest, Frances had beaten me? 
The prize is hers, and must be hers. I can- 
not take it ; and even if it were mine, it would 
give me no pleasure. It was her success that 
was my triumph. Pray, take the arrow back 
again. Pray, pray, my dear father, make Mr. 
Vernon take the arrow." 

" How am I to make him, Lucy 1" inquired 
her father, laughing. 

" It is yours, I assure you," replied Horace ; 
"and Frances cannot take it, because she has 
just such another of her own. Did not you 
know that there were two |)rizes 1 — one for 
the greatest nuini)er of good shots, — the 
highest score, as Mr. Secretary calls it, which. 



owing probably to your secession, has been 
adjudged to Frances; and another for the best 
shot of all, which was fairly won by you. 
And now, my dear Mr. Page, I, in my turn, 
shall apply to you to make your daughter take 
the arrow ; and then I must appeal to her to 
honour me with her hand for the two first 
sets of quadrilles, and as many more dances 
as she can S])are to me during the evening." 
And the young lady smiled very graciously, 
and they danced together half the night. 



" Well, brother," asked Frances, as they 
were returning home together from Oakley 
Park, " how have you been amused at the 
archery meeting]" 

"Hem!" ejaculated Horace; "that'sa saucy 
question. Nevertheless, you shall have the 
truth. I liked it better than I expected. The 
place is beautiful, and the sport, after all, na- 
tional and English." 

"Then you mean to become an archer 1" 

" Perhaps I may." 

"And to win the next Silver Arrow?" 

"If I can." 

"There's a dear brother! And how did 
you like our good friend Mr. Page? Did not 
you find him national and English also?" 

" That's another saucy question, Miss Fan- 
chon," again exclaimed Horace: " but I am 
in a truth-telling humour. 1 liked your good 
friend exceedingly; and heartily agree with 
him in thinking that the admission of the 
country people, through the kindness of Mr. 
Oakley and Lady Margaret, mixing the variety, 
and the crowd, and the animation of a fair 
with the elegance of a fefe champetre, formed 
by far the prettiest part of the scene. He is 
very English, and I like him all the better for 
so being," continued Horace, manfully. "And 
now, my dear little Fanny, to forestall that 
sauciest question of all, which 1 know to be 
coming, 1 give you warning before our good 
cousin here, that I will not tell you how 1 like 
Mr. Page's fair daughter until I am in a fair 
way of knowing how Mr. Page's fair daugh- 
ter likes me." 

"Thank Heaven!" thought Frances; "that 
was all that I wanted to know." 

"And so, ladies both," added Horace, as 
the carriage drove up to the door of the Hall 
and he handed them out, — "it b(nng now three 
o'clock in the morning, 1 have the honour of 
wishing you good-night." 



Note. — This lilile tale of the Archery (iroiind is 
longer lliaii is usual with me, — not (or ilie benelit of 
its present race of readers, vvlio may fairly he pre- 
sumed to iia ve liati enough of the siiltjoct in the county 
newspapers and in coiiiilry convorsalion, but b(U'ause, 
if a lew stray copies of a trifling Ixh)!? iriay be pre- 
snmeil to live fjr ten or a dozen years, it will then 
convey that sort of amusement with which we now 
anJ then contemplate some engraving of a costume 



BELLES OF THE BALL-ROOM, No. Ill, 



441 



once fashionable, laughing sniicilynt our former selves, 
as we think — Did 1 really ever wear such a honnet ' 
or such a sleeve? In, proportion to the popularity of' 
this pretty amusement will be its transiency. 'I'he 
moment ttint it l)ecomes common, (and that moment 
is approaching fast.) it will pass out of liishion and be 
forgotten. JN'oihing is so dangerous in this country as 
a too great and too sudden reputation. 'I'he reaction 
is overwhelming. We are a strange people, we Eng- 
lish, and are sure to knock down our idols, and 
avenge on their innocent heads the sin of our own 
idolatry. 

In the mean while archery has its day, (and even 
to have had its day, when that melancholy change of 
taste shall arrive, will be something.) — and it has also 
a minstrel of whom it has more than common cause 
to be proud. Every body knows that there is nothing 
more pleasant than the trifling of those whose trilling 
is merely a rela.tation from graver and greater things. 
jVow, it happens that in these parts — not indeed in tue 
Oakley Park Club, but in one not a hundred miles 
distant— they are lucky enough to possess a person 
eminent in many ways, and good-humoured enough 
to have comptjsed for the amusement of his neigh- 
bours one of the pleasantest ballads that has been 
seen since the days of Robin Hood. King Richard 
and Friar Tuck might have chanted it in the hermit's 
cell, and doubtless would have done so had they been 
aware of its existence. 1 cannot resist the temptation 
of quoting a few stanzas, in hopes of prevailing on 
the author (it is printed for private distribution) to 
make public the rest, it purports to be the Legend 
of the Pinner of Wakefield — 1 presume (although it 
is not so stated in the preface) of " George-a-Greene," 
who held that station, and whose exploits form the sub- 
ject of a very pleasant old play, it begins as follows: 

" The Pindar of Wakefield is my style, 
And what I list 1 write ; 
Whilom a clerk of Oxenfbrde, 
But now a wandering wight. 

" When birds sing free in bower and tree. 
And sports are to the fc)re, 
With lidille and long-bow forth I pace, 
As Phoebus did of yore. 

"The twang of both best liketh me 
Ry those fkir spots of earth, 
Where Chaucer* conn'd his minstrelsy, 
And Alfred drew his birth. 

" And whatsoever chance conceit 
Within my brain doih light. 
It trickleth to my lingers' ends, 
And needs 1 must indite. 

" Even thus my godfather of Greece, 
Whose worthy name I bear, 
Of a cock or a bull, or a whale would sing, 
And seldom stopp'd to care. 

" ' For whoso shall gainsay,' quoth he, 

' My sovereign will and law, 
Orcarpeth at my strain divine 

In hope to sniff .some (law, 
Certes, I reck of the lousie knave 

As an eagle of a daw.' 

" Yet whomsoe'er in wrestling ring 
lie spied to bear him strong, 
Or whom he knew a good man and true. 
He clapp'd him in a song. 

" Like him, it listelh me to tell 
Sovne fytle in fijrmer yeans. 
Of the merry men all and yeomen tall 
Who were my jovial feres." 

And so on to the end of the chapter. 

♦Chancer, it is said, resided nt Donning;ton Castle: 
Alfred was hnrn at Wantage. Hence a clue to the local- 
ity of the ballad. 

3F 



To illustrate Davenant's expression as quoted by 
Horace, 1 copy from a very accurate recorder of the 
antiquities of the metropolis an account of Fmsbury 
Fields, in the daj's when haberdashers' apprentices 
and other city youths resorted to them for the purpose 
of Archery, — the remote and gorgeous days of the 
Maiden Queen. 

It is very well known to every one who is at all 
acquainted with the ancient history or topography of 
London, that the northern part of Finsbury Fields — 
that is to say, from the present Bunhill Row almost to 
Islington — was once divided into a number of. large 
irregular pieces of ground, enclosed by banks and 
hedges, constituting the places of exercise for the 
City Archers. Along the boundaries of each of these 
fields were set the various marks for shooting, for- 
merly known under the names of Targets, Hulls, 
Prickes, and Rovers; all which were to be shot at 
with different kinds of arrows. They were also dis- 
tinguished by their own respective titles, which were 
derived either from their situation, their proprietors, 
the person by whom they were erected, the name of 
.some famous archer, or perhaps from some circum- 
stance now altogether unknown. These names, how- 
ever, were often sufliciently singular; for in an ancient 
map of Finsbury Fields, yet extant, there occur the 
titles of " Martin's Monkie," the " Red Dragon," 
" Theefe in the Hedge,", and the " Mercer's Maid." 
Indeed, one of these names, not less remarkable, was 
siven so late as the year 1746, in consequence of a 
person, named Pilfield, having destroyed an ancient 
shooting-butt, and being obliged to restore it by order 
of an Act passed in 1632: the Artillery Company, to 
which it belonged, engraved upon the new mark the 
significant title of "Pitlield's Repentance." The gene- 
ral firm of the Finsbury shooting-butts was that of a 
lofty pillar of wood, carved with various devices of 
huniaii figures and animals, gaily painted and gilt; 
but there was also another kind, of which some spe- 
cimens have remaiiie<l until almost the present day. 
Tliese consisted of a broad and high sloping bank of 
green turf, having tall wings of stout wooden paling, 
spreading out on each side. Such shooling-bulis, 
however, were chiefly for the practice of the more 
inexpert archers, and not for those who, like Master 
Shallow's "old Double, would have clapt in the clout 
at twelve score, and carried you a forehand shaft at 
fourteen, and fourteen and a half." Upon this bank 
of turf was hung the target, and sometimes the side 
paling stretched out so as to form a long narrow lane 
fi)r the archers to stand in ; the principal intent of 
them being to protect spectators or passers-by from 
the danger of a random arrow, or an unskilful marlis- 
man : the latter, however, if in the Artillery Compa- 
ny, was not responsible for any person's life, if, previ- 
ously to letting fiy his arrow," he exclaimed "Fast!" 
The marks were erected at various distances from the 
shooting-places, some being so near as seventy-three 
yards, and others as far distant as sixteen s( ore and 
two; though the ancient English bow is said some- 
times to have been effective at .so immense a distance 
as four hundred yard.s, or nearly a quarter of a mile. 
The fields in which these butts were placed, were, 
in the time of Elizabeth, a morass, subdivided by so 
many dikes and rivulets, that the ground was often 
new-made where the bowmen assembled, and bridges 
were thrown over the ditches to form a road from 
one field to another. Like the Slough of Despond, 
however, they swallowed so many cart-loads — yea, 
wagon-loads— of materials fitr filling them up, that 
old Stow once declared his belief to be, that if Moor- 
Fields were made level with the balllemenis of the 
City Wall, they would be little the drier, such was 
the marshy nature of the ground. 

It was in tliis place that the various troops of arcli- 
ers which formed the celebrated pageant of the 17ih 
of September, 1533, a.ssembled previously to that fa- 
mous spectacle, habited in those sumptiiousdressci! by 
which the bowmen of Elizabeth's reign were so emi- 



442 



BELFORD REGIS. 



nenlly distinguished. There came Barlow, Duke of 
Sliorfdilch ; Covell, Marquis of'Clerkenvveil; Wood, 
the Marshal of the archers ; the Karl of Pancras; the 
Marquesses of St. John's Wood, Holton, Shackleweli, 
and many other excellent marksmen, dignified by sim- 
ilar ix)pular titles, long since forgotten. There was 
such glittering of green velvet and satin, such flap- 
ping of the coloured damask ensigns of the leaders, 
such displaying of wooden shields covered with gay 
blazonry, such quaintly-dressed masquers, such pa- 
geant-devices of the various London parishes which 
conlri.buted totheshovv— such melodious shouts, songs, 
fiighls of whistling arrows, and winding of horns, — 
that, as an author of the time truly says, "such a de- 
light was taken by the witnesses thereof, as they wist 
not iiir a while where they were." Hut lor those who 
would enjoy this pageant to perfection, let them turn 
over the leaves of Marshal Wood's very rare tract, of 
" The Bowman's Glory," which really blazes with his 
minute description of the dresses and proceedings. 
Many a deed of archery, well befitting the fame of 
liobin Hood himself; was that day recorded upon the 
t'nisljury shooting-butts; many of the competitors re- 
peatedly hit the wiiile, and more than one split in 
pieces the arrow of a successful shooter. 

It IS clear fi-oiii the admirable dialogue between 
Silence and Shallow, alluded to above, (and Shak- 
speare is the best aulhorily lor everything, especially 
li)r Cnglish manners.) that in the days of Elizabeth at 
least, archery was, as the hero of my little story truly 
said, a popular, and not an aristocratic amusement. 



noticed, by times, that every now and then 
one of their silliest fancies shall come true, 
just out of contrariness. So it's as well to 
iiumour them : and besides, if, as my Marga- 
ret thinks, Madam St. Eloy should be takinsr 
a fancy to the boy, it would be as good as find- 
ing a pot of gold in right earnest. Madam 
must be near upon seventy by this time. Ay, 
she was a fine grown young lady, prancing 
about upon her bay pony when first I went 
to live with Master Jackson — and that's fifty 
years agone : and she's a single woman still, 
and has no kindred that ever I heard of; for 
her brother, poor gentleman, left neither chick 
nor child: and she must be worth a power of 
money, besides the old house and the great 
Nunnery estate — a mort of money, and nobody 
to leave it to but just as she fancies ! I scorn 
legacy-hunting," pursued the good butcher, 
checking and correcting the train of his own 
thoughts ; " but howsomdever, if the old lady 
should take a liking to Louis, why she inight 
go farther and fare worse. That's all I shall 
say in the business." 

Madam St. Eloy was a person of no siTiall 
consequence in 13elford, where she spent regu- 
larly and liberally the larger part of her large 
income. She lived not in the town, but in 
an ancient mansion called The Nunnery, just 
across the river, erected, it is to be presumed, 
on the site of an old monastic establishment, 
and still retaining popularly its monastic name 
in spite of the endeavours of its Huguenot 
possessors to substitute the more protestant 
title of " The Place." 

Very harshly must its conventual appellation 
have sounded in the ears of the founder of this 
branch of the St. Eloy family, a Huguenot re- 
fugee of Elizabeth's days, whose son, having 
become connected with that most anti-catholic 
monarch Janies the First, by marrying a lady 
about the person of Anne of Denmark, and who 
had been in his childhood the favourite attend- 
ant of Prince Charles, had bequeathed to his 
successors all the chivalrous loyalty, the devo- 
tion, and the prejudices of a cavalier of the Ci- 
vil wars; prejudices which, in the person of 
their latest descendant, Madeleine de St. Eloy, 
had been strengthened and deepened by her 
having lost, in the course of one campaign, an 
only brother and a betrothed lover, vvlien fight- 
ing for the cause of French loyalt}' in the early 
j)art of the revolutionary war. 

This signal misfortune decided the fate and 
the character of the heiress of the St. Eloys. 
Sprung frotn a proud and stately generation, 
high-minded, and reserved, she, on becoming 
mistress of herself and her property, withdrew 
almost entirely from the ordinary commerce 
of the world, and led, in her fine old mansion, 
a life little less retired than that of a protest- 
anl nun. 

No place could be better adapted for such 

a seclusion. Separated from the town of Bel- 

lanciful, even the bust of 'em. But I've ! ford by the great river, and the rich and fertile 



THE YOUNG PAINTER. 

The death of a friend so ardently admired, 
so tenderly beloved, as Henry Warner, left 
poor Louis nearly as desolate as he had 
been when deprived in so fearful a manner 
of his early instructor, the good Abbe. Bijou, 
too, seenaed again, so far as nature permitted, 
sorrow-stricken ; and Mrs. Duval and Stephen 
Lane, both after their several fashions, sym- 
pathized with the grief of the affectionate boy. 
Tlu; fond mother fretted, and the worthy 
butcher scolded amain ; and this species of 
consolation had at first the usual effect of 
worrying, rather thanof comforting its unfortu- 
nate object. After a while, however, matters 
mended. Instead of nursing his depression 
in glooiny inaction, as had been the case after 
his former calamity, Louis had from the first 
followed the dying injunction of his lamented 
friend, by a strenuous application to drawing, 
in the rules of which he was now sufficiently 
groundt'd to pursue his studies with percepti- 
ble improvement; and time and industry 
proved in his case, as in so many others, the 
best restorers of youthful spirits. His talent 
too began to be recognized ; and even Stephen 
Lane had given up, half grumhlingly, his 
favourite project of taking him as an appren- 
tice, and did not oppose himself so strenuously 
as heretofore to the conne.\ion which Mrs. 
Duval now began to |)erceive between her own 
dream of the pot of gold and Louis's dis- 
covery of the paint-pot. " To be sure," thought 
honest Stephen, "women will be foolish and 



THE YOUNG PAINTER. 



443 



chain of meadows, and from the pretty village, 
to which it more immediately belonged, by a 
double avenue almost like a grove of noble 
oaks, it was again defended on the landward 
side by high walls surrounding the building, 
and leading through tall iron gates of elaborate 
workmanship into a spacious court; whilst the 
south front opened into a garden enclosed by 
(Hjually high walls on either side, and bounded 
by the river, to wiiich it descended by a series 
of terraces of singular beauty, planted with 
evergreens and espaliers, mixed with statues 
and sun-dials and vases, and old-fashioned 
flowers in matchless luxuriance and perfection. 
Nothing could exceed the view of Belford 
from this terraced garden. On the one side, 
the grey ruins of the abbey and their deep 
arched gateway ; on the other the airy elegance 
of the white-fronted terraces and crescents : 
between these extreme points, and harmoniz- 
iiiur — toning down, as it^were, the one into the 
other, the old town so richly diversified in 
form and colour, with the fine Gothic towers 
and tapering spires of the churches, intermixed 
with trees and gardens, backed by woody hills, 
and having for a foreground meadows alive 
with cattle, studded with clumps of oak, and 
fringed with poplars and willows leading to 
the clear and winding river — the great river of 
England, with its picturesque old bridge, and 
its ever-varying population of barges and boats. 
By fartlie finest view at Belford was from the 
terrace-gardens of the Nunnery. 

Very few, however, were admitted to parti- 
cipate in its beauties. Miss, or as she rather 
chose to be called, Mrs. St. Eloy, gradually 
drop])ed even the few acquaintances which the 
secluded habits of her family had permitted 
them to cultivate amongst the most aristocratic 
of the country gentry, and, except a numerous 
train of old domestics and an occasional visit 
from the clerifyman of the parish, or her own 
physician and apothecary, rarely admitted a 
single person within her gates. 

Still more rarely did she herself pass the 
precincts of the Nunnery. Before the aboli- 
tion of the races, indeed, she had thought it a 
sort of duty to parade once around the course 
in a coach thirty years old at the very least, 
drawn by four heavy black horses, with their 
long tails tied up, not very much younger, 
driven by a well-wigged coachman and two 
veteran postilions (a redundancy of guidance 
which those steady quadrupeds were far from 
requiring), and followed by three footmen 
mounted on steeds of the same age and breed. 
But the cessation of the races deprived Belford 
of tlie view of this solemn procession, which 
the children of that time used to contemplate 
with mingled awe and admiration, — the rising 
generation now-a-days would probably be so 
irreverent as to laugh at such a display, — the 
Nunnery coach (although the stmi of black 
horses was still kept \ip) had hardly issued 
from the court-yard, unless occasionally to do 



honour to some very aristocratic high sheriff, 
or to attend the funeral of a neigbouring noble- 
man ; the parish church which Mrs. St. Eloy 
regularly attended being so near, that nothing 
but age or infirmity could have suggested the 
use of a carriage. 

Of age or infirmity the good lady, in spite 
of Stephen's calculation, bore little trace. She 
was still a remarkably fine woman,* with a 
bright eye, a clear olive complexion, and a 
slender yet upright and vigorous figure. Lit- 
tle as she mingled in society, I have seldom 
known a person of her age so much admired 
by either sex. The ladies all joined in prais- 
ing her old-fashioned, picturesque, half-mourn- 
ing costume, never changed since first assumed 
in token of grief for the loss of her lover, and 
the stately but graceful courtesy of her man- 
ner on any casual encounter; whilst the gen. 
tlemen paid her the less acceptable and more 
questionable compliment of besieging her 
with offers of marriage, which, with a cha- 
racteristic absence of vanity, she laid entirely 
to the score of the Nunnery Estate. It was 
said that three in one family, a father and two 
sons — all men of high connexions, and all in 
one way or another as much in want of money 
as any three gentlemen need be — had made 
their proposals in the course of that summer, 
during which she completed her thirteenth 
lustrum. 

Certain it is, that the lapse of time by no 
means diminished her matrimonial qualilica- 
tions in the eyes of such speculating bachelors 
as were looking about for a bon parti ,• and it 
is at least equally certain, that no woman was 
ever less likely to fall into the nuptiaf trap 
than Mrs. St. Eloy. She was protected from 
the danger by every circumstance of character 
and situation; by her high notions of decorum 
and propriety — by real purity of mind — by the 
romance of an early attachment — by the pride 
of an illustrious descent — by her long and 
unbroken seclusion, and by the strong but 
minute chains of habit with which she had 
so completely environed herself, that the 

* A friend of mine, no longer young, but still most 
charming in nund and person, says, irom experience, 
" that il IS a line thing to be a line woman at filiy- 
eit;ht" (our Mrs. St. Kioy might have called herself 
ten years older). " The men," says my friend, " are 
not afraid of provoking flirtation or getting into a 
scrape; and they do not know but I may have been 
a beauty m my youth, and they may be paying hom- 
age to a shrine in decay, at which the beaux of the 
county — the noble and the fashior.able — might once 
have bowed. The women do not envy the setting 
sun, but are ple.ised to admire the sinking fading 
brightness with something like the feeling that mixes 
now and then in our praises of the dead, — the hope 
of the same benevolence when their sun is setting. 
Be assured that it is a very fine thing to be a fine 
woman at lifiy-eight." — I must however add, that this 
laiiy, whose sunset is so charming, does not attempt, 
either in dress or manner, to appear a day younger 
than she really is. I'erhaps l/iat may be one reason 
why at fifty-eight she is stdl so much admired. 



444 



BELFORD REGIS. 



breach of etiquette in a German court would 
not have been more strikintr than any infraction 
of the rules of this maiden honsehold. 

All went as if by clock-work in the Nun- 
nery. At eight Mrs. St. FAoy rose, and |)ro- 
ceeded to a room called the chapel, built on 
the consecrated around of the convent church, 
where Mrs. Dorothy Adams, an ancient spin- 
ster, who filled a post in the family between 
companion and lady's-maid, read prayers to 
the assembled servants. Then they adjourned 
to the breakfast-parlour, where, on a small y\- 
panned table, and in cups of pea-nrreen china 
not much larger than thimbles, Mrs. Dorothy 
made tea. Then Mrs. St. Eloy adjourned to 
the audit-room, where the housekeeper, butler, 
and steward were severally favoured with an 
audience; and here she relieved the sick poor, 
(for she was a most charitable and excellent 
person,) partly by certain family medicines of 
her own compounding, which were for such 
things exceedingly harmless — that is to say, 
I never heard of anybody that was actually 
killed by them; partly by the far more useful 
donation of money. Here also she received 
other petitioners and complainants, who were 
accustomed to resort to her as a sort of female 
justice of the peace for redress of grievances ; 
an office which she performed — as women, 
better partisans than arl)ilrators, are apt to 
perform such offices — with much zeal but lit- 
tle discretion, so that she g;rjt into divers 
scrapes, out of which her money and her at- 
torney were fain to help her. Then she ad- 
journed to the drawing-room, where Mrs. Do- 
rothy read aloud the newspaper, especially all 
that related to war and battle, whilst her mis- 
tress sighed over her netting. Then, weather 
permitting, she took a walk in the garden. 
Then she dressed. Then at three o'clock she 
dined, sitting down alone (f)r Mrs. Dorothy 
did not partake of that meal with her lady) to 
such a banquet as might have feasted the 
mayor and corporation of Belford — I had al- 
most said, of Loudon — attended by the old 
butler, Mr. Gilbert by uame, in his powdered 
pigtail, his silk stockings and flowered satin 
waistcoat, and three footmen liveried in blue 
and yellow. Then, fatigued with the labours 
of the day, she took a gentle nap. Then, at 
six precisely, she drank tea; after which it 
was Mrs. Adams's business to lose, if she 
could, several hits at backgammon. Then, 
at nine, she sup])ed ; at half-past, prayers 
were read in the chapel ; and at ten precisely 
the whole household went to bed. 

The monotony of this life was somewhat 
solaced by a passion for such birds as are com- 
monly seen in cages and aviaries. Mrs. St. Eloy 
was noted especially for the breeding of cana- 
ries, whose noise, atrocious in most places, 
served here at least to break the conventual 
silence of the mansion ; and for the education 
of linnets and goldfinches, to which, with un- 
wearied patience, she taught a variety of such 



tricks as drawing their own water in a little 
bucket, fetching and carrying a bit of straw, 
and so forth. 

Encouraged by success, she had Wtely un- 
dertaken the more difficult task of communi- 
cating musical instruction to a bullfinch, which 
already piped ' God save the King' almost as 
well as the barrel-organ from which it learned, 
and was now about to enter upon the popular 
air of ' Robin Adair', as performed by the same 
instrument. The bird itself, and the little 
organ from which it learned, were placed, for 
the sake of separation from the canaries which 
filled the drawing-room, in a spacious gallery 
forming one of the wings of the house and 
rutmiug over the laundry, an airy and beautiful 
apartment which Mrs. St. Eloy called the 
museum ; and her pleasure in this occu])ation 
caused her to infringe more frequently on the 
long-established rules for the employment of 
her time than she had been known to do in the 
whole course of her spinstership. It was also 
the cause of hgr acquaintance with Louis 
Duval. 

The little bird, to whom she and Mrs. Doro- 
thy Adams had somehow given the unromantic 
name of Bobby, was so tame, that they were 
accustomed to let him out of his cage, and al- 
low him to perch on tl.e barrel-organ during 
the time of his music lesson. A pretty bird 
he was, with his grey back, and his red l)re;;st, 
and his fine intelligent eye ; a pretty bird, and 
exceedingly pretty-mannered ; he would bow 
and bend, and turn his glossy black head to 
one side and the other, and when ofTererl a 
piece of sugar, (the cate he loved best,) would 
advance and recede with a very piciuant mix- 
ture of shyness and confidence, afraid to take 
it from his lady's fair hand, and yet so nearly 
taking, that if thrown towards him he would 
pick it up before it reached the table. A 
charming bird was Bobby, and such a pet as 
never bird was before. I will venture to say, 
that Mrs. St. Eloy would rather have lost a 
thousand pounds than that bullfinch. 

One day, however, that misfortune did befall 
her. It was on a fine morning towards the end 
of May, when the windows of the west gal- 
lery, which looked to the garden, were open, 
Mrs. Adams grinding the barrel-organ and 
Bobby perched upon it practising 'Robin 
Adair,' that the old butler, opening the door 
with unwont(Ml suddenness, startled the. bird, 
who fl(!w out of the window and was half-way 
towards the river before the astounded f(>males 
recovered the use of their tongues. The first 
use to which they put those members was of 
course a duett of scolding for the benefit of the 
butler; but as vituperation would not recover 
their pet, they intermitted their lecture and 
ordered a general muster in the garden in chase 
of the stray favourite. 

There he was, amidst the white-blossomed 
cherry-trees and the espaliers garlanded with 
their pink blossoms ; now perched on a sweet' 



THE YOUNG PAINTER. 



445 



briar; now flitting across a yew hedge; now 
glancing this way, now darting that; now es- 
caping from under tiie extended hand ; now 
soaring as high again as the house. Footmen, 
coachman, postilions,' housemaids, gardeners, 
dairy-maids, laundry-women, cook, scullion, 
housekeeper; the luckless butler, Mrs. Doro- 
thy, and Mrs. St. Eloy, — all joined in the pur- 
suit, which, for some time, owing to the 
coquetry of Bobhy, who really seemed bal- 
ancing between the joys of liberty and the 
comforts of home, had the proper mixture of 
hope and fear, of anxiety and uncertainty, that 
belong to such a scene; but at last a tremendous 
squall, uttered from the lungs of a newly- 
hired cockney housemaid, who had trod on a 
water-snake and expected nothing less than 
death to ensue, — which squall was reinforced 
from the mere power of sympathy, by all the 
females of the party, — produced a species of 
chorus so loud and discordant, and so unac- 
ceptable to the musical taste of our accom- 
plished bullfinch, that the catastrophe which 
from the first Mrs. St. Eloy had dreaded im- 
mediately took place — the bird flew across the 
river, and alighted amongst some fine old 
hawthorns in the opposite meadow. 

The Nunnery boat was (as in such cases al- 
ways happens) locked up in the boat-house, 
and the key in the game-keeper's pocket, and 
the keeper Heaven knew where; the bridge 
was half a mile off, and not a soul within sight, 
nor a craft on the river except one little green 
boat — and that boat empty — moored close to 
the hawthorns on the opposite side. The re- 
covery of Bobby seemed hopeless. Whilst, 
however, some were running to the bridge, and 
others attem})ting to catch sight of the stray 
bird, our friend Louis emerged from the May 
bushes, bullfinch in hand, jumped into his little 
boat, darted across the river, leaped ashore, and 
with a smiling courtesy, a gentle grace, which 
won every female heart in the garden, restored 
the trembling favourite to its delighted mis- 
tress. 

Louis (now nearly fifteen) had so entirely 
the air and bearing of a gentleman's son, that 
Mrs. St. Eloy was treating him as an equal, 
and was distressed at not being able to find a 
reward adequate to the service, when Mr. 
Gilbert, the old butler, to whom he was already 
advantageously known, and who was enchant- 
ed to find his own misdemeanour so comfort- 
ably repaired, stepped forward and introduced 
him to his lady as the excellent lad who had 
detected the poor Abbe's murderer. 

On this hint, Mrs. St. Eloy, after reiterated 
thanks and the kindest notice both of himself 
and the little Bijou, who was as usual his com- 
panion in the boat, took out her purse, and was 
about to force upon him a munificent recom- 
pense, when she was stopped by Louis, who, 
with an earnestness not to be overcome, en- 
treated her " not to spoil the pleasure of one of 
the happiest moments of his life by any pecu- 

38 



niary offer. If her generosity considered so 
slight a service as worthy a reward, there was 
a favour — " And Louis, half repenting that 
he had said so much, blushed, hesitated, and 
stopped short. 

The lady, however, insisted on his finishing 
his request; and then Louis confessed "that 
one of his chief desires was to be permitted to 
see a picture in her possession, a portrait of 
Charles the First by Vandyke; and that if he 
might be allowed that favour, he should con- 
sider himself as much her debtor as she was 
pleased, most erroneously, to profess herself 
his." 

Charmed at once with the petition and the 
manner, (for the Vandyke portrait was the 
apple of her eye,) the lady of the Nunnery 
led the way directly to the west gallery, in 
one of the compartments of which hung the ex- 
quisite painting of which Louis had so often 
heard. 

It is singular that in many portraits of those 
illustrious persons who have met with a re- 
markable and untimely death, the expression 
of the countenance often seems to foreshadow 
a lamentable end. Lawrence's portrait of Sir 
John Moore,* and almost all 9f the many pic- 
tures of the Princess Charlotte, whose large 
mysterious eye, with its intensity of sadness, 
presented such a contrast to her youthful bloom 
and brilliant fortunes, may serve to illustrate 
the observation ; but its most striking confirm- 
ation is undoubtedly to be found in those splen- 
did portraits of Charles by Vandyke, which 
seem at once to embody the character and the 
destiny of that mistaken and unhappy mon- 
arch. Those portraits, with their chivalrous 
costume and their matchless grace of air and 
attitude, are in themselves a history. Amidst 
the profound melancholy of that remarkalile 
countenance, we recognize at once the despotic, 
obstinate, suspicious king; the accomplished 
and elegantly-minded gentleman ; the puller- 
down of liberty, the setter-up of art; he who 
witR so much taste for the highest literature, 
that he was known, as recorded by Milton, to 
make William Shakspeare " the closest com- 
panion of his solitudes," yet put his crown 
and life in jeopardy to suppress that freedom 
of thought which is the vital breath of poetry ; 
the monarch who was in his own day so faith- 
fully supported, so honestly opposed ; and 
whom in after time his most admiring partisans 
cannot but blame, and his fiercest opponents 
must needs pity. The posthumous influence 
of beauty is not more stongly evinced by the 
interest which clings round the memory of 

* A very fine copy of that most interesting picture 
has been made by an artist in llie neighbourhood of 
Reading some years younger than my *' Louis Duval," 
— a boy-painter who gives promise of no common ta- 
lent. His name is Edmund Havell ; and as his father, 
himself an excellent drawing-master, belongs to the 
family of that name who have long held a respectable 
station in English art, there is no fear but his genius 
will receive every^advantage of cultivation and care. 



446 



BELFORD REGIS. 



Mary of Scotland, than the power of paintings, 
by the charm which is flung about every recol- 
lection of Charles. If kings were wise, they 
would not fail to patronize the art which can 
so amply repay their protection. 

Louis felt the picture as such a picture 
ouglit to be felt. He stood before it mute and 
motionless, quite forgetting to praise, with 
every faculty absorbed in admiration; and Mrs. 
St. Eloy had sufficient taste to appreciate the 
impression which this noble work of art had 
made on one who longed to become an artist. 
Even in common spectators the manner of see- 
ing a picture is no mean lest of character. 
Your superficial coxcomb (such, for example, 
as our friend King Harwood) shall skip up to 
a great painting, and talk that species of non- 
sense called criticism, praising and blaming 
to display his connoisseurship, flinging about 
flippant censure, and eulogy more impertinent 
still, as if he regarded the chef d' ccuv)-e before 
him as a mere theme for the display of his 
own small knowledge and less wit. The man 
of genius, on the other hand, is happily free 
from the pretensions of a haunting self-conceit. 
His admiration, undisturbed by the desire of 
saying pretty tilings, is honest and genuine. 
I have seen a_great orator awe-struck by the 
grandeur of Salvator, entranced by the grace 
of Guercino, and his whole mind so filled and 
saturated by the beauty of a singularly fine 
collection, that the conversation of persons 
worthy of their pictures — that conversation of 
which he is usually the life and ornament — 
seemed to put him out. The effort to talk 
disturbed the impression. 

Just in this way felt Louis ; and when Mrs. 
St. Eloy proceeded to show him some of the 
curiosities which her family, hoarders from 
generation to generation, had accumulated, and 
which were all gathered together in this spa- 
cious gallery — Japan cabinets full of valuable 
coins; Indian pagods ; China monsters of the 
choicest ugliness ; armour of the date of the 
Civil Wars, French and English; reli^ues 
protestant and loyalist, including a breast-plate 
of the Admiral de Coligni, asatin slipper once 
belonging to the unfortunate Madame Eliza- 
beth, a spur of Prince Rupert's,* and what she 
valued beyond all other articles, the horn-book 
out of which the unhappy Charles learnt his 
alphabet — a pretty toy made of ivory, with 
gold letters; — when she produced these trea- 
sures for his gratification, and partly perhaps 
for her own, (for where is the pleasure of 
possessing a rarity unless other eyes see it 1 — 
we geranium-growers know that !) — Louis 
frankly confessed that he could looli only at 
the picture; and the good old lady, instead of 
being offended at the neglect of her bijoux, 
kindly pressed him to come and see her and 
the Vankyke as often as he could spare time; 
and, on finding that, fearful of intruding, a 



• Vide note 1, at the end of the article. 



week elapsed without his repeating his fisit, 
she sent his friend (Gilbert to bring him one 
fine morning to the Nunnery, and invited him 
to dine at her own table. 

From this hour Louis became her declared 
favourite ; and otiier observers, besides the 
good butcher, foreboded a total change of 
destiny to the fortunate boy. Louis himself, 
though utterly free from legacy-hunting and 
all mercenary speculations, had yet a secret 
design in his frequent visits to the west gal- 
lery. He longed to copy the Vandyke por- 
trait ; but, too modest to ask so great a favour, 
he contented himself with contemplating it as 
frequently as possible, and endeavouring to 
transfer its pearly colour and matchless expres- 
sion to a study of the head which he was at- 
tempting from recollection at home. 

In the mean time, his frequent visits were 
of almost equal service to himself and Mrs. 
St. Eloy. Tranquilly and innocently as her 
days had glided by, she was conscious of a 
new and most pleasurable developement of 
aftections too long dormant, as she gazed with 
an almost motherly interest on the graceful 
and spirited boy, who, whilst overthrowing in 
his own person one of her most cherished pre- 
judices in favour of high blood, by showing 
that the son of a pastry-cook might be one of 
nature's gentlemen, fell most naturally into 
her peculiarities and ways of thinking on other 
points ; had learned from the Abbe to be as 
violent an anti-jacobin as she was herself, as 
thoroughly devoted to the cause of monarchy 
and the Bourbons; and demanded no other 
evidence than that of the Vandyke portrait to 
be as staunch an adherent to King Charles, 
as loyal a cavalier and as honest a hater of the 
Roundheads, as ever led a charge at the side 
of Prince Rupert. Louis was half French 
too , and so, after the lapse of two centuries, 
was his kind patroness : she clung to the 
country of her ancestors, the land where they 
had won their knightly arms and had ranked 
amongst nobles and princes; though, under 
the influence of different circumstances, she 
and her immediate progenitors had long em- 
braced a political creed widely different from 
that of the Huguenot refugee, flying from the 
persecution of a despotic monarch, who had 
been the first inhabitant of the Nunnery. She 
loved the very name of Frenchman — always 
provided he were neither Republican nor Bona- 
partist, and in her secret soul attributed much 
of the elegance and talent of her young fa- 
vourite to the southern blood that flowed in 
his veins. 

Louis, on his part, looked with a mingled 
sentiment of love and veneration on the kind 
and gentle recluse, who cast aside for his sake 
her hereditary stateliness and her long habits 
of solitude, and treated him rather with the 
indulgent affection of a kinswoman than the 
condescension of a superior. Full of quick- 
ness and observation, he saw the little old- 



THE YOUNG PAINTER. 



447 



nifiidish ways that minorlecl with her genuine 
oenevolence of temper and her singular simpli- 
city of character; but, grateful and warm- 
hearted, he liked her all the better for her 
harmless peculiarities, took a sincere interest 
in the hatching of her canary-birds, and assist- 
ed in the education of Bobby by adding the 
old French air of " Charmante Gabrielle" to 
his musical acquirements. Mrs. Dorothy 
Adams, with whom, as well as with the old 
butler, the lively lad was a great favourite, 
(and be it said, jmr parenthese, that he who 
was favoured by one of these worthy person- 
ages, would not fail to rank high in the good 
graces of the other, they having been betrothed 
lovers for thirty years and odd, but still post- 
poning their nuptials out of deference to the 
well-known opinions of their lady) — Mrs. 
Dorothy declared that his whistling was as 
good as the bird organ; Mrs. St. Eloy was 
enchanted ; and Bobby himself, sharing, as it 
appeared, the fancy of his mistress, would fly 
to Louis, and perch upon his finger, and be- 
gin piping, the moment he entered the west 
gallery. 

Besides this apartment, which on account 
of the beloved picture continued to be that 
which he most frequented, there was another 
room in the house of great attraction — a large, 
low, well-filled library, containing a really fine 
collection of old books, French and English, 
from Urry's Chaucer, and a black-letter Frois- 
sart downwards, — a collection rich especially 
in Memoirs of the Fronde and the Ligue in 
the one language, and in choice tracts of the 
times of the Commonwealth in the other, — 
full, in short, of that most fascinating sort of 
reading which may he called the matericils of 
history. 

Here Louis would sit for hours, poring over 
the narrative of Sir Thomas Herbert, or the 
then unpublished memoirs of Lady Fanshaw, 
or the ponderous but captivating volumes of 
Clarendon ; or those volumes, more ponderous 
and more captivating still, the matchlessly in- 
teresting State Trials, of which the eleven 
folio volumes are all too little. And then he 
would lose all sense of time in the fascination 
of the old French Memoires, from Philip de 
Commines to the Cardinal de Retz, and won- 
der whether there were any portrait of Henri 
Quatre half so fine as Vandyke's Charles the 
First. 

There was another compartment of the 
library which Louis liked to glance over and 
laugh at, — a miscellaneous corner where all 
manner of quaint odd books were gathered 
together — books that mingled as strangely as 
the breastplate of Coligni and the horn-book 
of King Charles. There lay the Duchess of 
Newcastle's Plays with the Religious Court- 
ship; Maundrell's Travels from Aleppo to 
Jerusalem, with Tulwell's Flower of Fame; 
Quarles's Divine Emblems, with Culpepper's 
Herbal ; and the Divine Fancies digested into 



Epigrams, side by side with the Complete 
Housewife, or Accomplished Gentlewoman's 
Companion;* which last choice volume was 
rendered still more valuable by certain MS. 
recipes, written in a small cramped hand and 
with a bold originality of orthography, which 
were curiously pasted on the blank leaves. 

In a word, Louis loved the Nunnery. His 
little skiff (for he generally came by water) 
was so constantly directed thitherward, that, 
as Mrs. Duval observed, (whoj charmed with 
the notice taken of him, was yet half jealous 
of his frequent absence,) " there was no doubt 
but the boat knew the way, and would have 
floated down the stream and stopped at the 
terrace-garden of its own accord." Even on 
the rarely occurring days that he did not 
spend with Mrs. St. Eloy, he used to row by 
the place, especially if he had been painting 
on the " Charles :" the ver}'^ sight of the west 
gallery windows seemed to bring the picture 
more vividly before him. And now his study 
was so nearly finished, that, relying on Mrs. 
St. Eloy's indulgence, he had half resolved 
to bring the copy and see whether there was 
any faint and remote resemblance to the origi- 
nal. His mother said that no original could 
be finer ; — but what would the Vandyke say 1 

One evening, towards the end of August, 
he was rowing past the Nunnery garden at an 
unusually late hour, having been tempted by 
the weather and the scenery, into a somewhat 
distant excursion, when, pausing involuntarily 
and looking towards the house, — long ago, as 
he well knew, shut up for the night, — he was 
struck by a singular appearance in the lower 
windows of the west wing, the windows of 
the laundry. The shutters were closed ; but 
through every crevice appeared a light so bril- 
liant and intense that you might have thought 
it was some illuminated ball-room. Startled, 
but still uncertain of the cause, Louis ap- 
proached the garden and leapt ashore; and in 
that instant the flames burst forth from the 
farthest window of the wing, — burst forth 
with the rushing noise that none who has 
ever heard it can forget, and with a radiance 
so bright, so broad, so glaring, that in a mo- 
ment the cool night air, the dark-blue firma- 
ment, and the quiet river were lighted up by 
the fearful element, and every leaf and flower 
in the garden became distinctly visible as be- 
neath the noonday sun. 

To call " Fire !" to rouse the sleeping in- 
mates, to get Mrs. St. Eloy and her household 
into the garden, and to collect the neighbour- 
hood, seemed to be the work of a moment to 
the alert and active boy. The villagers were 
rapidly called together by the alarum-bell, by 
the shrieks of frightened women, and, more 
than all, by the sheets of flame which glared 
on the water and colourefd the sky ; and the 
clergyman of the parish, a man of sense, cou- 



* Vide note 2, at the end of the article. 



448 



BELFORD REGIS. 



rage, and presence of mind, employed the peo- 
ple in cutting a division between the wing 
and the body of the house, which — as the 
fire was luckily at the extreme end, that 
which was farthest from the main building — 
as there was a fire-engine on the premises and 
the village engine came lumbering in — as 
water was near and help abundant — there was 
every chance of effecting. That the whole 
wing must be destroyed was inevitable ; for 
although as yet the fire was confined to the 
laundry, where it had burst out, yet the long 
tongues of flame were already creeping up the 
outside of the gallery, and the wood-work of the 
windows might be heard crackling in the oc- 
casional lull that intervened amid tlie frightful 
sounds of the most frightful of earthly scenes, 
— the senseless screams of women, the fierce 
oaths of men, the howling of startled dogs, 
the deep tolling of the bell, the strange heavy 
rumbling noise of the advancing engines, the 
hissing and bubbling of the water, the rush 
and roar of the fire ! — By none who has once 
heard those sounds can they ever be forgotten ! 

Poor Mrs. St. Eloy, wrapped in a large 
cloak, sat pale and silent under the scorch- 
ing trees of her beautiful garden, surrounded 
by her helpless maidens, lamenting, crying, 
scolding, bewailing in every mode of female 
terror, whilst her old men-servants were as- 
sisting the firemen and the stout peasantry in 
removing the furniture and working the en- 
gines. Mrs. Dorothy stood by her mistress, 
trying to comfort her ; but bewildered by the 
horror of the scene, and by fears for her lover, 
who was foremost amongsi the assistants, 
those endeavours were of a sort which, if 
Mrs. St. Eloy had happened to listen to them, 
would have had exactly the contrary effect : 
" Poor Bobby !" sobbed the weeping dame 
(Vatours: "and Louis, poor dear boy! what 
can have become of him V 

" Louis !" echoed Mrs. St. Eloy ; " gracious 
heaven, where is he? Who saw him last T 
Gilbert, Mr. Congreve!" exclaimed she, dart- 
ing towards the fire, "have either of you seen 
Louis Duval "?" 

At that instant, Louis himself appeared, 
breathless and panting, at the great window 
of the gallery. 

" A ladder !" was instantly the cry. 

"No, no I" replied Louis ; "feather-beds! 
mattresses ! Quick ! quick !" added he, as 
the flames were seen rising behind him : and 
the old butler placed the mattresses with the 
rapidity of thought, and with equal rapidity 
Louis flung out the Vandyke. 

" Now a ladder !" cried the intrepid boy. 
"The floor is giving way !" 

And clinging to the stone-work of the win- 
dow, with hair and hands and garments scorch- 
ed and blackened by the fire, but no material 
injury, he jumped upon the ladder, and on 
reaching the ground he found himself clasped 
in Mrs. St. E ley's arms. 



" Thank Heaven !" cried she, wiping away 
a gush of tears ; — " thanks to all-gracious 
Heaven, you are safe, Louis! I care for no- 
thing now. All other losses are light and 
trivial — you are saved !" 

" Ay, dearest madam," replied Louis ; " I, 
and a better thing — the Charles! — the Van- 
dyke! — only see here ! — safe and unhurt!" 

" You are safe, Louis !" rejoined his friend. 
"There is no life lost," added she, more 
calmly. 

" Poor Bobby !" sighed forth Mrs. Doro- 
thy. And Louis smiled and drew the little 
creature safe and unhurt from his bosom, 
stroking its glossy head and whistling the old 
French tune of " Charmante Gabrielle;" and 
the bird took up the air, and piped by the light 
of the fire as if it had been noon-day. 

" We are all safe, Mrs. Dorothy, Bobby and 
I, and the Vandyke; and here comes dear, 
good Mr. Gilbert, safe and sound too, to say 
that now the gallery has fallen in, the fire will 
soon be got under. We '11 have a search to- 
morrow for King Charles's horn-book, and the 
Admiral's cuirass, and Prince Rupert's spur; 
there 's some chance still that we may find 
them unmelted. But the portrait and Bobby 
were the chief things to save, — were they 
not, dearest madam % Worth all the rest, — 
are they nof?" 

" No, Louis, it is you that are worth all 
and everything," rejoined Mrs.St. Eloy, taking 
his arm to return into the house. " Your life, 
which you have risked for an old woman's 
whims, is more precious than all that I pos- 
sess in the world," reiterated the grateful old 
lady ; " and you ought not to have periled 
that life, even for Bobby and the Vandyke !" 
pursued she, slowly ascending the steps, — 
" not even for the King Charles ! Remember, 
Gilbert, that you go for my solicitor the first 
thing to-morrow morning. I must alter my 
will before I sleep." 

" Ho ! ho !" chuckled our honest friend 
Stephen Lane, who had come up from Bel- 
ford with the last reinforcements, and was se- 
lecting trusty persons to keep watch over the 
property. "Ho! ho!" chuckled Stephen, 
with a knowing nod and an arch wink, and 
a smile of huge delight; "altering her will, 
is she? That'll be as good as a pot of gold, 
anyhow. I wonder now," thought Stephen 
to himself, "whether the foolish woman, his 
mother, will claim this as a making' out of 
her dream ? I dare say she will ; for when a 
woman once takes a thing into her head, 
she'll turn it and twist it a thousand ways 
but she'll make it answer her purpose. Dang 
it !" chuckled the worthy butcher, rubbing 
his hands with inexpressible glee, " I 'm as 
glad as if I had found a pot of gold myself; 
he's such a famous lad ! And if his mother 
chooses to lay the good luck to her dream," 
exclaimed Stephen, magnanimously, " why 
let her." 



THE YOUNG PAINTER. 



449 



Note 1. — The forms in which the desire of possess- 
ing some token of remarkable persons displays itself 
novv-a-days are abundantly amusing — witness many 
of the relics of those great objects of enthusiasm, 
whether real or aflected, Lord Byron and iN'apoleon. 
It was but last summer that I had an opportunity of 
seeing a curious memento of a living warrior. We 
live near Strathfieldsaye, anil a pretty young datnsel, 
a Londoner, happening to call on me. after going to 
see the place which its possessor has rendered famous, 
produced with the most innocent and triumphant de- 
light "a very interesung memorial of the Great Cap- 
tain," which she had been fi)rtunate enough to pro- 
cure, and for whose more safe and honourable keep- 
ing she intended, as soon as she returned home, to 
construct a white satin bag, embroidered in silver and 
perfumed with oltar of roses. Guess what this trea- 
sure might be, gentle reader! — No less than a lock of 
hair from the Duke of Wellinarton's horse's tail ! 



Note 2. — I cannot resist the temptation of quoting a 
few passages I'rom one or two of these quaint old 
works, beginning, as bound in loyalty, with the dedi- 
cation to " Quarles's Divine Fancies, digested into 
Epigrams, Meditations, and Observations. London: 
printed for Wdliam Meares, 1632. Dedicated to the 
Royall Bud of Majestie, and center of all our hopes 
and happiness. Prince Charles; son and Heir Appa- 
rent to the High and Mightie Charles, by the Grace 
of God, King of Great Britain, France, and Ireland." 
In which •' Epistle Dedicatorie," he says : " Modell of 
svyeetnesse, let thy busie lingers entertain this slender 
presente; let thy harmless smiles crovvne it; when 
thy infancie hath crackt the shell, let thy childhood 
taste the kernel : meantime, vvhile thy little hands 
and eyes peruse it, lugg it in thy tender arms, and lay 
the burthen at thy royal parent's feet. Heaven bless 
thy youth with grace, and crown thy days with glo- 
ry; angels conduct thee from the cradle to the crown; 
let the English rose and French liilie flourish in thy 
cheeks ; let the most eminent qualities of thy renown- 
ed grandfathers meet in thy princely heart — " And 
so fi)rtli, longer than I care to tell. 

Now for a choice recipe I'roin "The Compleat 
Housewife, or Accomplished Gentlewoman's Com- 
panion, with curiously engraved copper-plates. To 
which is added a collection of above two hundred 
family receipts of medicines : viz. Drinks, sirops, 
salves, and ointments, never before made publick. 
By E. S. Printed for J. Pernberton, Golden Buck, 
over against St. Diinstan's Church, Fleet Street, 1730." 
— " The Lady Hewit's cordial water : — Take red sage, 
betony, spear-mint, hyssop, setwell, thyme, balm, pen- 
nyroyal, celandine, water-cresses, heart's-ease, laven- 
der, angelica, germander, cole-mint, tamarisks, colts- 
foot, valerian, saxefrage, pimpernel, vervain, parsley, 
rosemary, savory, scabious, agrimony, mother-thyme, 
wild marjorum, Roman wormwood, carduus bene- 
dictus, pellitory of the wall, field-daisies, (flowers and 
leaves). Of each of these herbs take a handful, after 
they are picked and washed. Of rose-yarrow, com- 
frey, plantain, camomile, sweet marjorum, maiden- 
hair ; of each of these a handful before they are 
washed or picked. Red rose-leaves and cowslip- 
flowers, of each half a peck; rosemary-flowers, a 
quarter of a peck; hartshorn, two ounces; juniper 
berries, one dram ; chive roots, one ounce ; coinfrey 
roots, sliced ; anniseeds, fennel-seeds, caraway-seeds, 
nutmegs, ginger, cinnamon, pepper, spikenards, pars- 
ley-seeds, cloves and mace; aromaticum rosaruir, 
three drams; sassafras sliced, half an ounce; alecam- 
pane root.s, mehlot flowers, calamus aromaticus, car- 
damums, lignum vitae, aloes, rhubarb, sliced thin. 
Galengal, veronica, lodericum ; of these each two 
drams; acer bezoar, thirty grains; musk, twenty-four 
grains; ambergris, twenty grams ; flour of coral, two 
drams; flour of amber, two drams; flour of pearl, 
two drams; half a book of leaf gold ; salfron in a little 
bag, two drams; white sugar-candy, one pound. 



Wash the herbs, and swing them in a cloth till diy: 
in the midst of the herbs )iut the seeds, spires, and 
drugs; which being bruised, then put the whole to 
steep in as much rich sherry sack of the best as will 
cover them. Distill thern in an alembic, and pour 
the water into quart bottles. There never was a bet- 
ter cordial in cases of illness: two or three spoonfuls 
will almost revive from death." 

Long live my Lady Hewit! Four of the giants of 
old could scarcely do more than shake that enormous 
bundle of herbs in the mainsail of a modern man-of- 
war! One may imagine the bustle and inijioriance 
of concocting this cordial; the number of maidens 
picking the herbs; the housekeeper, or perchance the 
fiiniilv apothecary, selecting and compounding the 
drugs; the perfume and aroma of this splendid and 
right royal ceremony. Dr. Stevens's water, my Lady 
Allen's water, and aqua rairabilis, all deserve to he 
recorded ; but I think my Lady Hewit's recipe the 
most various and imaginative. 

After Lady Hewit, one small dose of Nicholas Cul- 
pepper, and I have done. It is extracted from "The 
English Physitian, with three hundred anfl sixty and 
nine medicines made of English herbs that were not 
in any impression until this; being an Astrologico- 
physical Discourse of the vulgar herbs of this nation; 
containing the complete method of preserving health, 
or cure himself being ill, for three-pence charge, with 
such things only as grow in England, they being most 
fit for English bodies. By Nicholas Culpepper, Gent., 
Student in Physic and .4strology. London : printed 
for Peter Cole, at the sign of the Printing Press in 
Cornhill, near the Royal Exchange. 1654." 

N. B. This elaborate treatise was a posthumous 
work, — one, as appears from a most curious prefatory 
epistle by Mrs. Alice Culpepper, the relict of Nicho- 
las, — " one out of seventy-nine books of his own 
making and translating, left on her hands and depo- 
sited into the hand of his and her much honoured 
friend Mr. Peter Cole, bookseller, at the Printing 
Press, near the Royal Exchange, from whom they 
may be expected in print at due season. Also her 
husband left seventeen other books completely per- 
fected in the hand of the said Mr. Cole, for which he 
paid her husband in his life-time." [Jewel of a book- 
seller! Alas, that the race should be extinct!] "And 
Mr. Cole is ready and willing (on any good occasion) 
to show any of the said seventy-nine books, or the 
seventeen, to such as doubt thereof!" — Inestimable 
Peter Cole ! if he could but have communicated his 
faith in Nicholas Culpepper to his customers, he would 
have made a better bargain. I wonder how many of 
the said seventy-nine books or of the seventeen ever 
were printed ? and, if printed, how many were sold ? 
and what the size and weight of the MSS. might be 
altogether? — whether one wagon would hold the 
huge ponderosities? or whether they would require 
two? 

I must now, however, give a brief specimen of 
Nicholas's astrologico-physical treati.se, — a short sam- 
ple it must be, for a collection of the "Beauties of 
Culpepper" would be as tedious in this duodecimo 
age as one of his own heaviest volumes. Thus ad- 
viseth Nicholas : 

"Keep your head outwardly warm. Accustom 
yourself to smell hot herbs. Take a pill that heats 
the head at night going to bed. In the morning a de- 
coction that cools the liver. — You must not think, 
courteous people, that I can spend my time in giving 
you examples of all diseases. These are enough to 
let you see as much light as you can receive without 
hurt. If I should set you to look upon the sun of my 
knowledge, you would be dazzled. 

"To such as study astrology (who are the only men 
I know fit to study physick), (physick without astrolo- 
gy being like a lamp without oyl), you are the men I 
exceedingly respect; and such documents as my brain 
can give you (being at present absent from my study), 
I shall give you, and an example to show the proof 



38* 



3G 



450 



BELFORD REGIS. 



" Fortifie the body with nerbs of the nature of the 
Lord of the Ascendant; 'tis no matter whether he be 
fortune or infortnne in this case. Let your medicine 
be something nnti-pathetical to the Lord of the Sixth. 
Let your medicine be something of the nature of the 
sign ascending. If the Lord of the Tenth be strong, 
make use of his medicine. If this cannot well be, 
make use of the medicines of the light of time. Be 
sure a! waies to fortifie the grieved part of the body 
by sympathetic remedies. Regard the heart. Keep 
it u^Ktn the wheels, because the sun is the fountain of 
life, and therefore those universal remedies aurum 
potabile and the philosopher's stone cure all diseases 
by fortifying the heart." 

He says of the vine : "It is a most gallant tree, 
very sympathetical with the body of man." Of the 
willow : " The moon owns it, and being a fine cool 
tree, the branches of it are very convenient to be 
I placed in the chamber of one sick of fever." Of* 
" woodbind, or honeysuckles : the celestial Crab claims 
it. It is fitting a conserve made of the flowers of it 
{ were in every gentlewoman's house : for if the lungs 
J be afflicted by Jupiter, this is your cure." 
I Also, he saith: "If I were to tell a long story of 
medicines working by sympathy or antipathy, ye 
would not understand one word of it. They that are 
fit to make physitians will find it in my treatise." 
[Query — One of the seventy-nine ? or of the seven- 
teen ? — the paid, or unpaid wisdom?] "All modern 
physitians know not what belongs to a sympathetical 
cure, no more than a cuckoo knows what belongs to 
sharps and flats in musick; but follow tlie vulgar road 
and call it a hidden quality, because it is hid from the 
eyes of dunces: — and indeed none but astrologers can 
give reason for it, — and phisic without reason is like 
a pudding without fat," quoth Nicholas Culpepper. 

Finally, he says — " He that reads this and under- 
stands what he reads, hath a jewel more worth than 
a diamond. This shall live when I am dead ; and 
thus 1 leave it to the world, not caring a halfpenny 
whether they like it or dislike it. The grave equals 
all men; therefore shall equal me with princes, uniil 
which time an eternal Providonce is over me; then 
the ill tongue of a prattling priest, or one who hath 
more tongue than wit, more pride than honesty, shall 
never trouble nie." 



THE SURGEON'S COURTSHIP. 

It seeitis rather paradoxical to say that a 
place noted for good air should be favourable 
to the increase and prosperity of the medical 
tribe; nevertheless the fact is so, certainly in 
this particular instance, and I suspect in many 
others : and when the causes are looked into, 
the circumstance will seem less astonishing 
than it appears at the^first glance, — a good air 
being, as we all know', the jiis alkr of the phy- 
sician, the place to which, when the resources 
of his art are exhausted, he sends his patients 
to recover or die, as i* may happen. Some- 
times they really do recover, especially if in 
leaving their medical attendant they als j leave 
off medicine; but for the most part, poor 
things! they die just as certainly as they 
would have done if they had stayed at home, 
only that the sands run a little more rapidly 
in consequence of the glass being shaken : 
and this latter catastrophe is particularly fre- 
quent in Belford, whose much-vaunted air 
being, notwithstanding its vicinity to a great 



river, keen, dry, and bracing, is excellently 
adapted for preserving health in the healthy, 
but very unfit for the delicate lungs of an in- 
valid. , 

The place, however, has a name for salubri- 
ty ; and, as sick people continue to resort to 
it in hopes of getting well, there is of course 
no lack of doctors to see them through the 
disease with proper decorum, cure them if 
they can, or let them die if so it must be. 
There is no lack of doctors, and still less is 
there a lack of skill ; for although the air of 
Belford may be overrated, there is no mistake 
in the report which assigns to the medical 
men of the town singular kindness, attention 
and ability. 

Thirty years ago these high professional 
qualities were apt to be alloyed by the mix- 
ture of a little professional peculiarity in dress 
and pedantry in manner. The faculty had not 
in those days completely dropped "the gold- 
headed cane;" and, in provincial towns espe- 
cially, the physician was almost as distin- 
guishable by the cut of his clothes as the 
clergyman by his shovel-crowned hat, or the 
officer by his uniform. 

The two principal physicians of Belford at 
this period were notable exemplifications of 
medical costume-^-each might have sat for the 
picture of an M. D. The senior, and perhaps 
the more celebrated of the two, was a short, 
neat old gentleman, of exceedingly small pro- 
portions, somewhat withered and shrivelled, 
but almost as fair, and delicate, and carefully 
preserved, as if he had himself been of that 
sex of which he was the especial favourite — 
an old lady in his own person. His dress 
was constantly a tight stock, shoes with*' 
buckles, brown silk stockings, and a full suit 
of drab ; the kid gloves, with which his 
wrinkled while hands were at once adorned 
and preserved, were of the same sober hue ; \ 
and the shining bob-wig, which covered no 1 
common degree of intellect and knowledge, \ 
approached as nearly to the colour of the rest | 
of his apparel as the difference of material 
would admit. His liveries might have been 
cut from the same piece with his own coat, j 
and the chariot, in which he mijjht be com- 
puted to pass one third of his time, (for he 
would as soon have dreamt of flying as of 
walking to visit his next-door neighbour,) 
was of a similar complexion. Such was the 
outer man of the shrewd and sensible Dr. 
Littleton. Add, that he loved a rubber, and 
that his manner was a little prim, a little 
quaint, and a little fidgety, and the portrait of 
the good old man will be complete. 

Ills competitor. Dr. Granville, would have 
made four of Dr. Littleton, if cut into quar- 
ters. He was a tall, large, raw-boned man, 
who looked like a North Briton, and I believe 
actually came from that countr}', so famous 
for great physicians. His costume was inva- 
riably black, surmounted by a powdered head 



THE SURGEON'S COURTSHIP. 



451 



and a pigtail, which (for the doctor was a sin- 
gle man, and considered as a tres-bon parti by 
the belles of the town) occasioned no incon- 
siderable number of disputes amongst the 
genteeler circles; some of his fair patients 
asserting that the powdered foretop was no 
other than a tie-wig, whilst the opposite 
party maintained that it was his own hair. 

However this may be. Dr. Littleton's chest- 
nut-coloured bob and Dr. Granville's powder- 
ed pigtail set the fashion amongst the inferior 
practitioners. From the dear old family apo- 
thecary — the kind and good old man, beloved 
even by the children whom he physicked, and 
regarded by (he parents as one of their most 
valued friends — to the pert parish doctor, 
whom Crabbe has described so well, "all 
pride and business, bustle and conceit;" from 
the top to the bottom of the profession, every 
medical man in Belford wore a bob-wig or a 
pigtail. It was as necessary a preliminary to 
feeling a pulse, or writing a prescription, as a 
diploma; and to have cured a patient without 
the regular official decoration would have been 
a breach of decorum that nothing could ex- 
cuse. Nay, so long did the prejudice last, 
that when some dozen 5'^ears afterwards three 
several adventurers tried their fortune in the 
medical line at Belford, their respective fail- 
ures were universally attributed to the ab- 
sence of the proper costume ; though the first 
was a prating fop, who relied entirely on calo- 
mel and the depleting system — an English 
Sangrado! — the second, a solemn coxcomb, 
who built altogether on stimulants — gave 
brandy in apoplexies, and sent his patients, 
persons who had always lived soberly, tipsy 
out of the world ; and the third, a scientific 
Jack-of-all-trades, who passed his days in 
catching butterflies and stuffing birds* for his 
museum, examining strata, and analyzing 
springs — detecting Cheltenham in one, Ba- 
reges in another, fancying some new-fangled 
chalybeate in the rusty scum of a third, and 
writing books on them all — whilst his busi- 
ness, such as it was, was left to take care of 
itself. To my fancy, the inside of these heads 
might very well account for the non-success 
of their proprietors; nevertheless, the good 
inhabitants of Belford obstinately referred 
their failure to the want of bob-wigs, pigtails, 
and hair-powder. 

Now, however, times are altered — altered 
even in Belford itself. Dr. Littleton and Dr. 
Granville repose with their patients in the 
church-yard of St. Nicholas, and their cos- 
tumes are gone to the tomb of the Capulets. 

Of a truth, all professional distinctions in 
dress are rapidly wearing away. Uniforms, 
it is true, still exist; but, except upon abso- 
lute duty, are seldom exhibited.: and who, 
except my venerable friend the Rector of Had- 
ley, ever thinks of wearing a shovel-hat 1 

* Vide the note at the end of this story. 



Amongst medical practitioners especially, 
all peculiarities, whether of equipage or ap- 
parel, are completely gone by. The chariot 
is no more necessary, except as a matter of 
convenience, than the gold-headed cane or the 
bob-wig; and our excellent friend Dr. Chard 
may, as it suits him, walk in the town, or ride 
on horseback, or drive his light open carriage 
in the country, without in the sligiitest degree 
impugning his high reputation, or risking his 
extensive practice ; whilst the most skilful 
surgeon in Belford may be, and actually is, 
with equal impunity the greatest beau in the 
place. 

There are not many handsomer or more 
agreeable men than Mr. Edward Foster, who 
— the grandson by his mother's side of good 
old Dr. Littleton, and by his father's of the 
venerable apothecary, so long his friend and 
contemporary, and combining considerable na- 
tural talent with a first-rate scientific educa- 
tion — stepped, as by hereditary right, into the 
first connexion in Belford and its populous 
and opulent neighbourhood, and became al- 
most immediately the leading surgeon of the 
town. 

Skilful, accomplished, clever, kind, — pos- 
sessing, besides his professional emoluments, 
an easy private fortune, and living with a 
very agreeable single sister in one of the best 
houses of the place, — Edward Foster, to say 
nothing of his good looks, seemed to combine 
within himself all the elements of popularity. 
His good looks too were of the best sort, re- 
sulting from a fine, manly, graceful figure, 
and an open, intelligent countenance, radiant 
with good-humour and vivacity. And very 
popular Edward Foster was. He had but 
one fault, so far as I could hear, and that was 
an inaptitude to fall in love. In vain did 
grave mammas sagely hint that a professional 
man could not expect to succeed unless mar- 
ried ; in vain did jocular papas laughingly 
ask, how he would manage when Mr. Lyons, 
the young banker, had stolen his sister for a 
wife 1 Edward Foster did not marry, and did 
succeed ; and Miss Foster became Mrs. Ly- 
ons, and the house went on as well as ever. 
Even the young ladies condescended as much 
as young ladies ought to condescend, but still 
Edward Foster was obdurate ; and the gossips 
of Belford began to suspect that the heart 
which appeared so invulnerable must have 
been protected by some distant and probably 
too ambitious attachment from the charms of 
their fair townswomen, and even proceeded to 
make inquiries as to the daughters of the varl- 
rious noble families that he attended in the 
neighbourhood. 

Time solved the enigma; and the solution, 
as often happens in these cases, lay in a spot 
wholly unsuspected by the parties interested. 

Few things are more melancholy and yet 
few more beautifully picturesque than the 
grounds of some fine old place deserted by 



452 



BELFORD REGIS. 



its owners, and either wholly pulled down, or 
converted to the coarse and common purposes 
of a farm-steadinir. We have many such 
places in our neighbourhood, where the es- 
tates (as is usually the case in all the coun- 
ties within fifty miles of London) have either 
entirely passed away from their old proprietors, 
or have been so much dismembered by the re- 
peated purchases of less ancient but more op- 
ulent settlers on the land, that the residence 
has gradually become too expensive for ihe 
diminished rent-roll ; and, abandoned, proba- 
bly not without considerable heart-yearning, 
by the owner, has been insensibly suffered to 
moulder away, an antedated and untimely 
ruin, or been degraded to the vulgar uses of 
a farmhouse. 

One of the most beautiful of these relics of 
old English magnificence is the Court-house 
at Allonby, which has been desecrated in all 
manner of ways; first wholly deserted, then 
in great measure dismantled, then partly taken 
down, and what remained of the main build- 
ing — what would remain, for the admirable 
old masonry otfered every sort of passive re- 
sistance to the sacrilegious tools and engines 
of the workmen employed in the wicked task 
of demolition, and was as difficult to be pull- 
ed down as a rock — the remains, mutilated 
and disfigured as they were, still further dis- 
figured by being fitted up as a dwelling for 
the farmer who rented the park; whilst the 
fine old stables, coach-houses, and riding- 
houses were appropriated to the basest uses 
of a farmyard. I wonder that the pigs and 
cows, when they looked at the magnificence 
about them, the lordly crest (a deer couchant) 
placed over the noble arched gateways, and 
on the solid pillars at the corners of the walls, 
and the date 1616, which with the name of 
the first proprietor "Andrew Montfalcon" 
surmounted all the Gothic doors, were not 
ashamed of their own unfitness for so superb 
a habitation. 

Allonby Court was one of the finest speci- 
mens of an old manorial residence that had 
ever come under my observation. Built at 
the period when castellated mansions were no 
longer required for defence, it yet combined 
much of their solidity and massiveness with 
far more of richness, of ornament, and even of 
extent, than was compatible with the main 
purpose of those domestic fortresses, in which 
beauty and convenience were alike sacrificed 
to a jealous enclosure of walls and ramparts. 

Allonby had been erected by one of the 
magnificent courtiers of a magnificent era — 
the end of Elizabetli's reign and the beginning 
of that of James; and its picturesque portal, 
its deep bay windows, its clustered chimneys, 
its hall where a coach and six might have 
paraded, and its oaken staircase, upon which 
a similar equipage might with all convenience 
have driven, were even sur|)assed in grandeur 
and beauty by the interior fittings up, — the 



splendour of the immense chimneypieces — 
the designs of the balustrades round the galle- 
ries — the carving of the cornices — the gilding 
of the panelled wainscoting, and the curious 
inlaying of its oaken floors. Twenty years 
ago it stood just as it must have been when 
Sir Andrew Montfalcon took possession of it. 
Tapestry, pictures, furniture, all were the 
same, — all had grown old together; and this 
entire and perfect keeping, tliis absolute ab- 
sence of everything modern or new, gave a 
singular harmony to the scene. It w'as a vene- 
rable and most perfect model of its own dis- 
tant day ; and when an interested steward 
prevailed on a nonresident and indolent pro- 
prietor to consent to its demolition, there was 
a universal regret in the neighbourhood. 
Evcryl)ody felt glad to hear, that, so solidly 
had it been built, the sale of the materials did 
not defray the expense of pulling them down. 
So malicious did our love of the old place 
make us. 

We felt the loss of that noble structure as a 
personal deprivation — and it was such; for 
the scenery of a country, the real and living 
landscape, is to all who have eyes to see and 
taste to relish its beauties an actual and most 
valuable property : — to enjoy is to possess. 

Still, however, the remains of Allonby are 
strikingly j)icturesque. The single wing 
which is standing rises like a tower from the 
fragment of the half-demolished hall; and the 
brambles, briars, and ivies, which grow spon- 
taneously amongst the ruins, mingle with the 
luxuriant branches of a vine which has been 
planted on the south side of the building, and 
wreathes its rich festoons above the gable- 
ends and round the clustered chimneys, veil- 
ing and adorning, as Nature in her bounty 
often does, the desolation caused by the hand 
of man. Gigantic forest-trees, oak, and elm, 
and beech, are scattered about the park, which 
still remains unenclosed and in pasture; a 
clear, bright river glides through it, from 
which on one side rises an abrupt grassy bank, 
surmounted by a majestic avenue of enormous 
firs and lime-trees, planted in two distinct 
rows ; a chain of large fish-ponds, some of 
them dried up and filled with underwood, 
communicates with the stream ; and flowering 
shrubs, the growth of centuries, laburnum, 
lilac, laurel, double cherry, and double peach, 
are clustered in gay profusion around the 
mouldering grottoes and ruined temples with 
which the grounds had been adorned. 

The most beautiful and most perfect of these 
edifices was a high, tower-like fishing-room, 
overhanging the river, of which indeed the 
lower part formed a boat-house, covered with 
honeysuckle, jessamine, and other crce])ing 
plants, backed by tall columnar poplars, and 
looking on one side into a perfect grove of 
cypress and cedar. A flaunting musk-rose 
grew on one side of the steps, and a Portugal 
laurel on the other; whilst a moss-grown sun- 



THE SURGEON'S COURTSHIP. 



453 



dial at a little distan'ce rose amidst a thicket 
of roses, lilips, and hrfllyhocks, (relics of an 
old flower-garden,) the very emblem of the 
days that were gone, — a silent hut most elo- 
quent sermon on the instability of human 
affairs. 

This romantic and somewhat melancholy 
dwelling was inhabited by a couple as remote 
from all tinge of romance, or of sadness, as 
ever were brought together in this world of 
vivid contrast. Light and shadow were not 
more opposite than were John and Martha 
Ciewer to their gloomy habitation. 

John Ciewer and his good wife Martha 
were two persons whom I can with all truth 
and convenience describe conjointly in almost 
the same words, as not unfrequently happens 
with a married couple in their rank of life. 
They were a stout, comely, jolly, good-natured 
pair, in the prime of life, who had married 
early, and had grown plump, ruddy, and 
hardy under the influence of ten years of 
changing seasons and unchanging industry. 
Poor they were, in spite of his following the 
triple calling of miller, farmer, and game- 
keeper, and her doing her best to aid him by 
baking and selling in the form of bread the 
corn which he not only grew but ground, and 
defiling the faded grandeur of the court by the 
vulgarities of cheese, red-herrings, eggs, can- 
dles, and onions, and the thousand-and-one 
nuisances which composed the omnibus con- 
cern called a village shop. Martha's home- 
baked loaves were reckoned the best in the 
county, and John's farming was scarcely less 
celebrated : nevertheless, they were poor ; a 
fact which might partly be accounted for by 
the circumstance of their ten years' marriage 
having produced eight children, and partly by 
their being both singularly liberal, disinter- 
ested, and generous. If a poor man brought 
the produce of his children's gleanings to 
John's mill, he was sure not only to get it 
ground for nothing, but to receive himself at 
the hands of the good miller as plentiful a 
n^jeal of beef or bacon, and as brimming a cup 
of strong ale, as ever was doled out of the old 
buttery ; whilst Martha, who was just John 
himself in petticoats, and in whom hospitality 
took the feminine form of charity, could never 
send away the poorest of her customers (in 
other words, her debtors) empty-handed, 
however sure she might be that the day of 
payment would never arrive until the day of 
judgment. Rich our good couple certainly 
were not, — unless the universal love and good- 
will of the whole neight)ourhood may count 
for riches; but content most assuredly they 
were, — ay, and more than content ! If I were 
asked to name the happiest and merriest per- 
sons of my acquaintance, I think it would be 
John and Martha Ciewer. 

With all their resemblance, there was be- 
tween this honest country couple one remark- 
able difference : the husband was a man of 



fair common sense, plain and simple-minded, 
whilst his wife had ingrafted on an equal art- 
lessness and na'iveie of manner a degree of 
acuteness of perception and shrewdness of re- 
mark, which rendered her one of the most 
amusing companions in the country, and, 
added to her excellences as a baker, had no I 
small effect in alluring to her shop the few j 
customers whose regular payments enabled 
her to bear up against the many who never 
paid at all. For my own part, — who am 
somewhat of a character-studier by profession, 
and so complete a bread-fancier that every 
day in the week shall have its separate loaf, 
from the snowy French roll of Monday to the 
unsifted home-made of Saturday at e'en, — I 
had a double motive for frequenting Martha's 
bake-house, at which I had been for some 
years a most punctual visiter and purchaser 
until last spring and summer, when first a 
long absence, then a series of honoured guests, 
then the pressure of engrossing operations, 
then the weather, then the roads, and at last 
the having broken through the habit of going 
thither, kept me for many months from my 
old and favourite haunt, the venerable Court. 
So long had been my absence, that the 
hedge-rovvs, in which the woodbine was at 
my last visit just putting forth its hardy 
bluish leaves, and the alder making its ear- 
liest shoots, were now taking their deepest 
and dingiest hue, enlivened only by garlands 
of the traveller's joy, the briony, and the wild- 
vetch ; that the lowly primrose and the creep- 
ing violet were succeeded by the tall mallows 
and St. John's worts, and the half-seeded 
stalks of the foxglove; and that the beans, 
which the women and girls were then plant- 
ing, men and boys were now about to cut : in 
a word, the budding S])ring was succeeded by 
the ripe and plenteous autumn, when, on a 
lovely harvest afternoon, I at length revisited 

Allonby. 

The "day, although exquisitely pleasant, had 
been rather soft than bright, and was now 
closing in with that magical effect of the even- 
ing light which lends a grace to the common- 
est objects, and heightens in an almost incred- 
ible degree the beauty of those which are 
already beautiful. F'lowers are never so glo- 
rious as in the illusive half-hour which suc- 
ceeds the setting of the sun; it is at that 
period, that a really fine piece of natural 
scenery is seen to most advantage. I paused 
for a moment before entering Martha's terri- 
tory, the shop, to look at the romantic grounds 
of Allonby, all the more picturesque from 
their untrained wildness; and on the turfy 
terrace beyond the fishing-house, and just at 
the entrance of that dark avenue of leafy lime- 
trees and firs, whose huge straight stems 
shone with a subdued and changeful splen- 

I dour, now of a purjjlish hue, and now like 
dimmer brass, — ^^just underneath the two toie- 

! most trees, strongly relieved by the deep 



454 



BELFORD REGIS. 



shadow, stood a female figure, g^raceful and 
perfect as ever was fancied by poet or mo- 
delled by scnlptor. Her white dress had all 
the effect of drapery, and her pure and colour- 
less complexioiu her flaxen ringlets almost as 
pale as the swan-like neck around which they 
fell, her fair hand shadincr her eyes, and the 
fixed attention of her attitude as she stood 
watchinar some of Martha's children at play 
upon the grass, gave her more the look of an 
alabaster statue than of a living breathing 
woman. I never saw grace so unconscious 
yet so perfect: I stood almost as still as her- 
self to look on her, until she broke, or I should 
rather say changed the spell, by walking for- 
ward to the children, and added the charm of 
motion to that of symmetry. 1 then turned to 
Martha, who was watching my absorbed at- 
tention with evident amusement, and, without 
giving me time to ask any questions, answered 
my thoughts by an immediate exclamation: 
" Ah, ma'am, I knew you'd like to look at 
Lucy Charlton ! Many a time I've said to 
my master, ' 'Tis a pity that madam has not 
seen our Lucy ! she'd be so sure to take a 
fancy to her !' And now she's going away, 
poor thing! That's the way things fall out, 
after the time, as one may say. I knew she'd 
take your fancy." 

" Her name is Lucy Charlton, then?" re- 
plied I, still riveting my eyes on the lovely, 
airy creature before me, who, shaking back 
the ringlets from her fair face with a motion 
of almost infantine playfulness, was skimming 
along the bank to meet the rosy, laughing, 
children. — "And who may Lucy Charlton 
be?" 

" Why, you see, ma'am, her mother was 
my husband's first cousin. She lived with 
old Lady Lynnere as housekeeper, and mar- 
ried the butler; and this is the only child. 
Both father and mother died, poor thing ! be- 
fore she was four years old, and Lady Lyn- 
nere brought her up quite like a lady herself; 
but now she is dead, and dead without a will, 
and her relations have seized all, and poor 
Lucy is come back to her friends. But she 
won't stay with them, though," pursued Mrs. 
Clewer, half testily; "she's too proud to be 
wise ; and instead of staying with me and 
teaching my little girls to sew samplers, she's 
going to be a tutoress in some foreign parts 
beyond the sea — Russia I think they call the 
place — going to some people whom Lady 
Lynnere knew, who are to give her a salary, 
and so hinder her from being a burthen to her 
relations, as she's goose enough to say — as if 
we could feel her little expenses; or, say we 
did — as if we would not rather go with half 
a meal than part with her, sweet creature as 
she is ! and to go to that cold country and 
come back half frozen, or die there and never 
come back at all ! Howsomever," continued 
Martha, "it's no use bemoaning ourselves 
now; the matter's settled — her clothes are all 



aboard ship, her passage taken, and I 'm to 
drive her to Portsmoutn in our little shay-cart 
to-morrow morning. A sorrowful jiarting 
'twill be for her and the poor children, merry 
as she is trying to seem at this minute. I 
dare say we shall never see her again, for she 
is but delicate, and there's no putting old 
heads upon young shoulders ; so instead of 
buying good warm stuffs and flannels, cloth 
cloaks and such things to fence her pretty 
dear self against the cold, she has laid out 
her little money in light summer gear, as if 
she was going to stay in England and be 
married this very harvest: and now she'll go 
abroad and catch her death, and we shall 
never set eyes on her again." And the tears, 
which during her whole speech had stood in 
Martha's eyes, fairly began to fall. 

"Oh, Mrs. Clewer! you must not add to 
the natural pain of parting by such a fancy as 
that ; your pretty cousin seems slight and 
delicate, but not unhealthy. What should 
make you suppose her so?" 

" Why, ma'am, our young doctor, Mr. Ed- 
ward Foster, (you know how clever he is !) 
was attending my master this spring for the 
rheumatism, just after Lucy came here. She 
had a sad cough, poor thing ! when she first 
arrived, caught by sitting up o'uights with 
old Lady Lynnere; and Mr. Edward said she 
was a tender plant and required nursing her- 
self. He came to see her every day for two 
months, and quite set her up, and would not 
take a farthing for his pains; and I did think 

— and so did my mastec, after I told him 

But, howsomever, that's all over now, and 
she's going away to-morrow morning." 

" What did you think V ini]uire(l I, amused 
to find Edward Foster's affections the subject 
of speculation in Mrs. Clewer's raiik of life, 
— "what did you say you thought of Mr. Fos- 
ter, Martha?" 

" Why to be sure, ma'am — people can't 
help their thoughts, you know, — and it did 
seem to me that he fancied her." 

"You mean to say that you think Mr. Ed- 
ward Foster liked your young relation — was 
in love with her?" 

" To be sure I do, ma'am, — at least I did," 
continued Martha, correcting herself ; "and so 
did my master, and so would anybody. He 
that has so much business used to come here 
every day, and stay two hours at a time, when, 
except for the pleasure of talking to'her, there 
was no more need of his coming to Lucy than 
of his coming to me. Every day of bis life 
he used to come; his very horse knew the 
place, and used to stop at the gate as natural 
as our old mare," 

" And when she got well, did he leave off 
coming ?" 

" No, no ! he came still, but not so often. 
He seemed not to know his own mind, and 
W-pt on dilly-dally, shilly-shally, and the poor 
thing pined and fretted, as 1 could see that 



THE SURGEON'S COURTSHIP. 



455 



was watching her, though she never said a 
word to me of the matter, nor I to her; and 
then this offer to go to Russia came, and she 
accepted it, I do verily believe, partly to get 
as far from him as she could. Ah ! well-a-day, 
it's a sad thing when young gentlemen don't 
know their own minds !" sighed the tender- 
hearted Mrs. Clewer; "they don't know the 
grief they're causing !" 

" What did he say when he heard she was 
going abroad ?" asked I. " That intelligence 
might have made him acquainted with the 
state of his own affections." 

" Lackaday, ma'am !'' exclaimed Martha, 
on whom a sudden raj' of light seemed to 
have broken, " so it might ! and I verily be- 
lieve that to this hour he knows nothing of 
the matter! What a pity there's not a little 
more time ! The ship sails on Saturday, and 
this is Thursday night ! Let's look at the 
letter," pursued Martha, diving into her huge 
pockets. " I'm sure it said the ship. Roebuck, 
sailed on Saturday morning. Where can the 
letter be !" exclaimed Martha, after an unsuc- 
cessful hunt amidst the pincushions, needle- 
books, thread-cases, scissors, handkerchiefs, 
gloves, mittens, purses, thimbles, primers, 
tops, apples, buns, and pieces of gingerbread, 
with which her pockets were loaded, and 
making an especial search amongst divers odd- 
looking notes and memorandums, which the 
said receptacles contained. " Where can the 
letter be 1 Fetch your father, Dolly ! Saddle 
the grey mare, Jem ! I am going to have the 
toothache, and must see Mr. Foster directly. 
Tell Lucy I want to speak to her, Tom I — 
No ; she siiall know nothing about it — don't," 
And with these several directions to some of 
the elder children, who were by this time 
crowding about her. Martha hustled off, with 
her handkerchief held to her face, in total for- 
getfulness of myself, and of the loaf, which 1 
had paid for but not received ; and after vainly 
waiting for a few minutes, during which I got 
a nearer view of the elegant Lucy, and thought 
within myself how handsome a couple she and 
Mr. Foster would have made, and perhaps 
might still make, with admiration of her grace- 
fulness, pity for her sorrows, and interest in 
her fate, I mounted ray pony phaeton and took 
my departure. 

The next morning Martha, in her shay-cart, 
(as she called her equipage,) appeared at our 
door, like an honest woman, with my loaf and 
a thousand apologies. Her face was tied up, 
as is usual in cases of toothac^he, and, though 
she did not, on narrow observation, look as if 
much ailed her, — for her whole comely face 
was radiant with happiness, — T thought it only 
courteous to ask what was the matter. 

"Lord love you, ma'am, nothing!" quoth 
Martha; "only after you went away I rum- 
maged out the letter, and found that the Roe- 
buck did sail on Saturday as I thought, and 
that if I meant to take your kind hint, no time 



was to be lost. So I had the toothache im- 
mediately, and sent my master to fetch the 
doctor. It was lucky his being a doctor, be- 
cause one always can send for them at a 
minute's warning, as one may say. So I sent 
for Mr. Edward to cure my toothache, and told 
hiin the news." 

" And did he draw your tooth, Martha 1" 
" Heaven help him ! not he ! he never said 
a word about me or my aches, but was off like 
a shot to find Lucy, who was rambling about 
somewhere in the moonlight to take a last look 
of the old grounds. And it's quite remarka- 
ble how little time these matters take; for 
when I went out for a bit of a stroll half an 
hour afterwards, to see how the land lay, I 
came bolt upon them by accident, and found 
that he had popped the question, that she had 
accepted him, and that the whole affair was 
as completely settled as if it had been six 
months about. So Lucy stays to be married ; 
and I am going in my shay-cart to fetch her 
trunks and boxes from Portsmouth. No need 
to fling them away, though we must lose the 
passage-money, I suppose; for all her silks 
and muslins, and trinkum-trankums, which I 
found so much fault with, will be just the 
thing for the wedding ! To think how things 
come round I" added Martha. " And what a 
handy thing the toothache is sometimes! I 
don't think there's a happier person anywhere 
than I am at this minute, — except, perhaps, 
Lucy and Mr. Edw'ard ; and they are walking 
about making love under the fir-trees in the 
park." 

And off she drove, a complete illustration 
of Prospero's feeling, though expressed in 
such different words: 

So glad of this, as they, I cannot be, 

. : but my rejoicing 

At nothing can be more. 



Note. — Birds are beautiful creatures, and ornitho- 
logy is a delightful study; only that nine times out of 
ten the stutTed birds in a museum lose much of their 
beauiy and almost all their character, — to say nothing 
of the room which they take up, and the exceeding 
expense and trouble attending the pursuit. A tar 
belter plan was that of my excellent old li-iend Sir 
William Eiford, who turned his tine talent for paint- 
ing to the service of his fevourite study, — natural 
history, and has accumulated above one hundred 
coloured drawings of indisenous birds, or birds of pas- 
sage, all taken from the lile, in natural attitudes, and 
mostly of the natural size, perched on such trees and 
backed by such landscapes as those amongst vihich 
they are generally found, — forming, in short, a correct 
representation of the bird and its habits. The occu- 
pations of a busy life have prevented the completion 
ol this design, which I mention in the hope that other 
naturalists may be induced to carry a similar plan in- 
to execution. I cannot name SirVVilliam Ellbrd with- 
out paying a brief and passing tribute to my dear and 
venerable friend, who, now in the eighty-fifth year of 
his age, carries his faculties undimmed and unbroken, 
— is still the painter, the naturalist, the musician, the 
poet, the man of taste, the man of busine.ss. and most 
eminently the man oi letters. Never since that prince 
of correspondents, Horace \yalpole, was letter-writer 



456 



BELFORD REGIS, 



so shrewd, so pleasant, so playful, and so humorons, 
as my excellent friend. And I speak from full experi- 
ence; for, since the days of my early girlhood, when he 
had the kind condescension to devote his valuable 
time and his delightful powers to my amusement and 
improvement, we have been close and constant, corre- 
spondents. Long may we continue so! Long, very long, 
may he remam as he is now, the life of the social cir- 
cle, and the pride and comfort of his amiable family .' 



THE IRISH HAYMAKER. 

That our coutity stands right in the way 
from Ireland to London, and of consequence 
from London back ajrain to Ireland, is a fact 
well known, not only to our Justices of the 
Peace in Quarter Session assembled, but also 
to the CoMiinons House of Parliament; the 
aforesaid county, always a very need}' [lerson- 
ao-e, havinpf been so nearly ruined by the cost 
of passing the Irish paupers home to their own 
country, that a bill is actually before the Le- 
gislature to relieve the local rates from the 
expense of this novel species of transportation, 
and provide a separate fund for the transmittal 
of that wretched class of homeless poor from 
the rnetropolis to Bristol, and from Bristol 
across the Channel. 

But, besides these unfortunate absentees, 
whose propensity to rove abroad in imitation 
of their betters occasions so much trouble to 
overseers, and police-officers, and mayors of 
towns, and Magiscrates at Quarter Sessions, 
and, finally, to the two Houses of Lords and 
Commons, — besides this most miserable race 
of vagrants, there are two other sets of Irish 
wanderers with whom we are from our pecu- 
liar position sufficiently familiar — pig-drivers 
and haymakers. 

Of the first, we in the country, who live 
amongst the by-ways of the world, see much ; 
whilst the inhabitants of Belford, folks Who 
dwell amidst highways and turnpikes, know 
as little either of the pigs or their drivers, 
until they see the former served up at table 
in the shape of ham or bacon, as if they lived 
at Timbuctoo; inasmuch as these Irish swine 
people, partly to avoid the hard road, partly 
to save the tolls, invariably choose a far more 
intricate track, leading through chains of 
downs and commons, and back lanes, some of 
turf and some of mud, (which they plough up 
after a fashion that makes our parish .Mac- 
adamizers half crazy,) until they finally reach 
the metropolis by a route that would puzzle 
llie mapmakers, but which is nevertheless 
almost as direct and nearly as lawless as that 
pursued by a different class of bipeds and 
quadrupeds in that fashionable way of break- 
ing bones called a steeple-chase. 

Few things are inore forlorn in appearance 
than these Irish droves, weary and footsore, 
and adding the stain of every soil tiiey have 
passed through since their landing to their 
large original stock of native dirt and ugliness. 



English pigs are ugly and dirty enough, 
Heaven knows ! but then the creatures have 
a look of lazy, slovenly enjoyment about 
them ; they are generally fat and always idle, 
and for the most part (except when ringing or 
killing, or when turned by main force out of 
some garden or harvest-field) contrive to lead 
as easy liv«s, and to have as much their own 
way in the world, as any set of animals with 
whom one is acquainted : so that, unsightly 
as they are, there is no unpleasant feeling in 
looking at them, forming as they do the usual 
appendage to the busy farm or the tidy cot- 
tage. But these poor brutes from over the 
water are a misery to see; gaunt and long, 
and shambling, almost as different in make 
from our English pig as a greyhound from a 
pointer, dragging one weary limb after the 
other, with an expression of fretful suffering 
which, as one cannot relieve, one gets away 
from as soon as possible. Even their halts 
hardly seem to improve their condition : hun- 
gry though they be, they are too tired to eat. 

So far as personal appearance goes, there 
is no small resemblance between the droves 
and the drovers. .lust as long, as gaunt, and 
as shambling as the Irish pigs, are the Irish 
boys (Jnglice, men) who drive them ; with 
the same slow lotniging gait, and, between 
the sallow skin, the sunburnt hair, and the 
brown frieze great-coat, of nearly the same 
dirty complexion. There, however, the like- 
ness ceases. The Irish drover is as remark- 
able for good-huinonr, good spirits, hardihood, 
and light-heartedness, as his countryman, the 
pig, is for the contrary properties of peevish- 
ness and melancholy, and exhaustion and fa- 
tigue. He goes along the road from stage to 
stage, from alehouse to alehouse, scattering 
jokes and compliments, to the despair of our 
duller clowns and the admiration of our laugh- 
ing maidens. 'J'hey even waste their repar- 
tees on one another, as the following anecdote 
will show : — 

A friend of mine, passing a public-house 
about a mile otT, well known as the Church- 
house of Aberleigh, saw two drovers leaning 
against the stile leading into the church-yard, 
wiiilst their weary charge was reposing in the 
highway. The sign of the Six Bells had of 
course suggested a practical commentary on 
the Beer-bill. "Christy," says one, with the 
frothy mug at his lips, "here's luck, to us!" 
— " Ay, Pat," drily replied his companion, 
"pot luck!" 

Our business, however, is with the hay- 
makers, a far more diversified race, inasmuch 
as Irish people of all classes and ages, if they 
can but raise money for their passage, are 
occasionally teinpted over to try their fortune 
in the English harvest. 

The first of these adventurers known at 
Belford was a certain Corny Sullivan, who 
h;id twenty years ago the luck to be engaged 
as a haymaker at Denham Park, which, in 



THE IRISH HAYMAKER. 



■157 



[ spite of its spacious demesne, its lodges, and 
its avenue, is actually within the precincts of 
the Borouoh. Now the owner of Denham, 
being one of the kindest persons in tlie world, 
was especially good to tlie poor Irishman, — 
allowed him a barn full of clean straw for his 
lodging, and potatoes and buttermilk at dis^ 
cretion for his board, — so that Corny was 
enabled to carry home nearly tiie whole of his 
earnings to "the wife and the childer;" and, 
liaving testified his gratitude to his generous 
benefactor by bringing the ensuing season a 
pocketful of seed potatoes,* — such potatoes as 
never before were grown upon English ground, 
— has ever since been accounted a great pub- 
lic benefactor: the potatoes — "rale blacks," 
Corny calls them (I suppose because they are 
red) — having been very generally diffused by 
their liberal possessor. 

Along vvitii the "rale blacks" Corny brought 
a brother haymaker, Tim Murphy by name, 
who shared his barn, his allowance of butter- 
milk, and his dole of ])otatoes and more than 
partook of his popularity. Corney was an 
oldish-looking hollow-eyed man, with a heavy 
slinging sait, a sallowish, yellowish complex- 
ion, a red wig much the worse for wear, and 
a long frieze coat, once grey, fastened at the 
neck bjr a skewer, with the vacant sleeves 
hanging by his side as if he had lost both his 
arms. His English, (though he t^-as said 
" to have beautiful Irish") was rather perplex- 
ing than amusing; and, upon the whole, he 
was so harmless and inoffensive, — so quite, as 
he himself would have phrased it, — that Mary 
Marshall, the straw-hat-maker in Bristol-street, 
who, on the first rumour of an Irish-haymaker, 
had taken a walk to Denham to see how Sally 
the housemaid liked a bonnet wiiich she had 
turned for her, was heard to declare that, but 
for the wig and the big coat, the man was just 
like another man, and not worth crossing the 
road to look after. 

Tim Murphy was another guess sort of 
person. Tall, athletic, active, and strong, 
with a briufht blue eye, a fair yet manly com- 
])lexion, high features, a resolute o|>en counte- 
nance, and a head of curling brown hair, it 
would have been difficult to select a finer 
specimen of a young and spirited Irishman ; 

* It is deligliirui to see the gralilndc of these poor 
people. A liidy in tliis nciglihoiirhoud was very kind 
to one oflliom, who was taken ill on his way iiome- 
wanl. Tlie next year he called on iier again, with 
his wife, who was suffering under an ague, brought 
probably from their own desolate cabin, 'lliey had 
been in great want during the journey, destitute alike 
oflbiKl and medicine and ncedfiil cloihuig ; neverthe- 
less, he produced a little bottle of poteen, which he 
had brought all the way from his homo, as an offering 
to the person who had been so good to huTi.and which 
neither bis own wants nor his wile's sickness had 
induced him to touch. It was even with some diffi- 
culty that the l.uly, much pleased by the simplicity of 
his gratitude, eoidd induce him to accept of clothes 
and money, — "be was afraid," ho said, "that she 
should think it was begging he was." 



whilst his good-hnmour, his cheerfulness, the 
prom|)tilude with which he put forth his 
strength, whether in work or play, (for at the 
harvest-home supper he danced down two 
Scotchwomen and outsang a Bavarian broom- 
girl) and, added to these accomplishments, his 
decided turn for gallantry, and the abundance 
and felicity of his compliments, rendered him 
a favourite with high and low. 

The lasses, above all, were his devoted ad- 
mirers ; and so skilfully had he contrived to 
divide his attentions, that when, declining to 
return to Ireland with his comrade at the end 
of the hay season, he lingered, first for the 
harvest, then for the after-math, and lastly for 
the potato-digging, not only the houseinaid 
and the kitchentiiaid at the Park, but Harriet 
Bridges the gardener's daughter, and Susan 
Stock of the Lodge, openly im])uted his de- 
tention in England to the power of her own 
peculiar chartns. 

Whether the' damsels were actually and 
actively deceived by the honeyed words of 
this Lothario of the Emerald Isle, or whether 
he merely allowed them to deceive themselves, 
and was only passively guilty, I do not])retend 
to determine — far less do I undertake to defend 
him. On the contrary, I hold the gentleman 
to have been in either case a most indefensible 
flirt, since it was morally impossible but three 
at least of the utdiappy quartet must be doom- 
ed to undergo the pangs of disappointed love. 
I am sorry to say, that Tim Mnrjihy was far 
from seeing this in a proper point of view. 

"Arrah, Mrs. Cotton, dear I" (said lie to 
the house-keeper at Denham when lecturing 
him on turning the maidens' heads, especially 
the two under her management,) — " Arrali 
now, what am I to do ? Sure you would not 
have a man rnarry four wives at oncet, barring 
he were a Turk or a blackamore ! But if you 
can bring the faymales to 'gree, so as to toss 
up heads or tails, or draw lots as to which 
shall be the woinan that owns me, and then to 
die off, one afther another, mind yon, accord- 
ing to law, why I'm the boy for 'em all — and 
bad luck to the hihdermosi! Only let them 
meet and settle the matter in pace and quHe- 
ness, barring scratching and fighting, and I'll 
come at a whistle." 

And off he walked, humming" Garryowen," 
leaving Mrs. Cotton rather more provoked 
than it suited her dignity to acknowledge. 

About this time, — that is to say, on a Satur- 
day afternoon towards the middle of Novetn- 
ber, — Mary Marshall and Mrs. Drake, the 
widowed aunt with whom she lived, were 
sitting over their tea in a room no bigger than 
a closet, behind a little milliner's shop in one 
of the smallest houses in Bristol-street. Tiny 
as the shop was, the window' was still too largo 
for the slock with which it was set forth ; con- 
sisting of two or three bonnets belontiing to j 
Mary's business, and two or three ca|)s, with 
half-a-dozen frills and collars, and a few balls i 



3y 



3H 



458 



BELFORD REGIS. 



of cotton and pieces of tape, as Mrs. Drake's 
share of the concern : added to which, con- 
spicuously placed in the centre pane, was a 
box of tooth-powder, a ghastly-looking row of 
false human teeth, and an explanatory card, 
informing the nobility and gentry of Belford 
and its vicinity that Doctor Joseph Vanderha- 
gen, of Amsterdam, odonfist to a round dozen 
of highnesses and high mightinesses, was for 
a limited period sojourning at Mrs. Drake's in 
Bristol-street, and would undertake to extract 
teeth in the most diflicult cases without pain, 
or danger, or delay, — so that, as the announce- 
ment ex[)resses it, " the operation should be in 
itself a pleasure, — and to furnish sets better 
than real, warranted to perform all the offices 
of articulation and mastication in an astonish- 
ing manner, for a sum so small as to surprise 
the most rigid economist." 

Where Mrs. Drake contrived to put her 
lodgers might easily be matter of surprise to 
the best contriver; and indeed an ill-wishing 
neighbour, a rival at once in lodging and let- 
ting and millinerjr, maliciously suggested that 
they must needs sleep in her empty bandboxes. 
But the up-stair closets, which she was pleased 
to call her first floor, were of some celebrity 
in the town — to those in search of cheap and 
genteel apartments, on account of the moderate 
rent, the cleanliness, and the civil treatment; 
to the inhabitants and other observers, on ac- 
count of the kind of persons whom they were 
accustomed to see tliere, and who were ordina- 
rily itinerants of the most showy and notorious 
description. French stays und French shoes 
had alternately occujiied the centre pane: and 
it had displayed, in quick succession, pattern- 
pictures by artists who undertook to teach 
drav.'ing as expeditiously and with as little 
trouble as Doctor Vanderhagen drew teeth ; 
and likenesses in profile, executed by painters 
to whom, without any disrespect, may be as- 
signed the name of " The Black Masters," 
whose portraits rivalled in cheapness the false 
grinders of the odonlist. She had accommo- 
dated a glass-spinner and his furnaces, a show- 
man and Ills dancing-dogs, a wandering lectu- 
rer, a she-fortnneteUer, a he-ventriloquist, and 
a vaulter on the tightrope. Her last imnates 
had been a fine flashy foreign couple, all dirt 
and tinsel, rags and trumpery, who called 
themselves Monsieur and Madame de Gour- 
liiilon, stuck a guitar and a flute in the window, 
and announced what they \vere pleased to call 
a " Musical Promenade" in the Town-hall. 
The name was ingeniously novel and mysteri- 
ous, and iiiade furtune, ^s our French neigh- 
bours say : and poor Mrs. Drake walked her- 
self off her feet in accompanying Madame 
round the town to dispose of their tickets, and 
secure the money. When the night of the per- 
formance arrived, the worthy pair were found 
to have decamped. They left Bristol-street 
under pretence of going to meet an eminent 
singer, whom they expected, they said, by the 



London stage; and were afterwards discover- 
ed to have mounted the roof of a Bath coach 
bound to London, having contrived, under 
different pretences to remove their musical in- 
struments and other goods and chattels; thus 
renewing the old hoax of the bottle-conjuror, 
^ the expense of the weary audience, who 
were impatiently pacing the Town-hall — of 
two fiddlers, engaged for the purpose of com- 
pleting the accompaniments — of the man who 
had engaged to furnish lights and refreshments 
— of poor Mrs. Drake, who, in addition to her 
bill for lodgings, had disbursed many small 
sums, in the way of provisions and other pur- 
chases, which she could ill afford to lose — and 
of her good-humoured niece Mary IMarshall, 
whom Madame had not only cheated out of an 
expensive bonnet by buying that for which she 
never meant to pay, but had also defrauded of 
her best shawl in the way of borrowing. 

"It was enough," as Mrs. Drake observed, 
" to warn her against harbouring foreigners in 
her house, as long as she lived. No painted 
Madames or Mounseers, with bobs in their 
ears, should cheat her again." 

How it happened that, in the teeth of this 
wise resolution, the next tenant of the good 
widow's first floor should be Doctor Joseph 
Vanderhagen, was best known to herself. 
For certain, the doctor had no bobs in his ears, 
and no pointed Madame in his company; and, 
for as much a Dutchman as he called him- 
self, had far more the air of a Jew from White- 
chapel than of a citizen of Amsterdam. He 
was a dark sallow man, chiefly remarkable for 
a pair of green spectacles, and a dark blue 
cloak of singular amplitude, both of which he 
wore rather as articles of decoration than of 
convenience. And certainly the cloak, arrang- 
ed in the most melodramatic drapery, and the 
s|)ectacles adjusted with a peculiarly knowing 
air, had no small effect in arresting the atten- 
tion of our Belfordians, and still more in at- 
tracting the farmers, and their wives and 
daughters, on a Saturday morning, when the 
doctor was sure to plant himself on one side 
of the market-place, and seldom failed to ex- 
cite the curiosity of the passers-by. Doctor 
Joseph Vanderhagen, in his cloak and his 
spectacles, was worth a score of advertise- 
ments and a whole legion of bill-stickers. It 
was enough to bring on a fit of the t(3othache 
to look at i'.im. 

In other respects, the man was perfectly 
well conducted ; cheated nobody except in the 
way of his profession ; was civil to his hostess, 
and very well disposed to fall in love with her 
niece; making, according to Mrs. Drake's ac- 
count (who amused herself sometimes with 
reckoning up the list on her fingers), the two- 
and-twentietii of Mary Marshall's beaux. 

How this little damsel came to have so many 
admirers it is difficult to say, for she had 
neither the bciuities nor tiie faults which 
usually attract a multitude of lovers. She was 



THE IRISH HAYMAKER. 



459 



not pretty — that is quite certain; nor was she 
what is generally called a flirt, particularly. in 
her rank of life, hein<r perfectly modest and 
quiet in her demeanour, and peculiarly un* 
showy in her appearance. Still there was a 
charm, and a crreat charm, in her delicate and 
slender fio[ure, graceful and pliant in evftfy 
motion — in the fine expression of her dark eyes, 
with their llexihle brows and lonsj eyelashes — 
in a smile coml)inin<r much sweetness with 
some archness — and in a soft low voice, and 
a natural o-entility of manner, which would 
have rendered it the easiest thinjr in the world 
to have passed off Mary Marshall for a young 
lady. 

Little did Mary Marshall meditate such a 
dece-ption ! She, whilst her aunt was leisure- 
ly sippingr her fourth cup of tea, lecturing her 
all the while after that approved but disagree- 
able fashion which aunts and godmammas, 
and other advisers by profession, call talking 
to young people for their good, — she having 
turned down her empty tea-cup, and given it 
three twirls according to rule, was now 
occupied in examining the position which the 
dregs of tea remaining in it had assutned, and 
trying to tell her own fortune, or rather to ac- 
commodate what she saw to what she wished, 
by those very fallacious but very conformable 
indications. 

" Now, Mary, can there be anything so pro- 
voking as your wanting to go to Denham Farm 
to-night, in such a fog, and almost dark, just 
to carry Charlotte Higgs's straw bonnet] It 
will he four o'clock before j'ou are ready to 
set oft', and thieves about, and you coughing 
all night and all day ' Anybody would think 
you were crazy. What would your relation 
and godmother IMadam Cotton say, I wonder, 
if she knew of your tramping about after dark 1 
— she that warned me not to let you go into 
the way of any of those Denham chaps, 
especially those Lanes, who are no better than 
so iTiany poachers and vagrants. I should not 
wonder if that tall fellow Charles Lane came to 
be hanged. What would Mrs. Cotton say^ to 
your going right amongst them, knowing as 
you do that Charles Lane and Tom Hill 
fought about you last Michaelmas that ever 
was ] What would Mrs. Cotton say, she 
that means to give you a power of money, if 
you are but discreet and prudent as a young 
woman ought to be? You know yourself that 
Madam Cotton hates Charles Lane, and would 
be as mad as a March hare." 

"Look, aunt," said Mary, still poring over 
her tea-cup and showing the hieroglyphics 
round the bottom to her aunt, — " Look ! if 
there is not the road I'm going to-night as 
plainly marked as in a picture.. Look there! 
the tail chimneys at Bristol Place; and the 
flat, low houses on the terrace ; and the two 
lamp-posts at the turnpike, and the avenue, and 
the lodges, and then the turn rouiul the Park to 
the Farm, — look I and then a tall stranger." 



"That's Charles Lane !" interrupted Mrs 
Drake; — "he's as tall as the Moniment, and, 
as Madam Cotton says, no better than a thief. 
" He'll certainly come to be hanged — every- 
body says he has not done a stroke of work 
this twelvemonth, and lives altogether by 
poaching and thieving. And Tom Hill is 
noted for having beaten his own poor mother, 
so that he's no better. And the town chaps 
are pretty near as bad," continued Mrs. Drake, 
going on with the bead-roll of Mary's lovers ; 
"for Will Meadows, the tinman, he tipples ; 
and Sam Fielding, the tailor, he plays all day 
and all night at four-corners ; and Bob Hen- 
shall, the shoemaker lad, he But are you 

really going"?" pursued Mrs. Drake, perceiv- 
ing that Mary had lain down her tea-cup and 
was tying on her bonnet. " Are you really 
going out all by yourself this foggy evening ]" 

"Yes, dear aunt! I promised Charlotte 
Higgs her bonnet — she must have it to go to 
church to-morrow ; and I shall just fall in with 
the children going back from school, and I'll 
have nothing to say to Charles Lane or Tom 
Hill, and I'll be back in no time," cried Mary, 
catching up her bandbox and preparing to set 
off just'^as Dr. Vanderhagen entered the shop. 

" If you will go, take my shawl," said Mrs. 
Drake. " 'Tis not so good as that which Mrs. 
Cotton gave you and the French Madam 
cheated you out of, but 'twill keep out the 
damp ; — don't be obstinate, there's a dear, but 
put it on at once." 

" Meese had bedere take my cloak," inter- 
rupted the doctor, gallantly flinging its ample 
folds over her slight figure, and accompanying 
the civility by pressing ofTer of his own escort ; 
which Mary declined, accepting by way of 
compromise the loan of the mysterious mantle, 
and sallying forth into Bristol-street just as the 
lamps were lighting. 

" It's lucky it's so dark," thought Mary to 
herself, as she tripped lightly along, carefully 
avoiding the school-children, — "it's well it's 
so dark, for everybody knows the doctor's 
cloak, and one should not like to be seen in it; 
though it was very kind in him to lend it to 
me, that I must say ; and it's ungrateful in me 
to dislike him so much, only that people can't 
help their likings or dislikings. Now my aunt, 
she likes the doctor ; but I don't quite think 
she wants me to marry him either, because of 
his being a foreigner. She can't abide foreign- 
ers since the Mounseer with the ear-bobs. 
But to think of her fancying that I cared for 
Charles Lane !" thought Mary, smiling to her- 
self very saucily, as she walked rapidly up 
the avenue. " Charles Lane, indeed ! I won- 
der what she and Mrs. Cotton would say if 
they knew the truth !" thought Mary, sighing 
and pursuing her reverie. "Tim says he's a 
favourite with the old lady ; but then he's sn 
poor, and a sort of a foreigner into the bargain, 
and there's no telling what they might say ; 
so it's as well they should have Charles Lane 



460 



BELFORD REGIS. 



in their heads. But where can Tim be this i 
dark, unked nifrht"?" thought poor Mary, as, 
leaviiijT the lodoos to the ri<jlit, she turned 
down a lonely road that led to the Farm, about 
a quarter of a mile distant, " He promised 
to meet me at the park-gate at ha!f-})ast four; 
and here it must be nearer to five, and no signs 
of the crentleman. Some people would be 
frifrhtened," said the poor trembling lass to 
herself, trying xofeel valiant. — " some people 
would be frightened out of their wits, walking 
all by themselves after sunset, in such a fog 
that one can't see an inch before one, and in 
such a lonesome way, and thieves about." 

And just at this point of her soliloqu}"- a 
noise was heard in the hedge, and a ruffian 
seizing hold of her, demanded her money or 
her life. 

Luckily the villain had only grasped the 
thick cloak; and undoing the fastenings with 
instinctive rapidity, Mary h^ft the mantle in 
his hands and ran swiftly towards the Farm, 
hardly able, from the beating of her heart, to 
ascertain whether she was pursued, though 
she plainly heard the villain swearing at her 
escape. In less than two minutes a pleasanter 
sound greeted her ears, in the shape of a well- 
known whistle; and the ejaculation, "Oh, 
Tim ! why did not you meet me as you pro- 
mised 1" she almost fell into his extended 
arms. 

" Is it why I did not meet you, Mary dear V 
responded Tim tenderly ; " sorrow a hit could 
I come before now, anyhow ! There has been 
a spalpeen of a thief, who has kilt John the 
futman, and murdered Mrs. Cotton, who were 
walking this way from Belford to the Park 
by cause of its shortness; and he knocked 
John on the head with a bludgeon, and stole 
a parcel of law dades belonging to the master; 
and the master is madder nor a mad bull, 
because he says that all his estates and titles 
lays in the parcel — which seems to be sure a 
mighty small compass for them to be in. 
And the cowardly spalpeen, after flinging 
John under the ditch, murdered Mrs. Cotton, 
and tore off her muff tipjiet, and turned her 
})ockets inside out — tliem great panniers of 
pockets of hers, — and stole her thread-cases, 
and pincushions, and thimbles, ancF scissors, 
and a needle-book worked by some forrin 
queen, and a bundle of love-letters two-and- 
fiirty years ould ; — think of that, Mary dear! 
Poor ould lady ! she was young in them days. 
So she's as mad as the master. And they've 
sent all the world over to offer a reward for 
the thief, and raise the country ; and I 'm 
away to the town to fetch the mayor and cor- 
poration, and the poliss and the constable, and 
all them people; for its hanged the rogue 
must be as sure as he's alive, — though I 
suppose he's far enough off by this time," 

" He was here not five minutes ago," replied 
Mary, " and robbed me of the Doctor's cloak 
— Doctor Vanderhagen ; — so pray let us go to 



the Farm, dear Tim, for fear of his knocking 
you down too, and murdering you, like poor 
John and Mrs. Cotton ; though, if she's dead, 
I do n't understand how she can be so mad 
for the loss of the love-letters!" 

"Dead! no — only kilt! Sure the wolnan 
may be murdered without being dead ! And 
as for the knocking me down, I'll give the 
thief free lave to do that same — knock me 
down, and pickle me, and ale me into the 
bargain, if he can. I'm a Connaught boy, 
as he'll find to his cost, and not a slip of a 
futman like John, or an ould faymale like 
Mrs. Cotton, all the while maning no disre- 
spect to either; and my twig of a tree" (flon- 
rishiug a huge cudgel) "is as good as his bit 
of oak any day. So come along, Mary dear. 
I undertuk for the mayor and the poliss and 
the constable ; and sorrow a reward do I want, 
for the villain desarves hanging worse nor 
ever for frightening you and staling the Doc- 
tor's big cloak." 

So in spite of Mary's reluctance, they pur- 
sued the way to Belford. Tim loitered a 
little as they got near to the place where 
Mary thought she had been robbed, — for she 
had been too much frightened and the evening 
was too dark to allow of her being very posi- 
tive in the matter of locality ; and although 
the fog and the increasing darkness made his 
seeing the thief almo:U impossible, Tim could 
not help loitering and thumping the hedge (or, 
as he called it, the ditch) with his great stick, 
pretty much after the fashion of sportsmen 
beating for a hare. He had, however, nearly 
given up the pursuit, when Mary stumbled 
over something which turned out to be her 
own bandbox, containing Charlotte Higgs's 
bonnet, which she had never missed before, 
and at the same moment close beside her, just 
within the bushes which her lover had been 
beating, came the welcome sound of a violent 
fit of sneezing. 

" Luck he with yon, barring it's the snuff!" 
ejaculated our friend Tim, following the 
sound, and dragging out the unhappy sneezer 
by Dr. Vanderhaoen's cloak, which he had 
probably been induced to assume for the con- 
venience of carriage :" luck be with you!" 
exclaimed Tim, folding the strong broadcloth 
round and round his prisoner, whom he rolled 
up like a bale of goods, whilst he hallooed to 
one party advancing with lanterns from the 
farm, and another running with a candle from 
the lodge, — which, when seen from a distance 
moving through the fog, no trace of the 
bearers being visible, had something of the 
appearance of a set of jack-o'-lauterns. 

As they advanced, however, each faintly 
illuminating its own small circle, and partially 
dispelling the obscurity, it was soon discover- 
ed, aided by the trampling of many footsteps 
and the confused sound of several voices, 
that a considerable number of persons were 
advancintr to the assistance of our Irish friend. 



THE IRISH HAYMAKER. 



461 



Little did he seek of their aid. The Con- 
naught bojr and his shilelah would have been 
equal to the management of half-a-dozen foot- 
pads in his sinorle person. _ 

"Hand nie that dark lantern, John Higgs, 
till we take a look at this jontleman's beauti- 
ful countenance," quoth Tim. " She gives 
as much light," continued Tim, apostrophizing 
the lantern, "as the moon when it's set, — 
and that 's none at all ! Lie quite,'''' added he, 
addressing his prisoner, "lie quite, can't ye, 
and take the world asy till we sarch ye dacent- 
ly. Arrah ! there 's the coach parcel, with 
them dades and titles of the master's. And 
there's Madam Cotton's big pincushion and 
all her trimtrams hid in the ditch — ay, this is 
them! Hould the lantern a bit lower! — 
here's the hussy, and there 's the love-letters, 
wet through, at the bottom of the pool — all in 
a sop, poor ould lady ! I'm as sorry as ever 
was for the sopping of them love-letters, 
becase, I dare say, being used to 'em so long, 
she'd fancy 'em better nor new ones. Arrah, 
an't you ashamed of yourself to look at that 
housewife, worked by a forrin queen, all over 
mud as it is ] Can't you answer a civil ques- 
tion, you spalpeen ? Ought you not to be 
ashamed of yourself, first for thieving, then 
for sopping them poor dear love-letters, and 
then for being such a fool as to stay here to 
be caught like a fox in a trap ? I suppose you 
thought the fog was not dark enough, and so 
waited for the stars to shine, — eh, Mr. Lane V 

"Mr. Lane! Charles Lane!" exclaimed 
Mary, stooping to examine the prostrate thief. 
" Yes, it really is Charles Lane ! How 
strange !" added she, thinking of her aunt's 
prediction, and of the tall stranger in the tea- 
cup to which she had given so different an 
interpretation — " how very strange." 

" Nay," rejoined Mr. Denham, advancing 
into the circle, " I have long feared that 
poaching, and drunkenness', and idleness, 
would bring him to some deplorable catastro- 
phe. But, Tim, you are fairly entitled to the 
reward that I was about to offer ; so come 
with me to the Park and 

" Not I, your honour ! It's little Mary here 
that was the cause of catching the thief, — 
little Mary and the doctor's cloak ; and it's 
them, — that is to say, Mary and the cloak, — 
that's entitled to the reward." 

" But, my good fellow, I must do some- 
thing to recompense the service you have ren- 
dered me by your s})irit and bravery. Follow 
me to the house, and then " 

" Sure I'd follow your honour to the end of 
the world, let alone the house! But," con- 
tinued Tim, approaching Mr. Denham and 
speaking in a confidential whisper; "sorrow 
a bit of reward do I want, except it's little 
Mary herself; and if your honour would be 
so good as to spake a word for us to Mrs. 
Cotton and Mrs. Drake," added Tim, twirling 
his hat, and putting dn his most insinuating 

39^ 



I manner — " if your honour would but spake a 
good word — becase Mrs. Drake calls rne a 
forriner, and Mrs. Cotton says I'm a decaiver, 

I — one word from your honour " pursued 

[ Tim coaxingly. 

[ " And what does Mary say 1" inquired Mr. 
Denham. 

" Is it what little Mary says, your honour? 
Arrah, now ask her I But it's over-shy she 
is !" exclaimed Tim, throwing his arm round 
Mary's slender waist as she turned away in 
blushing confusion ; "she'll not tell her mind 
before company. But the best person to ask 
is ould Mrs. Cotton, who tould me this very 
mornifig that I was a decaiver, and that there 
was not a faymale in the parish who would 
say No to a wild Irishman. Best ask her. 
She'll be out of her fiurry and her tantrums 
by this time; for I left her making tay out of 
coffee, and drinking a drop of dark-colonred 
whiskey — cherry-bounce the futman called 
it — to comfort her after the fright she got, 
poor cratur ! Jist ask her. It's remarkable," 
continued Tim, as obeying his master's kind 
commands, he and the fair damsel followed 
Mr. Denham to the house, under a comfortable 
persuasion that the kind word would be 
spoken ; " it's remarkable anyhow," said Tim, 
" that them dades and titles, and the pin- 
cushion, which would not have minded wetting 
a halfpenny, should be high and dry in the 
ditch ; and that the forrin queen's needle-book, 
and them ould ancient love-letters should have 
the luck of a sopping. Well, it was no fault 
of ours, Mary dear, as his honour can testify. 
The spalpeen of a thief desarves to be sent 
over the water, if it was only in respect to 
them love-letters." 

And so saying, the Irishman and his fair 
companion reached the mansion. And how 
Mr. Denham pleaded, and whether Mrs. Cot- 
ton and Mrs. Drake, " the ould faymales," as 
Tim irreverently called them, proved tender- 
hearted or obdurate, I leave the courteous 
reader to settle to his own satisfaction : for 
my part, if I were called on to form a conjec- 
ture, it would be, that the Irishman proved 
irresistible, and the lovers were made happy. 



MARK BRIDGMAN. 

One of the persons best known in Belford 
was an elderly gentlemen seldom called by 
any other appellation than that of Mark Bridg- 
man — or, as the irreverent youth of the place 
were sometimes wont to style him, Old Mark. 

Why he should be spoken of in a manner so 
much more familiar than respectful, were dif- 
ficult to say ; for certainly there was nothing 
in his somewhat shy and retiring manner to 
provoke familiarity, whilst there was every- 
thing in his mild and venerable aspect to se- 
cure respect. 



462 



BELFORD REGIS. 



True it was, that the jSirave and old-fash 
ioned garments in which iiis slight and some- 
what bent fiotire was constantly arrayed, be- 
trayed a sniallness of worldly means which 
his humble dwellinir and still more humble 
establishment — for his whole household con- 
sisted of one ancient serving maiden, still 
more slight and bent than her master — did not 
fail to corroborate ; and perhaps that impres- 
sion of poverty, aided by the knowledge of 
his want of patrimonial distinction, (for he 
was the son of a tradesman in the town,) and 
still more, his having been known to the older 
inhabitants from boyhood, and resided amongst 
them for many years, might serve to counter- 
act the effect of the diffident and somewhat 
punctilious manner which in general ensures 
a return of the respect which it evinces, as 
well as of a head and countenance which a 
painter would have delighted to delineate — so 
strikingly fine was the high, bald, polished 
forehead, so delicately carved the features, 
and so gentle and amiable the expression. 

Mark Bridgman had been the youngest of 
two sons of a Belford tradesman, who being 
of the right side in politics, (which in those 
days meant the tory side,) contrived to get 
this his youngest son a clerkship in a public 
office ; whilst his elder hope, active, bustling, 
ambitious, and shrewd, pushed his fortune in 
his father's line of business in London, and 
accumulated, during a comparatively short 
life, so much money, that his only surviving 
son was enabled at his death to embark in 
bolder speculations, and was at the time of 
which I write a flourishing me'rchant in the city. 

Mark was, on his side, so entirely free from 
the visions of avarice, that, as soon as he had 
remained long enough in his office to entitle 
him to such a pension as should enable him- 
self and his solitary servant-maid to exist in 
tolerable comfort, he forsook the trade of quill- 
driving, and returned to his native town to 
pass the remainder of his days in one of the 
smallest dwellings in Mill Lane. It was true 
that he had received some thousands with a 
wife who had died within a few months of 
their marriage, and that he had also received 
a legacy of about the same amount from his 
father; — but these sums were not to be taken 
into the account of his ways and means, inas- 
much as they had been spent after a fashion 
which, if the disembodied spirit retain its an- 
cient prejudices, might almost have drawn 
that thriving ironmonger back into this wicked 
world to express, in ghostly form, the extent 
of his indignation. 

Be it wise or not, the manner in which these 
moneys had been spent had rendered Mark 
Bridgman's back parlour in Mill "Lane one of 
the lions of Belford. 

In that small room, — small with reference 
to its purpose, but very large as compared 
with the rest of the dwelling, and lighted from 
the top, as all buildings for pictures ought to 



be, — in that little back parlour were assem- 
bled some half-dozen chefs-d'oeuvre, that the 
greatest collection of the world might have 
been proud to have included amongst the 
choicest of its treasures: a landscape by Both, 
all sunshine; one by Ruysdael, all dew; a 
land-storm by Wouvermans, in looking at 
which one seemed to feel the wind, and fold- 
ed one's raiment about one involuntarily; a 
portrait of Mieris by himself, in which, in- 
spired perhaps by vanity, he united his own 
finish to the graces of Vandyke; a Venus 
by Titian — need one say more? — and two 
large pictures on the two sides of the room, 
of which, all unskilled in art as I confessedly 
am, I must needs attempt a description, the 
more inadequate perhaps because the more 
detailed. 

One was a landscape with figures, by Sal- 
vator Rosa, called, I believe, after some scrip- 
tural story, but really consisting of a group of 
Neapolitan peasants, some on horseback, some 
on foot, defiling through a pass in the moun- 
tains — emerging, as it were, from darkness 
into light. The effect of this magnificent pic- 
ture cannot he conveyed by words. The spec- 
tator seemed to be in darkness too, looking 
from the dusky gloom of the cavernous rocks 
and overhanging trees into the light and air, 
the figures thrown out in strong relief; and 
all this magical effect produced, as it seemed, 
almost without colour — a little blue, perhaps, 
on the edge of the palette — by the mere force 
of chiaroscuro. One never sees Salvator Ro- 
sa's compositions without wonder; but this 
landscape, in its simple grandeur, its power 
of fixing itself on the eye, the memory, the 
imagination, seems to me to transcend them all. 

Tbe other was an historical picture by 
Guercino — David with the head of Goliath, 
— a picture which, in spite of the horror of the 
subject, is the very triumph of beauty. The 
ghastly face, which is so disj)Osed that the 
eye can get away from it, serves to contrast 
and relieve the splendid and luxuriant youth 
and grace of the other figures, David, the 
triumphant warrior, the inspired poet, glowing 
with joy and youthful modesty, is fitly accom- 
panied by two female figures; tbe one a mag- 
nificent brunette, beating some oriental instru- 
ment not unlike a drum, with her dark hair 
flowing down on each side of her bright and 
beaming countenance ; the otiier, a fair young 
girl, lightly and exquisitely formed, bending 
her lovely face over a music-book, with just 
such a sweet unconsciousness, such a mix« 
ture of elegance and innocence, as one should 
wish to see in a daughter of one's own. A 
great poet once said of that picture, that " it 
was the Faun with colour;" and most surely it 
is not possible even for Grecian art to carry far- 
ther the mixture of natural and ideal graceful- 
ness.* 

♦ Vide note at the end of the article. 



MARK BRIDGMAN. 



463 



These pictures, for which he had over and 
over ap;ain refused a sum of money almost too 
large to mention, formed, together with two 
or three chairs so placed as hest to display to 
the sitter the Salvator and the Guercino, the 
sole furniture of Mark Bridirman's back par- 
lour. He had purchased them himself, during 
two or three short trips to the Continent, at 
Rome, at Naples, at Vienna, at Antwerp; and 
havincT expended his last shilling- in the form- 
ation of his small but choice selection, sat 
himself quietly down in Mill Lane, without 
any thought of increase or exchange, enjoying 
their beauties with a quiet delight which (al- 
though he was kindly anxious to give to those 
who loved paintings the pleasnre of seeing 
his) hardly seemed to require the praise and 
admiration of others to stimulate his own 
pleasure in their possession. It was a very 
English feeling. Some of the Dutch bnrgo- 
masters had, in days of yore, equally valuable 
pictures in equally small rooms : but there 
was more of vanity in the good Hollanders; 
vanity of country, for their paintings were 
Dutch, — and vanity of display, for their col- 
lections were known and visited by all travel- 
lers, and made a part, and a most ostensible 
part, of their riches. 

Our good Englishman had no snch ambition. 
He loved his pictures for themselves; and if 
he had any pride in knowing himself to be 
their possessor, showed it only in not being 
at all ashamed of his poverty, — in thinking, 
and seeming to think, that the owner of those 
great works of art could afford to wear a thread- 
bare coat and live in a paltry dwelling. Even 
his old servant Martha seemed to have im- 
bibed the same feeling, — loved the Guercino 
and the Salvator as fondly as her master did, 
spoke of them with the same respect, ap- 
proached them with the same caution, and 
dusted the room as reverently as if she had 
been in presence of a crowned queen. 

In these pictures Mark Bridgman lived and 
breathed. He cultivated no associates, visited 
nobody, read no books, looked at no news- 
papers, and, except in the matter of his own 
paintings, showed little of the common quality 
termed curiosity, or the rarer one called taste. 

Two acquaintances indeed he had made 
during his long sojourn at Belford, and their 
society he had enjoyed with the relish of a 
congenial spirit : Louis Duval, to whom he 
had during his boyhood shown great kindness, 
and who had studied his Guercino with a love 
and admiration rivalling that which he felt for 
Mrs. St. Eloy's Vandyke; and Mr. Carlton, 
who was a professed lover of pictures, and had 
not failed to find his out during his two years' 
sojourn in Belford. And when the death of 
Mrs. St. Eloy left Louis master of the Nun- 
nery, and his marriage with our young friend 
Hester (of which happy event I rejoice to be 
enabled to inform my readers) brought the two 
families together, sometimes at the Nunnery, 



and sometimes at Cranley Park, the old man 
was tempted out oftener than he or his maid 
Martha had thought possible. 

Another person had tried to form an inti- 
macy with him — no less a personage than 
Mr. King Harwood, who liked nothing better 
than flourishing and showing off before a great 
picture, and descanting on the much finer works 
of art that he had seen abroad and at home. 
But gentle and placid as our friend Mark was, 
he could not stand King Harwood : he was 
not a man of the world enough to have learned 
the art of hearing a coxcomb talk nonsense 
about a favourite object without wincing. To 
hear his paintings mispraised, went to his 
heart; so he fairly fled the field, and when- 
ever Mr. King Harwood brought a party to 
Mill Lane, left Martha, who, besides being 
far less sensitive, had Sir Joshua's advantage 
of being a little deaf, to play the part of cice- 
rone to his collection. 

His nephew Harry also — a kind, frank, 
liberal, open-hearted man, to whom during his 
boyhood our connoisseur had been an indul- 
gent and generous uncle, — paid him great 
attention; and of him and his excellent wife, 
and promising family, Mark Bridgman was 
perhaps as fond as of anjrthing in this world, 
excepting his pictures, which for certain he 
loved better than anybody. Indeed for many 
years he had cared for nothing else; and the 
good old man sometimes wondered how he 
had been beguiled lately into bestowing so 
m.uch affection upon creatures of flesh and 
blood, — since, besides his kinsman and his 
familv, he had detected himself in feeling 
something very like friendship towards Louis 
and Hester, Mr. Carlton and old Martha, and 
even towards Mrs. Kinlay and Mrs. Duval. 
To be sure, Louis was a man of genius, and 
Mr. Carlton a man of taste, and Martha a 
faithful old servant; and as to Hester, why 
everybody did love Hester, — and besides, she 
was a good deal like the young girl with the 
music-book in his Guercino, and that account- 
ed for his taking a fancy to her. It is remark- 
able that the good people who loved Hester, 
they could hardly tell why, used generally to 
conjure up some likeness to reconcile them- 
selves to themselves for being caught by her 
fascinations. I myself think that she resem- 
bles a young friend of my own. — But we must 
come back to our story. 

The uncle and nephew had not met for a 
longer time than usual, when, one bright April 
morning as Mark was sitting in his back par- 
lour admiring for the thousandth time the 
deeply tinted and almost breathing lips of the 
Titian Venus, a hasty knock was heard at the 
door, and Harry Bridgman rushed into the 
room, pale, hurried, agitated, trembling; and 
before his kinsman, always nervous' and slow 
of speech, could inquire what ailed him, pour- 
ed forth a tale of mercantile embarrassments, 
of expected remittances, and lingering argosies 



404 



BELFORD REGIS. 



and merciless creditors, that might have 
shamed the perplexities of Antonio at the 
hour when Shylock claimed his money or his 
bond. 

"1 may have been imprudent in s;ivinor these 
acceptances," (said poor Harry,) " l)ut I look- 
ed for letters fronr the house at Hamburtr, 
which oujrht to have been here on the 21th, 
and bills from St. Petersburgh, which should 
have arrived a fortnight since, and would have 
covered the whole amount. Then the Fly- 
catcher from Honduras has been expected these 
ten days, with logwood and mahogany, and the 
Amphion from the Levant, has been looked 
for full three weeks, with a cargo of Smyrna 
fruit, that would have paid every farthing I 
owe in the world. Assets to the value of six 
times my debts are on the seas, and yet such 
is the state of the money-market, that I have 
been unable to raise the ten thousand pounds 
which must be paid to-morrow, and which not 
being paid, the rascal who holds my accept- 
ances, and owes me an old grudge, will strike 
a docket, and all will be swept away by a com- 
mission of bankruptcy — all swallowed up in 
law and knavery : my wife's heart broken, 
my children ruined, my creditors cheated, and 
1 myself disgraced for ever!" And Harry 
Bridgman, a fine hearty man in the middle of 
life, active, bobl, and vigorous in mind and 
body, laid his hands upon the back of a chair, 
sunk his face into them, and wept aloud. 

"Ten thousand pounds!" ejaculated the 
poor old man, his venerable bald head shaking 
as if with the palsy — " ten thousand pounds !" 

" Yes, sir ! ten thousand pounds," replied 
Harry. " God forgive me," added he, " for 
distressing you in this manner! But I am 
doomed to be a grief to all whom I love. I 
hardly know why I came here — only I could 
not stay at home. I could not look on poor 
Maria's face or the innocent children. And I 
thought you ought to know what was about to 
happen, that you might go to Cranley Park, 
or the Nunnery, till the name had been in the 
Gazette and the people had done talking. 
But I'll go now, for I cannot bear to see you 
so distressed : I would almost as soon face 
Maria and the children. Good-by, my dear 
uncle ! God bless you !" said poor Harry, try- 
ing to speak firmly. "There are some hours 
yet. Perhaps the letters may arrive, or the 
ships. Perhaps times may mend !" 

"Stay, Harry!" cried his uncle; "stay! 
we must not trust to ships and letters; we 
must not let Maria's heart be broken. They 
must go," said the old man, looking round 
the room and pointing to the Guercino and 
the Salvator : " they must be sold !" 

" What ! the pictures, sir ? Oh no ! no ! the 
sacrifice is too great. You must not part with 
the pictures." 

"They must go," replied the old man firm- 
ly: and walking slowly round the little room 
from one to the other, as if to take leave of 



them, and wiping with his handkerchief a 
speck of dust which the bright sunshine had 
made visible on the sunny Both, he left the 
apartment, locking the door behind him and 
carrying away the key. 

"Louis Duval and Mr. Carlton have both 
said often and often, that they would gladly 
give ten thousand pounds for seven such pic- 
tures," said Mark Bridgman, taking his hat: 
"they are both now in the neighbourhood, 
and I have no doubt of their making the pur- 
chase. Don't object, Harry ! Don't thank me: 
Don't talk to me !" pursued the good old man, 
checking his nephew's attempt at interruption 
with a little humour; "don't speak to me on 
the subject, for I can't bear it. But come 
with me to the Nunnery." 

Silently the kinsmen walked thither, and in 
almost equal silence (for there was a general 
respect for the old man's feelings) did they, 
accompanied by Louis and Mr. Carlton, return. 
The party stopped at the Belford Bank, and 
there they parted ; Harry armed with a check | 
for ten thousand pounds to pay oif his merci- 
less creditor. 

" Go to London, Harry," said the old man, 
" and say no more about the matter. I have 
made idols of these pictures, and it is perhaps 
good for me that I should be deprived of 
them. Go to Maria and the children and be 
happy !" 

And, his warm heart aching with gratitude 
and regret, Harry obeyed. 

Mark on his side went back to Mill Lane, 
not quite unhap])y, because his conscience 
was satisfied; but yet feeling at lih heart's 
core the full price of the sacrifice he had 
made. He dared not trust himself again with 
a sight of the pictures ; he dared not tell 
Martha that he had sold them, for he knew 
that her regrets would awaken his own. He 
had begged Mr. Duval to convey them away 
early the next morning, and in the very few 
words that had passed, (for in making the 
bargain he had limited Louis to yes or no,) 
had desired him to send the key, which he 
left with him, by the messenger; and on going 
to bed at night, he summoned courage to in- 
form Martha that the pictures were to be de- 
livered to the bearer of the key of the room 
where they were deposited, and charged her 
not to come to him until they were fairly re- 
moved. 

He spoke in a lower voice than usual, and 
yet it is remarkable that the poor old woman, 
usually so deaf, heard every word with a pain-' 
ful and startling distinctness. She had thought 
that something very grievous was the matter 
from the moment of Harry's arrival, but such 
a grief as this she had never even contem- 
plated ; and forbidden by her master from 
giving vent to her vexation before him, and 
unable to get at tiie beloved objects of her sor- 
row, the dear i)ictures, she sat down on the 
ground by the locked door, and solaced her- 



MARK BRIDGMAN. 



465 



self by a hearty cry, of which the tendency 
was so composing that she went to bed and 
slept nearly as well as usual. 

Very diflerent was her master's case. Men 
have so many advantages over women, that 
tliey need not grudge them the unspeakable 
comfort of crying; although in many in- 
stances, and especially in this, it makes all 
the difference between a good night and a bad 
one. Mark never closed his eyes. His wak- 
ing thoughts, however, were not all unplea- 
sant. He thought of Maria and the children, 
and of Harry's generous reluctance to deprive 
him of his treasures — and so long as he 
thought of that, he was happy. And then he 
thought of Louis Duval, — how well he de- 
served these pictures, and how much he would 
value them ; for Mark had been amongst 
Louis's earliest patrons and kindest friends, 
and would undoubtedly have served Henry 
Warner, had he not been abroad during the 
few months that he spent at Belford. And 
then too he thought of Hester, and of her 
resemblance to the girl with the music-book. 
But then unluckily that recollection brought 
vividly before him the Guercino itself, — and 
how he could live without that picture he 
could not tell ! And then the night seemed 
endless. 

At length morning dawned. But no sound 
was heard of cart or wagon, or messenger 
from the Nunnery, though he had implored 
Louis to send by daybreak. Five o'clock 
struck, and six, and seven, — and no one had 
arrived. At last, a little before eight, a sin- 
gle knock was heard at the door, but no cart, 
— a single knock ; and, after a moment's par- 
ley, the knocker went away, and the postman 
arrived, and, too impatient to wait longer, the old 
gentleman rang the bell for his housekeeper. 

Martha arrived, bringing two letters. One, 
a heavy packet, had been left by a servant ; 
the other had arrived by the post. As our 
friend Mark opened the first, a key dropped 
out. The contents were as follows : 

" The Nunnery, April IS/A. 
"My dear Sir, 

" As you had your way yesterday, when 
you forbade me to say anything more than yes 
or no, you must allow me to have mine to-day. 
I return the key, with an earnest entreaty that 
you will condescend to be the guardian of that 
and of the pictures. Long, very long, may 
you continue so ! Hester says that she should 
never see those pictures with comfort any- 
where but in their own gallery, the dear back 
parlour; and you know that Hester always 
has her own way with everybody. 

"From the little that you would suffer Mr. 
H. Bridgman to say yesterday, both Mr. Carl- 
ton and myself are inclined to consider this 
money as a loan, to be returned at his conve- 
nience ; and our chief fear is lest he should 
liurry himself in the repayment. 



" Should it, however, prove otherwise, just 
remember how very kind you were to me, a 
poor and obscure boy, at a time when your 
money, your encouragement, your good word, 
and, above all, your permission to copy the 
Guercino, were favours far. greater than I ever 
can return. Recollect tiiat I owe to the study 
of the girl with the music-book that notice 
from Mr. Carlton which led to my acquaint- 
ance with Hester. 

" After this, you must allow, that even if 
this sum were never repaid, the balance of 
obligation must still be on my side, — and that 
I must always remain 

" Your grateful friend and servant, 

" Louis Duval." 

With a trembling hand the old man opened 
the other letter. He had some trouble in de- 
ciphering Louis's, perhaps because he had 
been obliged to wipe his spectacles so often; 
and this epistle, although shorter and written 
in a bold mercantile hand, proved more diffi- 
cult still. Thus it ran : 

" London, April I7ih. 
" My dear Uncle, 

" On my return to town, I found that remit- 
tances had arrived from Hamburg and St. 
Petersburgh ; that the good ship Amphion was 
safe in port, and that the Flycatcher had been 
spoken with and was within two days' sail; — 
in short, that all was right in all quarters; 
and that Maria, until I told her the story, had 
not even suspected my embarrassments. Im- 
agine our intense thankfulness to you and to 
Heaven ! I have returned the check to Mr. 
Duval. The obligation I do not even wish to 
cancel ; for to be grateful to such a person is 
a most pleasurable feeling. I am quite sure, 
from the very few words that you would suf- 
fer any one to speak yesterday, that he consi- 
ders the affair as a loan, and that the dear 
pictures are still in the dear back parlour. I 
forgot to tell yon that the Amphion was to 
touch at Cadiz for two more paintings, a Ve- 
lasquez and a Murillo; for which, if you can- 
not find room, Mr. Duval must. 

" Once again, accept my most fervent thanks, 
and believe ine ever 

"Your obliged and affectionate 
" Kinsman and friend, 

" H. Bridgman." 

The gentle reader must imagine, for I can- 
not describe, the feelings of the good old man 
on the perusal of these letters, and the agi- 
tated delight with which, after he and Martha 
had contrived to open the door, (for, somehow 
or other, their hands shook so that they could 
hardly turn the key in the lock,) they both 
surveyed the rescued treasures. Also, he 
must settle to his fancy the long-disputed 
point (for it has been a contest of no small 
duration, and is hardly -finished yet,) of the 



31 



4G6 



BELFORD REGIS. 



ultimate destination of the Velasquez and the 
Murillo, — whether both went to the Nunnery 
as Mark Bridjjman proposed, or both to Mill 
Lane as Louis Duval desired ; or whether 
Hester's reconciling clause were agreed to, 
and the merchant's grateful present divided 
between the parties. For my part, if I were 
inclined to bet upon the occasion, I should 
lay a considerable wager that the lady had 
her way. But, as I said before, the courteous 
reader must settle the matter as seems to him 
best. 



Note. — They who live in the neiphbourhood of 
Reading will recognize, in the splendid paintings that 
1 have attempted to describe, two of the chief orna- 
ments of Mr. Anderdon's beautiful and select collec- 
tion at Farley Hill. It may add to the interest of the 
Salvator to say, that it was that picture (originally 
purchased by the very tasteful and liberal possessor 
from the gallery of the King of Naples) which con- 
verted our own great painter VVilkie from his origin- 
ally brilliant and sparkling style to his present chaster 
and severer manner. He used to visit Mr. Anderdon 
and his pictures every morning at Rome, where the 
picture and its accomplished proprietors remained 
some time, and from intense admiration of its bold- 
ness and breadth, resolved to abandon his own glit- 
tering effects, and to revert, as all the world knows 
how finely he has done, to the utmost purity and sim- 
pbcity of the art. There are who complain of this 
change of style ; but, for my part, I think that he has 
done well, if' only to prove that there is no mode of 
the pencil in which he does not excel. 

An interesting anecdote also belongs to the Gtier- 
cino. It was purchased from the collection at the 
Colonna Palace ; and Mr. Anderdon says that from 
the moment he became the owner of that picture the 
old servants seemed to transfer their allegiance to 
him, as if the possession of the David had been the 
charter under which they served. 

I cotdd talk for ever of this exquisite collection, 
unique in the admirable taste moral as well as picto- 
rial with which it has been selected, full of the best 
works of the best masters, and rich in those paintings 
of which everybody has heard, and which to see 
forms an epoch in one's life. 

There, for instance, is almost the only serious work 
of Teuiers — an exquisitely painted landscape, with 
three figures from the New Testament, (for although 
the glory round the head indicates the Christ, the 
subject, I believe, is not exactly ascertained,) and with 
no sign of Teniers, except wliat he could not help, 
the trace of a Dutch-like country festival in the back- 
ground. There is the famous Coral Fishery on the 
coast of Africa, by Salvator Rosa; a sea-view breath- 
ing heat — the very water seems ready to boil. And 
there that Holy Family by Andrea del Sarto, of which 
80 pretty a story is currently told. The artist, it is 
said, went out one day, leaving this picture unfinish- 
ed n\nn\ the easel; and Raphael happening to call, 
paitited in the head of the Madonna by way of visit- 
ing-card. That the head of the Virgin is by Raphael, 
there can be no manner of doubt. It has the grace, 
the sweetness, the com|«)sure, the light stealing from 
under the eyelids, the brow of thotight, the look of 
love, which he, and he only, was used to give to the 
Virgin Mother. 

But the glory of this collection — the gem amongst 
gems, is a copy from Andrea Sacohi, by its kind and 
liberal owner's most kind and most richly-gifted wife. 
It is n St. Hrimo, a head purely intellectual, of which 
the charm is that, which generally vanishes from all 
copies of great pictures — the singular and beautiful 
expression. A friend of mine walking through 



the rooms said very happily, that next to being the 
paintress of the St. Bruno, she would wish to be the 
jwssessor of the David. The purchaser of the original 
wished to exchange it for the copy : and the Duke 
de Herri, no mean judge, died in the persuasion that 
no woman ever did or could paint such a picture, and 
that it was an original by Carlo Dolce. 

Mrs. Anderdon, whom I have the honour and 
pleasure of counting amongst my friends, will chide 
me ioT putting her name into a book. But nobody 
else will ; and in good truth she must forgive me, for 
the temptation was too great to be withstood. If she 
does not like to he talked about, she should not paint 
so well: the effect is the natural consequence of the 
cause. 



ROSAMOND: 

A STORY OF THE PLAGUE. 

In the reign of Charles the Second — that 
reign over which the dissolute levity of the 
monarch and his court, and the witty pages of 
Count Anthony Hamilton, have shed a false 
and delusive glare, which is sometimes mis- 
taken for gaiety, but in which the people, ha- 
rassed by perpetual treasons, or rumours of 
treasons, and visited by such tremendous 
calamities as the Fire and Plague, seem to 
have been anything rather than gay; — in that 
troubled and distant reign, BeJford was, as 
now, a place of considerable size and import- 
ance ; probably, when considered relatively 
with the size of other towns and the general 
population of the kingdom, of as much con- 
se(|uence as at the present time. 

True it is, that, in common with other wor- 
shipful things, the town " had suftered losses." 
The demolition of the abbey had been a blow 
which a charter from Queen Elizabeth, and 
even the high honour of bearing her royal 
effigy in the midst of four other maiden faces 
for the borough arms, had hardly repaired ; 
whilst the munificent patronage of Archbishop 
Laud, a liberal benefactor to the public schools 
and charities of the place, scarcely made 
amends for the plunder of the corporation 
chest, — a measure resorted to on some frivo- 
lous pretext in the preceding reign, amongst 
many similar ways and means of King .Jamie. 
But the grand evil of all was, that Belford 
happened to be so near the site of many of 
the battles and sieges of the Civil War, that 
the inhabitants had an undesired opportunity 
of judging with great nicety which of the two 
contending parties did most harm in friendly 
quarters, and whether the reprobate cavaliers 
of the royal army, or the godly troopers of 
the parliamentary forces, were the more op- 
pressive and mischievous inmates of a peace- 
fiil town. Even the wise rule of Cromwell, 
excellent as regarded the restoration of pros- 
perity within the realm, went but a little way 
in compensating for the long years of turmoil 
and disaster through which it had been ob- 



ROSAMOND. 



467 



tained ; and although warned by the fines and 
penalties levied on the corporation by James 
the First of " happy memory," and aware 
that his grandson had, with somewhat dimin- 
ished facilities for performing the operation, 
an equal taste for extracting money from the 
pockets of the lieges, that prudent body con- 
trived to turn so readily with every wind 
during that stormy and changeable reign, that 
even Archbishop Laud's star-chamber itself 
must have pronounced their loyalty as unim- 
peachable as that of the docile and ductile 
Vicar of Bray, yet, such had been the effect 
of those different drawbacks, of the royal 
mulcts and fines and penalties, and of the ex- 
actions of the soldiery, in the Civil War, that 
the good town of Belford was hardly so opu- 
lent as its importance as a county town and 
its situation on the great river might seem to 
indicate, and by no means so gay as might 
have been expected from its vicinity to Lon- 
don and Oxford, and the royal residences of 
Hampton and Windsor. 

"A dull, dreary, gloomy, ugly place as 
ever poor maiden was mewed up in I" it was 
pronounced by the fair Rosamond Norton, the 
ward and kinswoman of old Anthony Shawe, 
apothecary and herbalist, at the sio-n of the 
Golden Mortar, on the south end of the High 
Bridge, — " the dullest, dreariest, gloomiest, 
ugliest place that ever was built by hands ! 
She was sure," she said, " that there was not 
such a melancholy, moping town in all Eng- 
land ; and the people in it — the few folk that 
there were — looked sickly and pining, like the 
great orange-tree in a little pot in Master 
Shawe's green-house, or fretful and discon- 
tented like her own lark in his wired cage. 
Master Anthony was very kind to her — that 
she needs must say; but Belford and the Gold- 
en Mortar vv-as a dreary dwelling-place for a 
young gentlewoman !" 

And yet was Belford in those days a pretty 
place — prettier, perhaps, than now— :-with its 
old-fashioned picturesque streets, mingled with 
trees and gardens radiating from the ample 
market-place; its beautiful churches; the 
Forbury, with its open lawn and mall-like 
walk; the suburban clusters of rural dwell- 
ings in ',he outskirts of the town ; and the 
bright clear river running through its centre 
like a waving line of light: a pretty place 
must Belford have been in those days ! And 
a prettier dwelling than the Golden Mortar 
could hardly have been found within the pre- 
cincts of the town or of the county. 

The outward appearance of the house, as 
seen from the street, was indeed sufficiently 
unpromising. It was an irregular, low-brow- 
ed tenement, separated from the river by two 
or three warehouses and granaries; and the 
shop, a couple of steps lower than the street, 
so that the descent into it had somewhat the 
effect of walking down into a cellar, was, al- 
though sufficiently spacious, dark and gloomy. 



The shelves, too, filled with bundles of dried 
camomile, saxifrage, pellitory, vervain, cole- 
mint, and a thousand other such herbs (vide 
our friend Nicholas Culpeper), with boxes 
of costly spices, rare gums, and mineral pow- 
ders, and bottles filled with such oils and dis- 
tilled waters as formed the fashionable medi- 
cines of the time, — had a certain dingy and 
ominous appearance, much increased by divers 
stuffed curiosities from foreign parts, amongst 
which an alligator suspended from the ceiling 
was the most conspicuous, and sundry glass 
jars, containing pickled reptiles and insects 
of various sorts, snakes, lizards, toads, spi- 
ders, and locusts; whilst a dusky, smoky 
laboratory, into w' ich the shop opened, fitted 
up with stills, retorts, alembics, furnaces, and 
all the chemical apparatus of tiie day, added 
to the gloominess and discomfort of the gene- 
ral impression. 

But, in one corner of that unpleasant-look- 
ing shop, fenced from general observation by 
a brown stuff curtain, was a flight of steps 
leading into apartments, not large indeed, but so 
light, so airy, so pleasant, so comfortable, that 
the transition from one side of the house to 
the other was like passing from night into day. 
These were the apartments of Rosamond. 
They opened too into a large garden, em- 
bracing the whole space behind the granaries 
and warehouses that led to the river-side, and 
extending back until stopped by wharfs for 
coals and timber, too valuable to be purchased : 
— for his garden was Anthony Shawe's de- 
light ; who, a botanist and a traveller, a friend 
of Evelyn's and a zealous cultivator of foreign 
plants, had filled the whole plot of ground 
with rare herbs and choice flowers, and had 
even attained to the luxury of a cold, damp, 
dark house for greens, where certain orange 
and lemon trees, myrtles, laurustinuses, and 
phillyreas languished through the winter, and 
were held for miracles of bounty and profusion, 
if in some unusually fine summer they had 
strength enough to bear blossoms and fruit. 
Ah me ! what would Master Anthony Shawe 
and his worthy friend Master Evelyn say if 
they could but look upon the pits, the stove- 
houses, the conservatories, the gardening- 
doings of these horticultural days! I question 
if steam-boats and rail-roads would astonish 
them half so much. 

Nevertheless, that garden, in spite of its 
cold greenhouse, was in its less pretending 
parts a place of exceeding pleasantness, — 
rich to profusion in the most beautiful of the j 
English plants and shrubs, pinks, lilies, | 
roses, jessamine, and fragrant in the aromatic j 
herbs of all countries, which, together with ' 
the roots and leaves of flowers, formed so j 
large a part of the materia medica of the time. 
So exceedingly pleasant was that garden, kept 
by constant watering in a state of delicious 
and dewy freshness that might v'e with an 
April meadow, that I could almost sympathize 



468 



BELFORD REGIS. 



with Anthony Shawe, and wonder what Rosa- 
mond could wish for more. 

Her little sitting-room was nearly as de- 
lig^htful as tlie flowery territory into which it 
led by a broad flijrht of steps from a small ter- 
race with a stone balustrade, that ran along 
the back of the house. Master Anthony's 
ruling taste predominated even in the fitting 
up of this maiden's bower : the Flemish hang- 
ings were gorgeous, with hollyhocks, tulips, 
poppies, peonies, and other showy blossoms; 
a beautifully-finished flower-piece, by the old 
artist Colantonio del Fiore, which Anthony 
had himself brought from Naples, hung on one 
side of the room ; a silver vessel for perfumes, 
adorned with an exquisitely-wrought device of 
vine-leaves with their tendrils, and ivies with 
their buds, in the matchless chasing of Ben- 
venuto Cellini, stood on a marble slab beneath 
the mirror; and around that Venetian mirror 
was a recent acquisition, a work of art more 
precious and more beautiful than all — a gar- 
land of roses and honeysuckles, of anemones 
and water-lilies, of the loose pendent laburnum 
and the close clustering hyacinth, in the un- 
rivalled carving of Gibbon; a garland, whose 
light and wreathy grace, whose depth and 
richness of execution, and incomparable truth 
of delineation, both in the foliage and the 
blossoms, seemed to want nothing but colour 
to vie with Nature herself. Persian carpets, 
gay with the gorgeous vegetation of the East, 
covered the floor, and the low stool on which 
she was accustomed to sit ; the high-backed 
ebony chair, sacred to Master Anthony, boast- 
ed its bunch of embroidered carnations on the 
cushion ; the vases that crowned the balustrade 
were filled with aloes and other foreign plants ; 
jessamines and musk-roses were trained around 
the casement. All was gay and smiling, 
bright to the eye and sweet to the scent; yet 
still the ungrateful Rosamond pronounced Bel- 
ford to be the dullest, dreariest, gloomiest town 
that was ever built by hands, and the Golden 
Mortar the saddest and dreariest abode where- 
in ever young maiden was condemned to so- 
journ : and if any one of the few neighbours 
and companions who were admitted to con- 
verse with the young beauty ventured, by way 
of consolation, t. advert to the ornaments of 
her chamber — ornaments so unusual in that 
rank and age, that their possession excited 
something of envy mingled with wonder, — 
the perverse damsel would point to her im- 
prisoned lark, chafing its feathers and beating 
its speckled breast against the bars of its cage, 
and ask whether the poor bird were happier 
for the bars being gilded 1 

Rosamond Norton was very distantly related 
to her kind guardian. She was the daughter 
of one whom, thirty years before (the date of 
which we are now speaking is 1602), he had 
loved with a fondness, an ardour, an intensity, 
a constancy, that deserved a better return : — 
the object of his passion, a light and laughing 



beauty, had preferred a gay and gallant cav- 
alier to her grave and studious and some- 
what puritanical cousin ; had married Reginald 
Norton, then an officer in the king's service; 
had followed the fortunes of the royal family; 
and had led a roving and desultory life, some- 
times in great indigence, sometimes in brief 
gaiety, as remittances from her family in Eng- 
land arrived or failed, until, on the death of 
her husband, she returned to take possession, 
by the clemency of the Lord Protector, of her 
paternal estate near Belford, bringing with her 
our friend Rosamond, her only surviving 
daughter; whom, on her death about a twelve- 
month after the Restoration, she bequeathed 
to the care and guardianship of her true friend 
and loving kinsman Anthony Shawe. 

Anthony, on his part, had felt the influence 
of his early disappointment throughout his 
apparently calm and prosperous destiny. For 
some few years after Mrs. Norton's marriage, 
he had travelled to Italy and the Levant — 
countries interesting in every respect to a sci- 
entific and inquiring mind, and especially 
gratifying to his researches in medicine and 
botany ; and on his return he had established 
himself in his native town of Belford, pursu- 
ing, partly for profit and partly from an honest 
desire to be of some service in his generation, 
the mingled vocation of herbalist, apothecary, 
and physician. Sick or poor might always 
command his readiest service — the poor per- 
haps rather more certainly than the rich; and 
his skill, his kindness, and his almost unlim- 
ited charity rendered him universally respected 
and beloved. 

Master Anthony had, however, his pecu- 
liarities. In religion he was a puritan; in 
politics, a roundhead : and although his 
peaceful pursuits and quiet demeanour, as 
well as the general good-will of his neigh- 
bours, had protected him from any molestation 
in the change of government that followed 
quickly on the death of Cromwell, yet his 
own strong prejudices, which the license of 
Charles's conduct contributed hourly to aug- 
ment, the rigid austerity of his notions, and 
the solemn gravity of his deportment, rendered 
him, however kind and indulgent, no very ac- 
ceptable guardian to a young and lovely wo- 
man, brought up in the contrary extremes of 
a romantic loyalty — a bigoted attachment to 
the forms and tenets of the high church, an 
unrestrained habit of personal liberty, and a 
love of variety and of innocent amusement 
natural to a lively and high-spirited girl. 

Grateful, affectionate, and amiable in hei 
disposition, with a warm heart and a pliant 
temper, it is however more than probable that 
Rosamond Norton would soon have lost, in 
the aff"ectionate cares of her guardian, her pet- 
tish resentment at the unwonted restraints and 
wearisome monotony of her too tranquil abode, 
and would have taken root in her new habita- 
tion in little more time than it takes to settle 



ROSAMOND. 



4G9 



a transplanted flower, had not a far deeper 
and more powerful motive of disunion existed 
between them. 

Whilst wanderintr with her parents from 
city to city abroad, she had "become acquainted 
with a lad a few years older than herself — a 
relation of Rochester's, in the service of the 
kintr. — and an attachment warm, fervent, and 
indissoluble had ensued between the young' 
exiles. When a^ain for a short time in Lon- 
don with her mother, after the Restoration, 
the faithful lovers had met, and had renewed 
their engagement. Mrs. Norton, although 
not opposing the union, had desired some 
delay, and bad died suddenly during the in- 
terval, leaving poor Rosamond in the guar- 
dianship of one who, of all men alive, was 
most certain to oppose the marriage. A 
courtier ! a placeman ! a kinsman of Roches- 
ter ! — a favourite of Charles I Master An- 
I thony would have thought present death a 
I more hopeful destiny ! That the young man 
was, in a position replete with danger and 
I temptation, of unimpeachable morality and 
unexceptionable conduct, — that he was as 
prudent as he was liberal, as good as he was 
gay, — mattered little; he would not have be- 
lieved her assertions, although an angel had 
come from heaven to attest their truth. The 
first act of his authority as guardian was to 
forbid her holding any communication with 
her lover; and poor Rosamond's bitter decla- 
mation on the dullness and ugliness of Belford 
and the Golden Mortar might ail be construed 
into one simple meaning, — that Belford was 
a place wbere Richard Tyson was not. 

We have it however upon high authority, 
that through whatever obstacles may oppose 
themselves. Love will find out the way ; and 
it is not wondered that, a few evenings after 
the commencement of our story, Richard 
Tyson, young and active, should have rowed 
his little boat up the river — have moored it in 
a small creek belonging to the wharf of which 
we have made mention, at the end of Master 
Anthony's garden — have climbed by the aid 
of a pile of timber to the top of the wall — 
have leaped down on a sloping bank of turf, 
which rendered the descent safe and easy — 
and finally have hidden himself in a tiiicket 
of roses and honeysuckles, then in full bloom, 
to await the arrival of the lady of his heart. 
It was a lovely evening in the latter end of 
May, glowing, dewy, and fragrant as ever the 
nigbiingale selected for the wooing of the 
rose; and before the light had paled in the 
west, or the evening star glittered in the water, 
Richard's heart beat high within him at the 
sound of a light footstep and the rustling of a 
silken robe. She was alone — he was sure of 
that — and he began to sing in a subdued tone 
a few words of a cavalier song which had 
been the signal of their meetings long ago, 
when, little more than boy and girl, the affec- 
tion to which they hardly dared to give a 



name had grown up between them in a foreign 
land. He sang a few words of that air which 
had been his summons at Brussels and the 
Hague, and in a moment the fair Rosamond, 
in the flowing dress which Lely has so often 
painted, and in all the glow of her animated 
beauty, stood panting and breathless before 
him. 

What need to detail the interview 1 He 
pressed for an instant elopement — an imme- 
diate union, authorized by Rochester, con- 
nived at by the King; and she (such is the 
inconsistency of the human heart!) clung to 
the guardian whose rule she had thought so 
arbitrary — the home she had called so dreary: 
" she could not and would not leave Master 
Anthony;" all his kindness, his patient en- 
durance of her pettishness, his fond anticipa- 
tion of her wishes, his affectionate admoni- 
tions, his tender cares, rose before her as she 
thought of forsaking him ; the good old man 
himself, with his thin and care-bent figure, 
his sad-coloured suit so accurately neat, and 
his mild, benevolent countenance, his vene- 
rable white head — all rose before her as she 
listened to the solicitations of her lover. 
" She could not leave Master Anthony ! — she 
would wait till she was of age!" 

" When you know, Rosamond, that your 
too careful mother fixed five-and-twenty as the 
period at which you were to attain your ma- 
jority ! How can I live during these tedious 
years of suspense and se[)aration 1 Have we 
not already been too long parted 1 Come 
with me, sweetest! Come, I beseech you !" 

" Wait, then, till the good old man con- 
sents ]" 

" And that will be never ! Trifle no longer, 
dearest !" 

" I cannot leave Master Anthony ! I cannot 
abandon him in his old age!" 

And yet how Richard managed, Love only 
knows ; but before the twilight darkened into 
night, the fair Rosamond was seated at his 
side, rowing quickly down the stream in his 
little boat to the lonely fisherman's liut, about 
a mile from Belford, where swift horses and 
a trusty servant awaited their arrival ; and 
before noon the next day the young couple 
were married. 

The power of the court, in nothing more 
unscrupulously exercised than in the affairs 
of wardships, speedily compelled Master An- 
thony to place Rosamond's fortune unreserv- 
edly in the hands of her husband, and the 
excellent conduct of the young man on an \ 
occasion not a little trying, the gratitude with ' 
which he acknowledged the good management I 
of her offended guardian, and begged him to 
dictate his own terms as to the settlements 
that should be made upon her, and to name j 
himself the proper trustees — his deep personal 
respect, and earnest entreaties for the pardon 
and reconciliation, without which his wife's 
happiness would be incomplete, — were such 



40 



470 



BELFORD REGIS. 



as might have mollified a harder heart than 
that of Master Shawe. That he continued 
obdurate, arose chiefly from the excess of his 
past fondness. In the course of his long life 
he had fnndly loved two persons, and two 
only — Rosamond and her mother. The mar- 
riage of the first iiad fallen like a blight upon 
his manhood, had withered his affections, and 
palsied his energies in middle age; and now 
that the second object of his tenderness, the 
charming creature whom, for her own sake 
and for the remembrance of his early passion, 
he had loved as liis own daughter — now that 
she had forsaken him, he was conscious of a 
bitterness of feeling, a vexed and angry grief, 
that seemed to turn his blood into gall. His 
mind settled down into a stern and moody 
resentment, to which forgiveness seemed im- 
possible. 

Rosamond grieved as an affectionatt and 
grateful heart does grieve over the anger of 
her venerable guardian ; and she grieved the 
more because her conscience told her that his 
displeasure, however excessive, was not un- 
deserved. She that had been so repining and 
unthankful whilst the object of cares and the 
inmate of his mansion, now thought of the 
good old man with an aching gratitude, a 
yearning tenderness, all the deeper that these 
feelings were wholly unavailing. It was like 
the fond relenting, the too-late repentance with 
which we so often hang over the tomb of the 
dead, remembering all their past affection, and 
feeling how little we deserved, how inade- 
quately we acknowledged it. Stern as he was, 
if Master Anthony could have seen into Rosa- 
mond's bosom, as she walked on a summer 
evening beneath the great lime-trees that over- 
hung the murmuring Loddon, as it glided by 
her own garden at Burnham Manor, remind- 
ing her of the bright and silvery Kennet, and 
of the perfumed flower-garden by the High 
Bridge, — could he at such a moment have read 
her inmost thoughts, have penetrated into her 
most hidden feelings, angry as he was. Master 
Shawe would have forgiven her. 

This source of regret was, however, the sol- 
itary cloud, the single shadow that passed 
over her happiness. Richard Tyson proved 
exactly the husband that she had anticipated 
from his conduct and character as a lover. 
Adversity had done for him what it had failed 
to do for his master, and had prepared him to 
enjoy his present blessings with thankfulness 
and moderation. Attached to the court by ties 
which it was impossible to break, he yet re- 
sisted the temptation of carrying his young and 
beautiful wife into an atmosphere of so much 
danger. She lived at her own paternal seat 
of Burnham Manor, and he spent all the time 
that he could spare from his official station in 
that pleasant retirement — the easy distance 
of Burnham (which lay about six or seven 
miles east of Belford) from London, Wind- 
sor, and Hampton Court, rendering the union 



of his public duties and his domestic plea- 
sures comparatively easy. 

So three years glided happily away, un- 
troubled except by an occasional thought of 
her poor old guardian, whose "good white 
head," and pale, thoughtful countenance, 
would often rise unbidden to her memory. 
Three years had elapsed, and Rosamond was 
now the careful mother of two children ; the 
one a delicate girl, about fourteen months old ; 
the other a bold, sturdy boy, a twelvemonth 
older, to whom, with her husband's permis- 
sion, she had given the name of Anthony. 
That kind husband was abroad on a mission 
of considerable delicacy, though of little 
ostensible importance, at one of the Italian 
courts; and his loving wife rejoiced in his 
absence — rejoiced even in the probability of j 
its duration — for this was the summer of 1G65, 
and the fearful pestilence, the great Plague of 
London, was hovering like a demon over the 
devoted nation. 

This is not the place in which to attempt a 
description of those horrors, familiar to every ! 
reader through the minute and accurate narra- 
tives of Pepys and Evelyn, and the graphic 
pictures of De Foe. In the depths of her 
tranquil seclusion, the young matron heard 
the distant rumours of that tremendous visita- 
tion on the devoted city, and clasping her 
children to her breast, blessed Heaven that 
they were safe in their country home, and that 
their dear father was far away. Had he been 
in England — in London — attending, as was 
the duty of his ofFice, about the person of the 
king, how could the poor Rosamond have en- 
dured such a trial ! 

A day of grievous trial did arrive, although 
of a different nature. The panic-struck fugi- 
tives who fled from the city in hopes of shun- 
ning the disease, brought the infection with 
them into the country; and it was soon known 
in the little village of Burnhatii, that the 
plague raged in Belford : the markets, they 
said, were deserted ; the shops were closed ; 
visiters and watchmen were appointed ; the 
fatal cross was affixed against the infected 
houses; and the only sounds heard in those 
once busy streets, were the tolling of the bell 
by day, and the ruiubling of the dead-cart by 
night. London itself was not more grievously 
visited. 

" And Master Anthony '?" inquired Rosa- 
mond, as she listened with breathless horror 
to this fearful intelligence — " Master Anthony 
Shawe ■?" 

The answer was such as she anticipated. 
In that deserted town Master Anthony was 
everywhere, succouring the sick, comforting 
the afllicted, relieving the poor; he alone 
walked the streets of that stricken city as 
fearlessly as if he bore a charmed life. 

" Comforting and relieving others, and him- 
self deserted and alone !'' exclaimed Rosa- 
mond, bursting into a flood of tears. " God 



ROSAMOND. 



471 



biess him! God preserve him!" — "If he 
should die without forgiving me !" added she, 
wringing her hands with all the bitterness of 
a grief quickened by remorse — "If he should 
die without forgiving me !" And Rosamond 
wept as if her very heart would break. 

Better hopes, however, soon arose. She 
knew that Master Anthony, singularly skilful 
in almost all disorders, had, when in the Le- 
vant, made a particular study of the fearful 
pestilence that was now raging about him ; 
he had even instructed her in the symptoms, 
the preventives, and the treatment of a malady 
from which, in those days, London was seldom 
entirely free ; and above all, she knew him to 
have a confirmed belief, that they who fear- 
lessly ministered to the sick, who did their 
duty with proper caution, but without dread, 
seldom fell victims to the disorder. Rosamond 
remembered how often she had heard him say 
that " a godly courage was the best preserva- 
tive !" She remembered the words, and the 
assured yet reverent look with which he spake 
them, and she wiped away her tears and was 
comforted. 

Li the peaceful retirement of Burnham, one 
of the small secluded villages which lie along 
the course of the Loddon, remote from great 
roads, — a pastoral valley, hidden as it were 
amongst its own rich woodlands ; in this calm 
seclusion she and her children and her house- 
hold were as safe as if the pestilence had 
never visited England. All her anxieties 
turned, therefore, towards Belford ; and Reu- 
ben Spence, an old and faithful servant, who 
had lived with her mother before her marriage, 
and had known Master Anthony all his life, 
contrived to procure her daily tidings of his 
welfare. 

For some time these reports were sufficiently 
satisfactory: he was still seen about the streets 
on his errands of mercy. But one evening 
Reuben, on his return from his usual inquiries, 
hesitated to appear before his lady, and, when 
he did attend her repeated summons, wore a 
face of such dismay that, struck with a sure 
presage of evil, Rosamond exclaimed with 
desperate calmness, " He is dead ! I can bear 
it. Tell me at once. He is dead ]" 

Reuben hastened to assure her that she was 
mistaken — that Master Anthony was not dead; 
but in answer to her eager inquiries he was 
compelled to answer, that he was said to be 
smitten with the disorder, that the fatal sign 
was on the door, and that there were rumours, 
for the truth of which he could not take upon 
himself to vouch, of plunder and abandon- 
ment, — that a trusted servant was said to have 
robbed the old I'fcan and then deserted him, and 
that he who had been during this visitation 
the ministering angel of the town, was now 
left to die neglected and alone. 

" Alone I — but did 1 not leave him ?• Aban- 
doned ! — did not I abandon hitii'? Gracious 
God ! direct me, and protect those poor inno- 



cents !" cried Rosamond, glancing on her 
children ; and then ordering her palfrey to be 
made ready, she tore herself from the sleeping 
infants, wrote a brief letter to her husband, 
and silencing by an unusual exertion of au- 
thority the affectionate remonstrances of her 
household, who all guessed but too truly the 
place of her destination, set forth on the road 
to Belford, accompanied by old Reuben, who 
in vain assured her that she was risking her 
life to no purpose, for that the watchman 
would let no one enter an infected house. 

"Alas!" replied Rosamond, "did I not 
leave that house ] I shall find no difficulty in 
entering." 

Accordingly she directed her course through 
the by-lanes leading to the old ruins, and then, 
stopping short at the Abbey Bridge, dismissed 
her faithful attendant, who cried like a child 
on parting from his fair mistress, and follow- 
ing the course of the river, reached the well- 
known timber-wharf, and scaling with some 
little difficulty the wall over which her own 
Richard had assisted her so fondly upwards 
of three years before, found herself once again 
in Master Anthony's pleasant garden. 

What a desolation ! what a change ! It was 
now the middle of September, and for many 
weeks the over-grown herbs and flowers had 
been left ungathered, unwatered, untended, un- 
cared for ; so that all looked wild and withered, 
neglected and decayed. The foot of man too 
had been there, trampling and treading down. 
The genius of Destruction seemed hovering 
over the place. All around the house, the gar- 
den, the river, the town, was as silent as death ; 
the only sign of human habitation vs'as one 
glimmering light in the upper window of a 
humble dwelling across the water, where some 
poor wretch lay, perhaps at that very moment 
in his last agonies. Except that one small 
taper, all was dark and still ; not a leaf stir- 
red in the night-wind ; the very air was hush- 
ed and heavy, and Nature herself seemed at 
pause. 

Rosamond lingered a moment in the garden, 
awe-strupk with the desolation of the scene. 
She then applied herself to the task of gather- 
ing such aromatic herbs as were reckoned 
powerful against infection; for the hap|)y wife, 
the tender mother, knew well the value of the 
life that she risked. Poor old Reuben, her 
faithful servant, proved that he also was con- 
scious how precious was that life. Suspect- 
ing their destination, he had packed in a little 
basket such perfumes and cordials, and fra- 
grant gums, as he thought most likely to pre- 
serve his fair mistress from the dreaded mala- 
dy ; and when reluctantly obeying her com- 
mands, and parting from her at the Abbey 
Bridge, he had put the basKet into her almost 
unconscious hand, together with a light which 
he had procured at a cottage by the way-side. 

Touched by the old man's affectionate care, 
which while gathering: the herbs she had first 



472 



BELFORD REGIS. 



discovered, Rosamond proceeded up the steps 
to her own old chamber. The door was ajar, 
and the state of the little apartment, its opened 
drawers and plundered ornaments, told too 
plainly that the vague account which by some 
indirect and untraceable channel had reached 
Reuben was actually true: that the trusted 
housekeeper had robbed her indulgent master, 
incited, it may be, by the cupidity of that try- 
ing hour, when every bad impulse sprang into 
action under the universal demoralization ; that 
the under-drudges had either joined her in the 
robbery, or had fled from the danger of con- 
tagion under the influence of a base and self- 
ish fear; and that her venerable guardian was 
abandoned, as so many others had been, to the 
mercy of some brutal watchman, whose only 
care was to examine once or twice a day 
whether the wretch whose door he guarded 
were still alive, and to report his death to the 
proper authorities. 

All this passed through Rosamond's mind 
with a loathing abhorrence of the vile ingrati- 
tude which had left him who had in the early 
stage of the pestilence been the guardian angel 
of the place, to perish alone and unsuccoured. 
" But did not I desert him !" exclaimed she 
aloud in the bitterness of her heart. " Did 
not I abandon him ! — I, whom he loved so 
well !" And immediately, attracted perhaps 
by the sound, which proved that some person 
was near him, a feeble voice called faintly 
for " water." 

With nervous haste Rosamond filled a jug 
and hurried to the small chamber — Master 
Anthony's own chamber — from whence the 
voice proceeded. The old man lay on the 
floor, dressed as if just returned from walking, 
his white head bare and his face nearly hidden 
by one arm. He still called faintly for water, 
and drank eagerly of the liquid as she raised 
that venerable head and held the jug to his 
lips ; then, exhausted with the effort, he sank 
back on the pillow that she placed for him; 
and his anxious attendant proceeded to exam- 
ine his countenance, and to seek on his breast 
and wrist for the terrible plague-spot, ^the fatal 
sign of the disorder. 

No such sign was there. Again and again 
did Rosamond gaze, wiping away her tears, 
— look searchingly on that pale benevolent 
face, and inspect the bosom and the arm. 
Again and again did she feel the feeble pulse 
and listen to the faint breathing; — again and 
again did she wipe away her tears of joy. 
It was exhaustion, inanition, fatigue, weak- 
ness, age ; it was even sickness, heavy sick- 
ness, — but not the sickness — not the plague. 

Oh, how Rosamond wept and ])rayed, and 
blessed God for his mercies during tiiat night's 
watching! Her venerable patient slept calm- 
ly — slept as if he knew that one whom he 
loved was bending over him ; and even in 
sleep his amendment was perceptible, — his 
pulse was I'Stronger, his breath .ng more free, 



and a gentle dew arose on his pale fore- 
head. 

As morning dawned — that dawning which 
in a sick room is oflen so very sad, but which 
to Rosamond seemed full of hope and life, — as 
morning dawned, the good old man awoke 
and called again for drink. Turning aside her 
face, she offered him a reviving cordial. He 
took it; and as he gave back the cup to her 
trembling hand, he knew that fair and dimpled 
hand, and the grace of that light figure: al- 
though her face was concealed, he knew her: 
— " Rosamond ! It is my Rosamond !" 

" Oh ! Master Anthony ! — dear Master An- 
thony ! Blessings on you for that kind word ! 
It is your own Rosamond ! Forgive her ! — for- 
give your own poor child !" 

And the blessed tears of reconciliation fell 
fast from the eyes of both. Never had Mas- 
ter Anthony known so soft, so gentle, so ten- 
der a mixture of affection and gratitude. Never 
had Rosamond, in all the joys of virtuous love, 
tasted of a felicity so exquisite and so pure. 

In the course of that morning, the good old 
Reuben, following, in spite of her prohibition, 
the track of his beloved mistress, made_his 
way into Master >Shawe's dwelling, accompa- 
nied by a poor widow whose son had been 
cured by his skill, and who came to oiler her 
services as his attendant: and in less than a 
fortnight the whole party, well and happy, 
were assembled in the great hall of Burnham 
Manor; Master Anthony with his young 
namesake on his knee, and Richard Tyson, re- 
turned from his embassy, dandling and tossing 
the lovely little girl, whom they all, especially 
her venerable guardian, pronounced to be the 
very image of his own fair Rosamond. 



OLD DAVID DYKES. 

One of my earliest recollections in Belford 
was of an aged and miserable-looking little 
man, yellow, withered, meagre and bent, who 
was known by every boy in the place as old 
David Dykes, and bad been popularly distin- 
guished by that epithet for twenty years or 
more. There was not so wretched an object 
in the town ; and his abode (for, destitute pau- 
per as he seemed, he actually had a habitation 
to himself) was still more forlorn and deplor- 
able than his personal appearance. The hovel 
in which he lived was the smallest, dirtiest, 
dingiest, and most riiinons, of a row of dirty, 
dingy, ruinous houses, gradually diminishing 
in height and size, and running down the cen- 
tre of the Butts, which at one end was divided 
into two narrow streets by this unsightly and 
unseemly wedge of tumble-down masonry. 
Old David's but consisted of nothing more 
than one dark, gloomy little room, which 
served him for a shop ; :i closet still smaller, 
beliind ; and a cock-loft, to which he ascended 



OLD DAVID DYKES. 



473 



by a ladder, and in no part of which could he 
stand upritrht, in the roof. 

The shnp was divided into two compart- 
ments ; one side beinor devoted to a paltry col- 
lection of second-hand clocks and watches, 
he being by trade a watchmaker, — and the 
other to a still more be<j(Tarly assortment of 
old clothes, in the purchase and disposal of 
which he was particularly skilful, beatino', al- 
thouo'h of Christian parentajre, all the Jews 
of the place in their own peculiar art of buy- 
ing cheap and selling dear. The manner in 
which he would cry down some half-worn 
gown or faded waistcoat, offering perhaps 
about a twentieth of its value, and affecting 
the most scornful "indifference as to the bar- 
gain ; the lynx-eye with which, looking up 
through his iron-rimmed spectacles from the 
clock-spring that he was engaged in cleaning, 
he would watch the conflict between neces- 
sity and indignation in the mind of the unfor- 
tunate vender; and then again the way in 
which, half-an-honr afterwards, he would ca- 
jole the dupe with a shilling into buying at 
five hundred per cent, profit what he had just 
purchased of the dupe without one, — might 
have read a lesson in the science of bargain- 
making to all Monmontli-street. 

At such a moment there was a self-satisfied 
chuckle in the old wrinkled cheeks, a twinkle 
in the keen grey eyes which peered up through 
the old spectacles and the shaggy grey eye- 
brows, and a clutch of delight in the manner 
in which the long, lean, trembling fingers 
closed over the money, which went very far 
to counteract the impression produced by his 
wretched appearance. At the moment of a 
successful deal, when he had gained a little 
dirty pelf by cheating to right and left, first 
the miserable seller, then the simple pur- 
chaser — at such a moment nobody could mis- 
take David Dykes for an object of charity. 
His very garments (the refuse of his shop, 
which even his ingenuity could not coax any 
one else into purchasing) assumed an air of 
ragged triumph ; and his old wig, the only 
article of luxury — that is to say, the only un- 
necessary piece of clothing about hiir., — that 
venerable scratch on which there was hardly 
hair enough left to tell the colour, actually 
bristled up with delight. Poor for a certainty 
David was; but it was poverty of mind, and 
not of circumstances. The man was a miser. 

This fact was of course perfectly well 
known to all his neighbours; and to this re- 
cognized and undeniable truth was added a 
strong suspicion that, in spite of his sordid 
traffic and apparently petty gains, David 
Dykes was not only a miser, but a rich miser. 

He had been the son of a small farmer in 
the neighbourhood of Belford, and appren- 
ticed to a watchmaker in the town ; and when, 
on the death of his parents, his elder brother 
had succeeded in the lease and stock, he, just 
out of his time, had employed the small por- 



tion of money which fell to his lot in purchas- 
ing and furnishing the identical shop in Mid- 
dle-row, in which he had continued ever since; 
and being a clever workman, and abundantly 
humble and punctual, speedily obtained a 
very fair share of em|)loyment, as the general 
cleaner and repairer of clocks and watches 
for half-a-dozen miles round. To this he soon 
added his successful trafirc in second-hand 
clothes and other articles ; and w-hen it is 
considered that for nearly sixty years he had 
never been known to miss earning a penny, 
or to incur the most trifling expense, it may 
be conceded that they who supposed him well 
to do in the world, were probably not much 
out in their calculations. 

His only companion was a fierce and faith- 
ful mastiff dog, one of dear Margaret Lane's 
army of pensioners. David had begged Boxer 
of her husband when a puppy; and Stephen, 
then a young man, and always good-natured 
and unwilling to refuse a neighbour, bestowed 
the high-blooded animal upon him with such 
stipulations as to care and food, as evinced his 
perfect knowledge of the watchmaker's char- 
acter. " Mind," said Stephen, " that you feed 
that pup well. Don't think to*starve him as 
you do yourself, for he's been used to good 
keep, and so have his father and mother be- 
fore him ; and if you 've got a notion in your 
head of his being' able to live as you live, 
upon a potato a day, why I give you fiiir 
warning that he won't stand it. Feed him 
properly, and he'll be a faithful friend, and 
take care of your shop and your money : but no 
starvation!" And David promised, intending 
perhaps to keep his word. But his notions 
of good feed were so different from Boxer's, 
that Stephen's misgivings' were completely 
realized. The poor puppy, haggard and emp- 
ty, found his way to his old master's yard, 
and catching sight of Mrs. Lane, crept towards 
her and crouched down at her feet, looking so 
piteously in her face, and licking the hand 
with which she patted his rough honest head 
so imploringly, that Margaret, who never 
could bear to see any sort of creature in any 
distress that she could relieve, immediately 
fetched him a dinner, and stood by whilst he 
ate it; and, somehow or other, a tacit com- 
pact ensued between her and Boxer, that ho 
should live with David Dykes — who, except 
in the matter of starving, was a kind master, 
— and come every day to her to be fed. And 
so it was settled, to the general satisfaction of 
all parties. 

Boxer therefore continued the watchmaker's 
companion — his only companion : for although 
he once, in a fit of most unusual self-indul- 
gence, contemplated taking an old woman as 
his housekeeper, to attend the shop when he 
went clock-cleaning into the country; liirht 
his fire during the very small portion of the 
year that he allowed himself such a luxury; 
make his bed — such as it was ; cook his din- 1 



40* 



3K 



474 



BELFORD REGIS, 



ner — when he had one, and perform for him 
those offices wherein he had been accustomed 
to "minister unto himself;" — and although 
he actually went so far as to hire a poor wo- 
man of approved honesty in that capacity upon 
very satisfactory terms, — that is to say, for 
her board and a certain portion of old clothes, 
and no wages, yet her notions upon the sub- 
ject of diet bearing- a greater resemblance to 
Boxer's than her master's, and she having 
unluckily no Margaret Lane to resort to, she 
took herself off at the end of eight-and-forty 
hours, and sought refuge in the workhouse of 
St. Nicholas, the strictest in the town, as an 
actual land of plenty in comparison with the 
watchmaker's dwelling. 

David — who, starved as she called herself, 
had thought her the greatest glutton in exist- 
ence, and begrudged her every morsel that 
she put into her mouth — was glad enough of 
the riddance. Old as he was, his habits were 
too lonely and unsocial, too peculiar and too 
independent of the services of others, to find 
any comfort in attendance and company. To 
save half an inch of candle by going to bed in 
the dark, and a quarter of a ()Ound of soap by 
washing his* own linen without that usual 
cotnpanion of the wash-tub ; to borrow a nee- 
dle and beg a bit of thread, and mend with 
his own hands his own stockings or his own 
shirt; to sew on the knees of his inexpressi- 
bles a button totally unlike the rest, — a metal 
button, for instance, when the others were 
bone, — or a bit of olive-coloured tape when 
the companion piece had once been drab; to 
patch his old brown coat with a hit of old 
black cloth ; to clout his old shoes with a 
piece of leather picked up in the streets; — to 
save money, in short, by any of those con- 
trivances and devices which the world calls 
most sordid, "iiad to him an inexpressible 
savour. There was a chuckle of ineffable 
satisfaction when he had by such means 
avoided the expenditure of twopence ; which 
proves that avarice has its pleasures high in 
degree, although low in kind. Ills delight in 
nnaking a good bargain was of the same na- 
ture, and perhaps more exquisite, since the 
])ride of successful cunning was added to the 
gratification of accumulation. A rise in the 
Three per Cents, was a less positive delight, 
since it was dashed with a considerable por- 
tion of anxiety ; for if Consols rose one day, 
they might fall the next. But the joy of all 
joys, the triumph of all triumphs, was on 
his half-yearly journeys to London, accom- 
plished partly on foot, jiartly by a cast in a 
cart or a wagon bestowed on him for charity, 
and partly by a sixj)enny ride on the outside 
of a coach. Then, when first receiving and 
then buying in his dividends, and looking on 
his hauk-receipis (those little bits of paper 
which replace so shabbily the tangible riches 
— the gold and precious stones which gave 
si.ch gorgeousness to the delights of avarice, 



as represented in the old poets,) — then he fel , 
in its fullest extent, the highest ecstasy of 
which a miser is capable. 

From the amount of these accumulations, 
successful speculations in loans or the money- 
market must have aided his scrapings and 
savings. Meeting him at the Bank, Stephen 
Lane became accidentally acquainted with the 
amount, and remonstrated with his usual good- 
humoured frankness on his not allowing him- 
self the comforts he could so well afford. 
"Wait," replied David, "till it mounts to 

another plum, and then!" Wait! and he 

was already turned of eighty ! 

For whom this fortune was destined, the 
owner himself would have found it difficult 
to say. His brother had long been dead, and 
his brother's son. The only survivor of the 
family was his grandnepbew and namesake, 
a young David Dykes, who left the paternal 
farm and set up a showy haberdasher's shop 
in Belford. A showy j'oung man he was him- 
self; bold, speculating, adventurous, plausi- 
ble ; with a surface of good-humour and a sub- 
stratum of selfishness. 

"He'll turn out a spendthrift," observed 
one day David the elder to our friend Stephen 
Lane. 

" Or a miser," replied the butcher, doubt- 
ingly. 

" We shall see," rejoined David, " whether 
he '11 take up the 20/. hill I cashed for him, — 
the first bill I ever cashed for anybody." 

And as the grandnephew did not take up 
the bill, the granduncle, provoked at having 
been for the first time in his life overreached, 
instantly arrested him ; and other creditors 
pouring in, he was confined in Belford gaol, 
with no other chance of release than the Li- 
solvent Act and the consciousness of having 
irreparably offended his old relation. 

Our miser, on his part, thought of nothing 
so much as of re[)lacing the twenty pounds ; 
redoubling for this purpose his industry, his 
abstemiousness, and his savings of every sort. 
It was a hard winter; hut he allowed himself 
neither fire nor candle, nor meat nor beer, 
living as Boxer and the housekeeper had re- 
fused to live, on water and potatoes. Accord- 
ingly, on one frosty morning, the watchmaker 
was missed in his accustomed haunts — the 
shop was unopened — Boxer was heard howl- 
ing within the house, and on breaking open 
the door the poor old man was found dead in 
his miserable bed. 

No will could be discovered ; and the kins- 
man whom he had caused to be arrested, the 
only person whom (thorougiily harmless and 
kindly in his general feeling) he had perhaps 
ever disliked in his life, came in as iieir-at- 
law for his immense fortune and all his pos- 
sessions. — excejit our friend Boxer, who wise- 
ly betook himself to iiis old refuge the butch- 
er's yard, and his old protectress Margaret 
Lane. 



THE DISSENTING MINISTER. 



475 



David Dykes the younger realized his 
Dfranduncle's predictions by getting through 
his fortune with incredible despatch; assisted 
in that mpritorious purpose by every pursuit 
that ever has been devised for speeding a tra- 
veller on the Road to Ruin, and aided by the 
very worst company in town and country. 
Horses, hounds, carriages, the gaming-table, 
and the turf, had each a share in his undoing; 
and the consummation was at last reserved 
for a contested election, which he lost on the 
same day that his principal gambling com- 
panion ran away with a French opera-dancer, 
who had condescended to reside in his house, 
wear his jewels, and to spend his money. 

Timon of Athens had never more cause to 
turn misanthrope; but misanthropy was too 
noble a disease to run in the Dykes' blood — 
their turn was different. 

No sooner was our prodigal completely 
ruined, than he vindicated Stephen Lane's 
knowledge of character; for, having spent 
and sold everything except the hovel in which 
the money was accumulated, and which in his 
prosperity had been overlooked as too mean 
an object for the hammer of the auctioneer, he 
came back to Belford, like the Heir of Lynne 
to his ruined Grange, established himself in 
thatidentiual old-clothes-shop, and found there, 
not indeed a hoard of gold, not a second ready- 
rnade fortune, but the power of amassing one 
by thrift and industry. 

There he may be seen any day, buying, 
selling, and barterintj. in much such a patched 
suit as his uncle's, wigged and spectacled like 
him, — I won't answer for the identity of the 
wig, but the spectacles must have been the 
very same pair which formerly adorned the 
nose of the original David, — just as saving, 
as scraping, as humble, as industrious, and, 
to sum up all, as miserly as his predecessor; 
looking as lean, as shrivelled, as care-worn, 
as crouching, and very nearly as old; and not 
at all unlikely — provided he also should, as 
your human anatomies so often do, wither on 
to the age of four-score, — by no means un- 
likely to accumulate a plum or two in his own 
proper person. 



THE DISSENTING MINISTER. 

" No, Victor I we shall never meet again. 
I feel that conviction burnt upon my very 
heart. We part now for the last time. You 
are returning to your own beautiful France, to 
your family, to your home : a captive released 
from his prison, an exile restored to his coun- 
try, gay, fortunate, and happy — what leisure 
have you to think of the poor .Ta-ner' 

"You forget, .Tane, that I am the soldier of 
a chief at war with all Europe, and that, in 
leaving England, I shall be sent instantly to 
fight fresh battles against some other nation. 



It is my only consolation that the conditions 
of my exchange forbid my being again op- 
posed to your countrymen. I go, dearest, not 
to encounter the temptations of peace, but the 
hardships of war." 

"The heroic hardships, the exciting dan- 
gers that you love so well ! Be it so. Battle, 
victory, peril, or death, on the one hand ; — on 
the other, the graces and the blandishments, 
the talents and the beauty of your lovely 
country-women ! What chance is there that 
I should be remembered either in the turmoil 
of a campaign, or the gaiety of a capital 1 
You will think of me (if indeed you should 
ever think of me at all) but as a part of the 
gloomiest scenes and the most cloudy days of 
your existence. As Belford contrasted with 
Paris, so shall I seem when placed in compe- 
tition with some fair Parisian. No, Victor ! 
we part, and I feel that we part for ever !" 

" Cruel and unjust! Shall yoti forget /ne?" 

" No ! To remember when hope is gone, is 
the melancholy privilege of woman. Forget 
you ! Oh that I could !" 

"Well then, Jane, my own Jane, put an 
end at once to these doubts, to these suspi- 
cions. Come with me to France, to my home. 
My mother is not rich ; — I am one of Napo- 
leon's poorest captains; but he has deigned 
to notice me ; — my promotion, if life be spared 
to me, is assured ; and in the mean time, we 
have enough for competence, for happiness. 
Come with me, my own Jane — you whose 
affection has been my only comfort during two 
years of captivity, come and share the joys of 
my release ! Nothing can be easier than your 
flight. No one suspects our attachment. Your 
father sleeps " 

" And you would have me abandon him ! 
me, his only child ! Alas ! Victor, if we were 
to desert him in his old age, could /ever sleep 
again 1 Go ! 1 am rightly punished for a love 
which, prejudiced as he is against your na- 
tion, I knew that he would condemn. It is 
fit that a clandestine attachment should end 
in desolation and misery. Go ! but oh, dear- 
est, talk no more of my accom[)anying you ; 
say no more that you will return to claim me 
at the peace : both are alike impossible. Go, 
and be happy with some younger, fairer wo- 
man ! Go, and forget the poor Jane !" And 
so saying, she gently disengaged her hand, 
which was clasped in both his, and passed 
quickly from the little garden where they 
stood into the house, where, for fear of disco- 
very, Victor dared not follow her. 

This dialogue, which, by the way, was held 
not as I have given it, in English, but in rapid 
and passionate French, took place at the close 
of a November evening in the autumn of 1808, 
between a young officer of the Imperial Army, 
on parole in Belford, and Jane Lauham, the 
only daughter, the only surviving child of old 
John Lanham, a corn-chandler in the town. 

Victor d'Auberval, the officer in question. 



476 



BELFORD REGIS. 



was a younor man of good eflucation, consi- 
derable talent, and a lively and anient charac- 
ter. He had been sent as a favour to Belford, 
together with fonr or five naval officers, with 
whom our j cane inilitaire had little in common 
besides his country and his misfortunes; and 
althouo-h incomparably better off than those 
of his conipnlriotes at Norman Cross and else- 
where, who solaced their leisure and relieved 
their necessities by cuttingr dominoes and 
other Uiiick-lcnacks out of bone, and ornament- 
\ng baskets and boxes with flowers and land- 
scapes composed of coloured straw, yet, beingr 
wholly unnoticed by the inhabitants of the 
town, and oblifjed, from the difficulty of ob- 
tainincr remittances, to practise occasionally a 
very severe economy, he would certainly have 
become a victim to the Eng^lish malady with 
a French name, styled ennui, had he not been 
preserved from that calamity by falling into 
the disease of ail climates, called love. 

Judnririof merely from outward circumstances, 
no one would seem less likely to ca{)tivate the 
handsome and brilliant Frenchman than Jane 
Lanham. Full four or five and twenty, and 
looking more, of a common height, common 
size, and, but for her beautiful dark eyes, 
common features, — her person, attired, as it 
always was, with perfect plainness and sim- 
plicity, had nothing to attract observation ; 
and her station, as the daughter of a man in 
trade, himself a rigid dissenter, and living in 
frugal retirement, rendered their meeting at 
all anything but probable. And she, grave, 
orderly, staid, demure, — she that eschewed 
pink ribbons as if she had been a female 
Friend, and would have thought it some sin 
to wear a bow of any hue in her straw bonnet, 
— who would ever have dreamt of .Tane Lan- 
ham being smitten with a tri-coloured cock- 
ade ■? 

So the matter fell out. 

John Lanham was, as we have said, a corn- 
chandler in Belford, and one who, in spite of 
his living in a small gloomy bouse, in a dark 
narrow lane leading from one oreat street to 
another, with no larger establishment than 
one maid of all work and a lad to take care 
of his horse and chaise, was yet reputed to 
possess considerable wealth. We was a dis- 
senter of a sect rifjid ana respectable rather 
than numerouf., and it was quoted in proof of 
his opulence, that in rebuilding the chapel 
which he attended, he had himself contributed 
the magnificent sum of three thousand pounds. 
Tie had lost several cltildren in their infancy, 
and his wife had died in bringing Jane into 
the world : so that the father, grave, stern, 
and severe to others, was yet bound by the 
tenderest of all ties, that of her entire "help- 
lessness and dependence, to his motherless 
girl, and spared nothing that, under his pecu- 
liar views of the world, could conduce to her 
hajjf)iness and well-being. 

His chief adviser and assistant in the little 



girl's education was his old friend Mr. Fenton, 
the minister of the congregation to which he 
belonged, — a man shrewd, upright, conscien- 
tious, and learned, but unfitted for his present 
post by two very important disqualifications: 
first, as an old bachelor who knew no more of 
the bringing up of children than of the train- 
ing of race-horses ; secondly, as having a 
complete and thorough contempt for the sex, 
whom he considered as so many animated 
dolls, or ornamented monkeys, frivolous and 
mischievous, and capable of notliiug better 
than the fulfilment of the lowest household 
duties. "Teach her to read and to write," 
quoth Mr. Fenton, "to keep accounts, to cut 
out a shirt, to mend stockings, to make a pud- 
ding, and to stay within doors, and you will 
have done your duty." 

According to this scale Jane's education 
seemed likely to be conducted, when a short 
visit from her mother's sister, just as she had 
entered her thirteenth year, made a slight ad- 
dition to her studies. Her aunt, a sensible 
and cultivated woman, assuming that the 
young ])rrsou who was growing up with ideas 
so limited was likely to inherit considerable 
property, would fain have converted Mr. Lan- 
bam to her own more enlarged and liberal 
views, have sent her to a good school, or have 
engaged an accomplisl.ed governess; but this 
attempt ended in a dispute that produced a 
total estrangement between the parties, and 
the only fruit of her remonstrances was the 
attendance of the good Abbe Villaret as a 
French master, — the study of French being, 
in the eyes both of Mr. Lanham and Mr. 
Fenton, a considerably less abomination than 
that of music, drawing, and dancing. " She'll 
make nothing of it," thought IMr. Fenton; "I 
myself did not, though I was at the expense 
of a grammar and a dictionary, and worked at 
it an hour a day for a month. She'll make 
nothing of it, so she ma)' as well try as not." 
And the Abbe was sent for, and the lessons 
benrun. 

This was a new era in the life of Jane 
Lanham. L'Abbe Villaret soon discovered 
throutrli the veil of shyness, awkwardness, 
icrnorance, and modesty, the great [powers of, 
his pupil. The difficulties of the language 
(lisajipeared as by manic, and she whose Kn- I 
glish reading had been restricted to the com- I 
monest elementary books, with a few volumes | 
of sectarian devotion, and "Watts's Hymns," | 
(for poetry she had never known, except the 
magnificent poetry of the Scriptures, and tlie 
homely but heart-stirring imaginations of the j 
" Pilgrim's Progress"), was now eagerly 
devouring the choicest and purest morccaux 
of French literature. Mr. Fenton having in- 
terdicted to the Abb('' the use of any works 
likely to convert the youiirr Protestant to the I 
Catholic faith, and Mr. Lanham (who Vad | 
never read one in his life) having added a ! 
caution against novels, Jane and her kind in- I 



THE DISSENTING MINISTER. 



477 



structor were left in other respects free: her 
father, who passed almost every day in the 
pursuit of his business in the neighbouring 
towns, and his pastor, who only visited him 
^ in an evening, having no suspicion of the 
many, many hours which she devoted to the 
new-born delight of poring over books; and 
the Abbe knew so well how to buy books 
cheaply, and Mr. Lanham gave him money 
for her use with so little inquiry as to its des- 
tination, that she soon accumulated a very re- 
spectable French library. 

What a new world for the young recluse ! 
— Racine, Corneille, Crebillon, the tragedies 
and histories of Voltaire, the ])icturesque re- 
volutions of Vertot, the enchanting letters of 
Madame de Sevigne, the Causes Celebres 
(more interesting than any novels), the Me- 
moires de Sully (most striking and most naif 
of histories), Telemaque, the young Anachar- 
sis, the purest comedies of Moliere and Reg- 
nard, the Fables de La Fontaine, the poems 
of Delille and of Boileau, the Vert-vert of 
Gresset, Le Pere Brumoy's Theatre des 
Grecs, Madame Dacier's Homer, — these, and 
a hundred books like these, burst as a freshly- 
acquired sense upon the shy yet ardent girl. 
It was like the recovery of sight to one be- 
come blind in infancy ; and the kindness of 
the Abbe, who delighted in answering her 
inquiries and directing her taste, increased a 
thousand-fold the profit and the pleasure 
which siie derived from her favourite authors. 
Excepting her good old instructor, she had 
no confidant. Certain that they would feel 
no sympathy in her gratification, she never 
spoke of her books either to her father or Mr. 
Fenton ; and they, satisfied with M. I'Abbe's 
calm report of her attention to his lessons, 
made no further inquiries. Her French stu- 
dies were, she felt, for herself, and herself 
alone; and when his tragical death deprived 
her of the friend and tutor whom she had so 
entirely loved and respected, reading became 
more and more a solitary pleasure. Outward- 
ly calm, silent, and retiring, — an affectionate 
daughter, an excellent housewife, and an at- 
tentive hostess, — she was Mr. Fenton's beau 
ideal of a young woman. Little did he sus- 
pect the glowing, enthusiastic, and concen- 
trated character that lurked under that cold 
exterior — the fire that was hidden under that 
white and virgin snow. Purer than she really 
was he could not fancy her ; but never would 
he have divined how much of tenderness and 
firmness was mingled with that youthful pu- 
rity, or how completely he had himself, by a 
life of restraint and seclusion, prepared her 
mind to yield to an engrossing and lasting- 
passion. 

Amongst her beloved French books, those 
which she preferred were undoubtedly the 
tragedies, the only dramas which had ever 
fallen in her way, and which exercised over 
her imagination the full power of that most 



striking and delightful of any species of lite- 
rature. We who know Shakspeare, — who 
have known him from our childhood, and are, 
as it were, "to his manner born," — feel at 
once that, compared with that greatest of 
poets, the "belles tirades" of Racine and of 
Corneille are cold, and false, and wearisome; 
but to one who had no such standard by which 
to measure the tragic dramatists of France, 
the mysterious and thrilling horrors of the old 
Greek stories which their tragedies so fre- 
quently embodied, — the woes of Thebes, the 
fated line of Pelops, the passion of Phaedra, 
and the desolation of Antigone, — were full of 
a strange and fearful power. Nor was the 
spell confined to the classical plays. The 
"Tragedies Chretiennes" — Esther and Atha- 
lie, — Polyeucte and Alzire — excited at least 
equal interest; while the contest between love 
and " la force- du sang," in The Cid, and Zaire, 
struck upon her with all the power of a pre- 
destined sympathy. She felt that she herself 
was born to such a trial ; and the presenti- 
ment was perhaps, as so often happens, in no 
small degree the cause of its own accomplish- 
ment. 

The accident by which she became ac- 
quainted with Victor d'Auberval may be told 
in a very few words. 

The nurse who had taken her on the death 
of her mother, and who still retained for her 
the strong affection so often inspired by foster 
children, was the wife of a respectable pub- 
lican in Queen-street; and being of excellent 
private character, and one of Mr. Fenton's 
congregation, was admitted to see .lane when- 
ever she liked, in a somewhat equivocal ca- 
pacity between a visiter and dependant. 

One evening she came in great haste to say 
that a Bristol coach which inned at the Red 
Lion had just dropped there two foreigners, a 
man and a woman, one of whom seemed to 
her fancy dying, whilst both appeared misera- 
bly poor, and neither could speak a word to 
be understood. W'ould her dear child come 
and interpret for the sick lady 1 

Jane went immediately. They were Italian 
musicians, on their way to Bristol, where they 
hoped to meet a friend and to procure employ- 
ment. In the meanwhile, the illness of the 
wife had stopped them on their journey; and 
their slender funds were, as the husband mo- 
destly confessed, little calculated to encounter 
the expenses of medical assistance and an 
English inn. 

Jane promised to represent the matter to her 
father, who, although hating Frenchmen and 
papists (both of which he assumed the fo- 
reigners to be) with a hatred eminently British 
and protestant, was yet too good a Christian 
to refuse moderate relief to fellow-creatures 
in distress; and between Mr. Lanham's con- 
tributions and the good landlady's kindness, 
and what Jane could spare from her own fru- 
gally-supplied purse, the poor Italians (for they 



478 



BELFORD REGIS, 



were sin<rers from Florence) were enabled to 
bear up during^ a detention of many days. 

Before they resumed their journey, their 
kind interpreter had heard from the grood 
hostess that they had found another friend, 
almost as poor as themselves, and previously 
unacquainted with them, in a French officer 
on parole in the town, to whom the simple 
fact of their being foreigners in distress in a 
strange land had supplied the place of recom- 
mendation or introduction; and when going 
the next day, laden with a few comforts for 
the invalids, to bid them farewell and to see 
them off, she met, for the first time, the young 
officer, who had been drawn by similar feel- 
ings to the door of the Red Lion. 

It was a bitter December day — one of those 
north-east winds which seem to blow through 
you, and which hardly any strength can stand ; 
and as the poor Italian in a thin summer waist- 
coat and a threadbare coat, took his seat on 
the top of the coach, shivering from head to 
foot, and his teeth already chattering amidst 
the sneers of the bear-skinned coachman, 
muffled up to his ears, and his warmly-clad 
fellow-passengers, Victor took off his own 
great-coat, tossed it smilingly to the freezing 
musician, and walked rapidly away as the 
coach drove off, uttering an exclamation some- 
what similar to Sir Philip Sidney's at Zutphen 
— " He wants it more than I do."* 

My friend Mr. Serle has said, in one of the 
finest plays of this century, — richer in great 
plays, let the critics rail as they will, than any 
age since the time of Elizabeth and her imme- 
diate successor; — Mr. Serle, speaking of the 
master-passion, has said, in "The Merchant 
of London," — 

" How many doors or entrances hath love 
Into the heart ^ — 
As many as the senses: 
All are love's portals; though, when the proudest 

comes, 
He comes as conquerors use, by his own path^- 
And sympathy 's that breach." 

And this single instance of sympathy and 
fellow-feeling (for the grateful Italians had 
spoken of Miss Lanham's kindness to M. 
d'Auberval) sealed the destiny of two warm 
hearts. 

Victor soon contrived to get introduced to 
Jane, by their mutual friend, the landlady of 
the Red Lion ; and, after that introduction, he 
manag(!d to meet her accidentally whenever 
there was no chance of interruption or disco- 
very ; which, as Jane had always been in the 
habit of taking long, solitary walks, happen- 
ed, it must be confessed, pretty often. He 
was charmed at the piquant contrast between 
her shy, retiring manners, and her ardent and 
enthusiastic character; and his national viva- 
city found a high gratification in her proficien- 



* St. Martin was canonized Cir an act altogether 
similar to that of Victor d'Auberval. 



cy in, and fondness for, his language and lite- 
rature; whilst she (so full of contradictions 
is love) found no less attraction in his igno- 
rance of F]nglish. She liked to have some- 
thing to teach her quick and lively pupil ; and 
he repaid her instructions by enlarging her 
knowledge of French authors, — by introducing 
to her the beautiful though dangerous paores 
of Rousseau, the lisjbt and brilliant waiters of 
memoirs, and the higher devotional eloquence 
of Bossuet, Massillon, and Bourdaloue, — the 
Lettres Spirituelles of Fenelon, and the equal- 
ly beautit^ul, though very different, works of 
Le Pere Pascal. 

vSo time wore on. The declaration of love 
had been made by one party ; and the confes- 
sion that that love was returned had been re- 
luctantly extorted from the other. Of what 
use was that confession] Never, as Jane 
declared, would she marry to displease her 
father; — and how, knowing as she well did 
all his prejudices, could she hope for his con- 
sent to a union with a prisoner, a soldier, a 
Frenchman, a Catholic'? Even Victor felt 
the itnpossibility. 

Still neither could forego the troubled hap- 
piness of these stolen interviews, chequered 
as they were with present alarms and future 
fears. Jane had no confidant. The reserve 
and perhaps the pride of her character pre- 
vented her confessing even to her affectionate 
nurse a clandestine attachment. But she half 
feared that her secret was suspected at least, 
if not wholly known, by Mr. Fenton ; and if 
known to him, assuredly it would be disclosed 
to her father; and the manner in which a wor- 
thy, wealthy, and disagreeable London suitor 
was pressed on her by both, (for hitherto Mr. 
Lanham had seemed averse to her marrying,) 
confirmed her in the apprehension. 

Still, however, they continued to meet, until 
suddenly, and without any warning, the ex- 
change that restored him to his country and 
tore him from her who had been his consola- 
tion in captivity, burst on thein like a thunder- 
clap ; and then Jane, with all the inconsisten- 
cy of a woman's heart, forgot her own vows 
never to marry him without the consent of her 
father, — forgot how impossible it appeared 
that that consent should ever be obtained, and 
dwelt wholly on the fear of his inconstancy 
— on the chance of his meeting some fair, and 
young, and fascinating Frenchwoman, and for- 
getting his own Jane; whilst he again and 
again pledged himself, when peace should 
come, to return to Belford and carry home in 
triunn|)h the only woman he could ever love. 
Until that happy day, they agreed, in the ab- 
sence of any safe medium of coir.munication, 
that it would be better not to write ; and so, 
in the midst of despondency on the one side, 
and ardent and sincere protestations on the 
other, they parted. 

Who shall describe Jane's desolation during 
the long and dreary winter that succeeded 



THE DISSENTING MINISTER. 



479 



tlieir separation ] That her secret was known, 
or at least strongly suspected, appeared to her 
certain ; and she more than guessed that her 
father's forbearance in not putting into words 
the grieved displeasure which he evidently 
felt, was owing to the kind but crabbed old 
bachelor Mr. Fenton, whose conduct towards 
herself — or rather, whose o|)inion of her pow- 
ers, appeared to have undergone a considera- 
ble change, and who, giving her credit for 
strength of mind, seemed chiefly bent on 
spurring her on to exert that strength to the 
utmost. He gave proof of that knowledge 
of human nature which the dissenting minis- 
ters so frequently possess, by seeking to turn 
her thoughts into a ditferent channel ; and by 
bringing her Milton and Cowper, and supply- 
ing her with English books of history and theo- 
logy, together with the lives of many pious 
and eminent men of his own persuasion, suc- 
ceeded not only in leading her into an interest- 
ing and profitable course of reading, but in 
beguiling her into an unexpected frankness of 
discussion on the subject of her new studies. 

In these discussions, he soon found the 
talent of the young person whom he had so 
long undervalued ; and constant to his con- 
tempt for the sex, (a heresy from which a man 
who has fallen into it seldom recovers,) began 
to consider her as a splendid exception to the 
general inanity of a woman ; a good opinion 
which received further confirmation from her 
devoted attention to her father, who was seized 
with a lingering illness about a twelvemonth 
after the departure of Victor, of which he 
finally died, after languishing for nearly two 
years, kept alive only by the tender and inces- 
sant cares of his daughter, and the sympathiz- 
ing visits of his friend. 

On opening the will, his beloved daughter, 
Jane, was found sole heiress to a fortune of 
70,000/.; — unless she should intermarry with 
a soldier, a papist, or a foreigner, in which 
case the entire property was bequeathed unre- 
servedly to the Rev. Samuel Fenton, to be 
disposed of by him according to his sole will 
and pleasure. 

Miss Lanham was less affected by this 
clause than might have been expected. Three 
years had now elapsed from the period of 
separation; and she had been so well obeyed, 
as never to have received one line from Victor 
d'Auberval. She feared that he was dead ; 
she tried to hope that he was unfaithful ; and 
the tremendous number of officers that had 
fallen in Napoleon's last battles, rendered the 
former by far the more probable catastrophe : 
— even if he had not previously fallen, the 
Russian campaign threatened extermination 
to the French army ; and poor Jane, in whose 
bosom hope had long lain dormant, hardly re- 
garded this fresh obstacle to her unhappy 
love. She felt that her's was a widowed 
heart, and that her future comfort must be 
sought in the calm pleasures of literature, and 



in contributing all that she could to the happi- 
ness of others. 

Attached to Belford by long habit, and by 
the recollection of past happiness and past 
sorrows, she continued in her old dwelling, 
making little other alteration in her way of 
life, than that of adding two or three servants 
to her establishment, and offering a home to 
her mother's sister — the aunt to whose inter- 
vention she owed the doubtful good of that 
proficiency in French which had introduced 
her to Victor, and whom unforeseen events 
had now reduced to absolute poverty. 

In her she found an intelligent and culti- 
vated companion ; and in her society and that 
of Mr. Fenton, and in the delight of a daily 
increasing library, her days passed calmly 
and pleasantly; when, in spite of all her reso- 
lutions, her serenity was disturbed by the vic- 
tories of the Allies, the fall of Napoleon, the 
capture of Paris, and the peace of Europe. 
Was Victor dead or alive, faithless or con- 
stant? Would he seek her? and seeing her, 
what would be his disappointment at the 
clause that parted them for ever? Ought she 
to remain in Belford ? Was there no way of 
ascertaining his fate? 

She was revolving these questions for the 
hundredth time, when a knock was heard at 
the door, and the servant announced Colonel 
d'Auberval. 

There is no describing such meetings. After 
sketching rapidly his fortunes since they part- 
ed ; how he had disobeyed her by writing, and 
how he had since found that his letters had 
miscarried ; and after brief assurances that in 
his eyes she was more than ever charming, 
had gained added grace, expression, and intel- 
ligence, — Jane began to communicate to him, 
at first with much agitation, afterwards with 
collected calmness, the clause in the will by 
which she forfeited all her property in marry- 
ing him. 

"Is it not cruel," added she, "to have lost 
the power of enriching him whom I love?" 

" You do love me, then, still ?" exclaimed 
Victor. " Blessings on you for that word ! 
You are still constant?" 

" Constant ! Oh, if you could have seen my 
heart during these long, long years ! If you 
could have imagined how the thought of you 
mingled with every recollection, every feel- 
ing, every hope ! But to bring you a penni- 
less wife, Victor — for even the interest of this 
money since my father's death, which might 
have been a little portion, I have settled upon 
my poor aunt: to take advantage of your ge- 
nerosity, and burthen you with a dowerless 
wife, — never handsome, no longer young, in- 
ferior to you in every way, — ought I to do so? 
Would it be just? would it be right? Answer 
me, Victor." 

" Rather tell me, would it be jus* and right 
to deprive yoii of the splendid fortune you 
would use so well ? Would you, for my sake, 



480 



BELFORD REGIS. 



for love, and for competency, forego the wealth 
which is your own T' 

" Would 1 1 Oh, how can you ask !" 

"Will you, then, my own Jane] Say yes, 
dearest, and never will we think of this mo- 
ney again. I have a mother worthy to be 
yours — a mother who will love and value you 
as you deserve to be loved ; and an estate 
with a small chateau at tiie foot of the Pyre- 
nees, beautiful enough to make an emperor 
forget his throne. Share it with me, and we 
shall be happier in that peaceful retirement 
than ever monarch was or can be ! You love 
the country. You have lost none of the sim- 
plicity which belonged to you, alike from 
taste and from habit. You will not miss 
these riches 1" 

"Oh, no! no!" 

" And you will be mine, dearest and faith- 
fullest ■? Mine, heart and hand 1 Say yes, 
mine own Jane !" 

And Jane did whisper, between smiles and 
tears, that "yes," which her faithful lover 
was never weary of hearing : and in a shorter 
time than it takes to tell it, all the details of 
the marriage were settled. 

In the evening, l\Ir. Fenton, whom Miss 
Lanham had invited to tea, arrived ; and in a 
few simple words, Jane introduced Colonel 
d'Auberval, explained their mutual situation, 
and declared her resolution of relinquishing 
immediately the fortune which, by her father's 
will, would be triply forfeited by her union 
with a soldier, a foreigner, and a Catholic. 

"And your religion 1" inquired ]Mr. Fenton, 
somewhat sternly. 

" Shall ever be sacred in my eyes," replied 
Victor, solemnly. " My own excellent mother 
is herself a Protestant and a Calvinist. There 
is a clergyman of that persuasion at Bayonne. 
She shall find every facility for the exercise 
of her own mode of worship. I should love 
her less, if I thought her capable of change." 

"Well, but this money: — Are you sure, 
young man, that you yourself will not regret 
marrying a portionless wife?" 

" Quite sure. I knew nothing of her for- 
tune. It was a portionless wife that I came 
hither to seek." 

"And you, Jane? -Can you abandon this 
wealth, which, propedy used, comprises in 
itself the blessed power of doing good, of re- 
lieving misery, of conferring happiness'? Can 
you leave your home, your country, and your 
friends]" 

" Oh, Mr. Fenton !" replied Jane, " I shall 
regret none but you. His home will be my 
home, his country my ijountry. My dear aunt 
will, I hope, accompany us; I shall leave no- 
thing that 1 love but you, my second father. 
And for this fortune, which, used as it should 
be used, is indeed a blessin:^ — do I not leave 
it in your hands] And am I not sure that 
with you it will be a fund for relieving misery 
and conferring happiness] I feel that if, at 



this moment, t.e whom I have lost could see 
into n)y heart, he would approve my resolu- 
tion, and wotjld bless the man who had 
shown such 3isinterested affection for his 
child." 

" In his name and my own, / bless you, 
my children," rejoined Mr. Fenton; "and as 
his act and my own do I restore to you the 
forfeited money. No refusals, young man! — 
no arguments! no thanks ! It is yours, and 
yours only. Listen to me, Jane. This will, 
for which any one less generous and disinte- 
rested than yourself would have hated me, 
was made, as you must have suspected, under 
my direction. I had known from your friend, 
the hostess of the Red Lion, of your mutual 
attachment ; and was on the point of putting 
a stop to your interviews, when an exchange, 
unexpected by all parties, removed M. d'Au- 
berval from Belford. After your separation, 
it would have been inflicting needless misery 
to have reproached you with an intercourse 
which we had every reason to believe com- 
pletely at an end. I prevailed on my good 
friend to conceal his knovi'ledge of the en- 
gagement, and tried all I could to turn your 
thoughts into a dilTerent channel. By these 
means I became gradually acquainted with 
your firmness and strength of mind, your 
ardour and your sensibility ; and having made 
minute and searching inquiries into the cha- 
racter of your lover, I began to think, little as 
an old bachelor is supposed to know of those 
matters, that an attachment between two such 
persons was likely to be an attachment for 
life; and I prevailed on Mr. Lanham to add 
to his will the clause that you have seen, that 
we might prove the disinterestedness as well 
as the constancy of the lovers. Both are 
proved," continued the good old man, a smile 
of the purest benevolence softening his 
rugged features, " both are proved to my en- 
tire satisfaction ; and soldier. Frenchman, and 
Papist though he be, the sooner I join your 
hands and get quit of this money, the better. 
Not a word, my dear Jane, unless to fix the 
day. Surely you are not going to compliment 
me for doing my duty ! I don't know how I 
shall part with her, though, well as you de- 
serve her," continued he, turning to Colonel 
d'Auberval ; "you must bring her sometimes 
to Belford." And, passing the back of his 
withered hand across his eyes to brush off the 
unusual softness, the good dissenting minister 
walked out of the room. 



BELFORD RACES. 

Belford Races, — The Races, as the in- 
habitants of tlie town and neighbourhood were 
pleased to call them, as if they had been the 
liaces pur excellence of the kiiKjdom, surpass- 
ing Epsom, and Ascot, and Doncaster, and 



BELFORD RACES. 



4«1 



New-market, instead of being; the most trum- 
pery meeting that ever brought horses to run 
for a plate — are, I am happy to say, a non- 
existing nuisance. The only good that I ever 
knew done by an enclosure act was the putting 
an end to that iniquity. 

Generally speaking, enclosures seem to me 
lamentable things. They steal away from the 
landscape, the patches of woodland, the shady 
nooks and tangled dingles, the wild heathy 
banks and primrosy dells, the steep ravines 
and deep irregular pools, — all, in short, that 
the artist loves to paint and the poet to fancy, 
— all that comes into our thoughts when we 
talk of the country ; and they give us, instead, 
hedge-rows without a tree, fields cut into 
geometrical lines, and Macadamized roads, 
which, although as straight and as ugly as 
the most thoroughgoing utilitarian can desire, 
do yet contrive to be more inconvenient and 
farther about than the picturesque by-ways of 
the elder time. Moreover, let political phi- 
losophy preach as it will, an enclosure bill is 
a positive evil to the poor. They lose by it 
the turf and furze for their fuel, — the odd 
nooks adjoining their cottages, which they 
sometimes begged from the lord of the manor, 
and sometimes, it must be confessed, took 
without that preliminary courtesy, (I wish all 
thefts were as innocent,) to cultivate for a 
garden ; whilst the advantage of a village 
green to their little stock of pigs and poultry 
was incalculable. But all this is beside my 
purpose. However, according to the well- 
known epigram, " to steal a common from a 
goose," may be an evil, to steal a common 
from the Races must be a good ; and when 
the enclosure of Belford Heath put an end to 
that wearisome annual festivity, I believe 
verily that there were not twenty people about 
the place who did not rejoice in the loss of 
those dullest of all dull gaieties. 

Even the great Races are tiresome things : 
they last so long, and of the amusement, such 
as it is, you see so little. ]\Ioreover, the wea- 
ther is never good : it is sure to be dusty, or 
showery, or windy, or sunny ; sometimes it 
is too hot, generally it is too cold ; — I never 
knew it right in my life. Then, although the 
crowd is such that it seems as if all the world 
were on the ground, you are quite sure never 
to meet the person you want to see, and have 
very often the provoking mortification of find- 
ing, by one of those accidents which at races 
always happen, that yon have missed each 
other by five minutes. The vaunted company 
is nothing compared with the Zoological Gar- 
dens on a Sunday. You lose your part}' — 
you have to wait for your servants — you lame 
your horses — you scratch your carriage — you 
spoil your new bonnet, you tear your best 
pelisse — you come back tired, and hungry, 
and cross, — you catch a cold or a fever ; and 
your only compensation for all these evils is, 
that you have the power of saying to some 



neighbour wise enough to stay at home, — "T 
have been to the races !" 

These calamities, however, belong to the 
grand meetings, where horses of name and 
fame ridden by jockeys of equal renown, run 
for the Derby, the Oaks, or the St. Leger; 
where ladies win French gloves and gentle- 
men lose English estates; where you are at 
all events sure of a crowd, and pretty sure of 
a crowd of beauty and fashion ; where, if 
your pocket be picked, it is ten to one but a 
lord is equally unlucky ; and if you get 
drenched by a shower, you have the comfort 
of seeing a countess in the same condition. 

Our Belford afllictions were of a different 
sort. The Heath, which, contrary to the 
general picturesqueness of commons, was a 
dull, flat, low, unprofitable piece of ground, 
wholly uninteresting in itself, and command- 
ing no view of any sort," had been my aversion 
as long as I could remember; having been for 
many years the scene of those reviews of 
volunteers and yeomanry, presentations of 
colours, and so forth, which formed the de- 
light of his majesty's noise-loving subjects, 
and were to me, " who hated the sound of a 
gun like a hurt wild-duck," the objects of 
mingled dread and detestation, — the more 
especially as, besides its being in those days 
reckoned a point of loyalty not to miss such 
exhibitions, people used to inculcate it as a 
duty to take me amongst guns, and drums, and 
trumpets, by way of curing my cowardice.* 

* Courage is a strange, capricious thing. I am still 
such a coward with regard to tiie mere noise, not the 
danger of gunpowder, that the very first words I ever 
spoke to Mr. Macready, who was superintending the 
rehearsal of one of my tragedies, contained an earnest 
entreaty that he would not allow a gun, which I had 
unwarily introduced, to be fired ; and that being sub- 
sequently at a theatre with a friend and her little boy, 
whom it would have been cruel to have taken away, 
I sat in such agnny during a melodrame in which a 
cannon was dragged about for two long acts, that a 
very respectable-looking gentleman, who had been 
sitting behind us much amused by my head-ducking 
and ear-stopping when the firing seemed inevitable, 
fairly wished me joy of having survived the piece as 
he made room for us to go out. Such is my cowardice 
— and luckily cowardice is a female privilege ; whilst, 
on the other hand, I am so fearless amongst much 
greater dangers by land and by water, as rather to 
enjoy the fright of other ladies in a crazy sailing-boat, 
and to have occasioned considerable alarm to the late 
Lord Rivers and his keepers by caressing his fierce 
and high-blooded greyhounds, and walking about the 
kennel amongst twenty brace of them as freely as 
their feeders; and once almost won the heart of a 
gentleman driving his own four blood-horses, (I had 
very nearly called him a coachman,) on the box with 
whom r was accidentally seated, and who, in the mid- 
dle of a race with a real siage-coach, whilst going full 
gallop, with his j;)S(V/fts screaming out of the windows, 
happened to recollect that he had promised to have 
especial care of me, and inquired apologetically if I 
wore frifjhlened, — by replying con spirito — "Fright- 
ened I Not at ail! CetonI Beat them!" I suppose 
it is that the imagination exaggerates the expected 
shock; for when a gun is fired near me without my 
previous knowledge, I merely start and laugh hke 



41 



3L 



482 



BELFORD REGIS. 



Once T had the pleasure of baffling their good 
intentions. It was a fine day in the midsum- 
mer holidays, and my dear mother taking a 
young lady with her in the carriage, I rode 
with my father in the gig, he having been 
tormented by some sage adviser into taking 
me into the field, and thinking that the most 
palatable manner ; and I so ordered matters 
by mere dint of coaxing, that happening to be 
early on the ground, I prevailed on my dear 
companion to turn back, and drive me home 
again before the arrival of the reviewing gen- 
eral ; thus escaping the shock of .the salute 
after the fashion of the patient who, being 
ordered to take a shower-bath, jumped out 
before pulling the string. 

Well, this ugly piece of ground numbered 
amongst its demerits that of being the worst 
race-course in England. Flat as it looked, 
it was found on examination to be full of ine- 
qualities, going up hill and down hill just in 
the very parts where, for certain reasons which 
I do not pretend to understand, (all my know- 
ledge of the turf being gathered from the 
early part of Holcroft's Memoirs, one of the 
most amusing pieces of autobiography in the 
language,) it ought to have been as level as a 
rail-road. Then, for as dry as it seemed — a 
dull expanse of dwarf furze and withered 
heath, there were half-a-dozen places so in- 
curably boggy, that once in a sham fight at a 
review half a company of the Belford Volun- 
teer Legion sunk knee-deep, to their own inex- 
pressible consternation, the total derangement 
of the order of battle, and the utter ruin of 
their white spatterdashes : and in order to 
avoid these marshy spots, certain awkward 
bends occurred in the course, which made as 
great demands on the skill of the jockeys as 
the sticking fast of his troops had done on the 
tactics of the reviewing general. In a word, 
as a race-course Belford Heath was so de- 
testable, that a race-horse of any reputation 
would have been ashamed to show his face 
there. 

Then the only circumstance that could nave 
reconciled the owners of good horses to a bad 
course — high stakes and large subscriutions — 
were totally wanting. There was, to be sure, 
a County Member's Plate and a Town Mem- 
ber's Plate, and the Belford Stakes and the 
Hunt vStakes; and a popular high-sheriff, or a 
candidate for the borough or the county, who 
had a mind to be popular, — or some Londoner, 
freshly imported, who thought supporting the 
races a part of his new duties as a country 
gentleman, — would get up something like a 
subscription : but nothing could be less tempt- 
ing than the rewards held out to the winners, 
and but for the speculations of certain horse- 
dealers, who reckoned on its being advan- 



other people: but still the extreme cowardice in the 
one case, and ihe total absence of it in others, does 
seem somewhat pu/.zliiig. 



tageous to the sale of a horse to have won a 
plate even at Belford, the races would undoubt- 
edly have fallen to the ground from the mere 
absence of racers. 

As it was, they languished on from year to 
year, every season worse than the last, with 
no company except the fainilies of the neigh- 
bourhood, no sporting characters, no gentlemen 
of the turf, no betting-stand, no blacklegs, no 
thimble-people, no mob. The very rouge et 
noir table did not think it worth its while 
to appear ; and although there was a most 
convenient pond for ducking such delinquents, 
I do not even remember to have heard of a 
pick-pocket on the race-course. 

The diversion was, as I have said, confined 
to the neighbourhood ; and they, poor innocent 
people, were, for the three days that the affair 
lasted, kept close to that most fatiguing of all 
work, country dissipation. The meeting was 
held early in September, and the hours having 
undergone no change since its first establish- 
ment a century before, it was what is termed 
an afternoon race : accordingly, besides a 
public breakfast at ten o'clock in the Town- 
hall, there was an ordinary at two at the Swan 
Hotel for ladies as well as gentlemen : then 
everybody drove at four to the course; then 
everybody came back to dress for the ball ; 
and on the middle evening, when luckily there 
was no ball, everybody was expected to go to 
the play. And to miss, only for one day, the 
race-course, or the two balls, or the middle 
play, was an affront to the stewards and the 
stewards' wives, — to the members who dared 
not be absent — to the young ladies, who, not 
of sufficient rank or fortune to be presented 
to court, first made their appearance at this 
august reunion of fashion and beauty — to the 
papas, mammas, and maiden aunts, to whom 
the ceremony was iinportant, — to the whole 
neighbourhood and the whole country. The 
public breakfasts and ordinaries were not de 
rigtieiir ; but three races, two balls, and one 
play, were duties that must be fulfilled, pun- 
ishments that must be undergone by all who 
desired to stand well in country society : to 
have attempted to evade them, — to have dared 
to think for yourself in a matter of amusement, 
would have b^n to run the risk of being 
thought over-wise, or over-good, or parsimo- 
nious, or poor. And as no one likes the three 
first of these nicknames, and it is only rich 
people who can afford to be suspected of 
poverty, dull as the diversions were, and 
frisie as the gaieties, we were content to 
leave shade, and coolness, and quiet, and to 
pass three of the hottest days of early autumn 
amid fatigue and dust, and sun and crowd, on 
the very same wise principle of imitation 
which makes a flock of geese follow the 
gander. 

Lightly as the county was apt to set by the 
town, the inhabitants of Belford were of no 
small use on this occasion. They helped 



BELFORD RACES. 



483 



(like supernumeraries on the stajje) to fill the 
ball-room and the theatre; and thinly covered 
as the race-course was, it would have looked 
emptier still but for the handsome coach of 
the Misses Morris — for Miss Blackall's cha- 
riot, with her black servant in his gayest livery 
and her pet poodle in his whitest coat on the 
box, and Mrs. Colby snutjly intrenched in the 
best corner — for Stephen Lane and dear Mar- 
garet in their huge one-horse chaise, with a 
pretty grand-child betwixt them — for King 
Harwood galloping about the ground in ten 
places at once — for the tradespeople and ar- 
tisans of the place, (1 do love a holiday for 
them, whatever name it bears — they have too 
few,) down to the poor chimney-sweepers and 
their donkey, taking more interest in the sport 
than their betters, and enjoying it full as much. 

Still the town ladies were little better than 
the figurante, the Coryphees in this grand 
ballet, — the young county damsels were the 
real heroines of the scene ; and it was to 
show them off that their mammas and their 
waiting-women, their milliners and their 
coachmakers, devoted all their cares ; and 
amongst the fair candidates for admiration 
few were more indefatigably fine, more per- 
severingly fashionable, more constant to all 
sorts of provincial gaiety, whether race, con- 
cert, play or ball, than the Misses Elphinstone 
of Ashley, who had been for ten years, and 
perhaps a little longer, two of the reigning 
belles of the county. 

Why it should be so, one does not well 

know, but half the ladies of H shire used 

to meet every Monday between the hours of 
three and five in the Market-place of Belford. 
It was the constant female rendezvous ; on 
Saturday, the market-day, the gentlemen came 
into town to attend the Bench, — some on 
horseback, some in gigs, the style of the 
equipage not unfrequently in an inverse ratio 
to the consequence of the owner; your coun- 
try gentlemen of large fortune being often 
addicted to riding some scrubby pony, or 
driving some old shabby set-out, which a man 
of less certain station would be ashamed to 
be seen in : so that their appearance harmo- 
nized perfectly well with the carts and 
wagons of their tenants, the market-people 
of JBelford. Their wives and daughters, how- 
ever, indulged in no such whims. True to 
the vanities of the dear sex, laudably constant 
to fineries of all sorts, as regular as Monday* 
came were they to be seen in carriages the 
most fashionable, drawn by the handsomest 
horses that coaxing or lecturing could extort 
from their husbands and fathers, crowded 
round the shop-door of Mr. Dobson, linen- 



*Why Monday should be the chosen day, no one 
can tell. It is the day on which the poor country- 
women make their little purchases, because their 
husbands being paid on a Saturday night, they have 
then a pittance to spare. But why the ladies should 
choose that day, is still a puzzle. 



draper and haberdasher, the most approved 
factor of female merchandise, and the favour- 
ite minister to female caprice in the whole 

county of H ; and amono-st the 

many equipages which clustered about this 
grand mart of provincial fashion, none were 
more punctual and few better appointed, than 
that of the Elphinstones of Ashley. 

Mr. Elphinstone was a gentletnan of large 
landed jjroperty ; but the estate being consi- 
derably involved and strictly entailed, and the 
eldest son showing no desire to assist in its 
extrication, he was in point of fact a much 
poorer man than many of his neighbours with 
less than half of his nominal income. His 
wife, a lady of good family, had been what 
is called a fine woman ; by which is under- 
stood, a tall, showy figure, good hair, good 
teeth, good eyes, a tolerable complexion, and 
a face that comes somewhat short of v/hat is 
commonly reckoned handsome. According to 
this definition, Mrs. Elphinstone had been, 
and her daughters were two fine women ; and 
as they dressed well, were excellent dancers, 
had a good deal of air and style, and were at 
least half a head taller than the other young 
ladies of the county, they seldom failed to 
attract considerable admiration in the ball- 
room. 

That their admirers went at the most no 
farther than a transient flirtation, is to be ac- 
counted for, not so inuch from any particular 
defect in the young ladies, who were pretty 
much like other show-off girls, but by the 
certainty of their being altogether portionless. 
Very few men can afford to select wives with 
high notions and no fortune; and unwomanly 
and unmaidenly as the practice of husband- 
hunting is, whether in mothers or daughters, 
there is at least something of mitigation in 
the situation of young women like Gertrude 
and Julia Elphinstone, — accustomed to every 
luxury and indulgence, to all the amusements 
and refinement of cultivated society, and yet 
placed in such a position, that if not married 
before the death of their parents, they are 
thrown on the charity of their relations for the 
mere necessaries of life. With this prospect 
before their eyes, their anxiety to be settled 
certainly admits of some extenuation; and 
yet in most cases, and certainly in the present, 
that very anxiety is but too likely to defeat its 
object. 

Year after year passed away; — Mr. Elphin- 
stone's family, consisting, besides the young 
ladies whom I have already mentioned, of 
four or five younger lads in the army, the 
navy, at College, and at school, and of a 
weakly girl, who, having been sent to be 
nursed at a distant relation's, the wife of a 
gentleman farmer at some distance, still re- 
mained in that convenient but ignoble retreat, 
became every year more and more expensive; 
whilst the chances of his daughters' marriage 
diminished with their increasins a^e and his i 



484 



BELFORD REGIS. 



decreasing income. The annual jowrney to 
London had been first shortened, then aban- 
doned ; visits to Brighton and Cheltenham, 
and other places of fashionable resort, became 
less frequent; and the Belford Races, where, 
in spite of Mr. Elphinstone's repeated embar- 
rassments, they still flourished among the 
county belles, became their principal scene of 
exhibition. 

Race-ball after race-ball, however, came and 
departed, and brought nothing in the shape 
of a suitor to the expecting damsels. Part- 
ners for the dance presented themselves in 
plenty, but partners for life were still to seek. 
And Mrs. Elphinstone, in pettish despair, 
was beginning, on the first evening of the 
very last year of the Races, to rejoice at the 
prospect of their being given up ; to discover 
that the balls were fatiguing, the course 
dreary, and the theatre dull ; that the whole 
affair was troublesome and tiresome; that it 
was in the very worst taste to be running 
after so paltry an amusement at the rate of 
sixteen hours a day for three successive 
days; — when, in the very midst of her pro- 
fessions of disgust and indifference, as she 
was walking up the assembly-room with her 
eldest daughter hanging on her arm (Miss 
Julia, a little indisposed and a little tired, not 
with the crowd, but with the emptiness of the 
race-ground, having chosen to stay at home), 
her hopes were suddenly revived by being 
told in a very significant manner by one of the 
stewards, that Lord Lindore had requested of 
him the honour of being presented to her 
daughter. " He had seen her in the carriage 
that afternoon," said the friendly master of the 
ceremonies, with a very intelligible smile, and 
an abrupt stop as the rapid advance of the 
young gentleman interrupted his speech and 

turned his intended confidence into " My 

Lord, allow me the pleasure of introducing 
you to Miss El()hinstone." 

Mr. Clavering's suspicions were pretty evi- 
dent, and although the well-bred and self- 
commanded chaperone contrived to conceal 
her comprehension of his hints, and preserved 
the most decorous appearance of indifference, 
she yet managed to extract from her kind 
neighbour, that the elegant young nobleman 
who was leading the fair Gertrude to the 
dance was just returned from a tour in Greece 
and Germany, and being on his way to an 
estate about thirty miles off in the vale of 
Berkshire, had been struck on accidentally 
visiting the Belford race-course by the beauty 
of a young lady in an open landau, and having 
ascertainfd that the carriage belonged to Mr. 
Elphinstone, and that tiie family would cer- 
tainly attend the ball, he had stayed, as it 
seemed, for the sole purpose of being intro- 
duced. " So at least says report," added Mr. 
Clavering; and for once report said true. 

Lord Lindore was a young nobleman of 
large but embarrassed property, very good 



talents, and very amiable disposition ; who 
was, in spite of his many excellent qualities, 
returning loiteringly and reluctantly home to 
one of the best and cleverest mothers in the 
world : and a less fair reason than the sweet 
and blooming face which peeped out so bright- 
ly from under the brim of her cottage-bonnet, 
(for cottage-bonnets were the fashion of that 
distant day,) would have excused him to him- 
self for a longer delay than that of the race- 
ball ; his good mother, kind and clever as she 
was, having by a letter entreating his speedy 
return contrived to make that return as un- 
pleasant as possible to her affectionate and 
dutiful son, — who, as a dutiful and affection- 
ate son, obediently turned his face towards 
Glenham Abbey, whilst as a spoilt child and 
a peer of the realm, and in those two charac- 
ters jiretty much accustomed to carry matters 
his own way, he managed to make his obe- 
dience as dawdling and as dilatory as possible. 
The letter which had produced this unlucky 
effect was an answer to one written by himself 
from Vienna, announcing the dissolution of a 
matrimonial ensragement with a pretty Aus- 
trian, who had jilted him for the purpose of 
marrying a Count of the Holy Roman Empire 
old enough to be her grandfather: — on which 
event Lord Lindore, whose susceptibility to 
female charms was so remarkable that ever 
since he had attained the age of sixteen he 
had been in love with some damsel or other, 
and had been twenty times saved from the 
most preposterous matches by the vigilance 
of his tutors and the care of his fond mother, 
gravely felicitated himself on being emanci- 
pated, then and for ever, from the dominion 
of beauty ; and declared that if ever he could 
love again, — which he thought unlikely — he 
should seek for nothing in woman but the un- 
fading graces of the mind. Lady Lindore's 
reply contained a warm congratulation on her 
son's release from the chains of an unprinci- 
pled coquette, and from the evils of an alliance 
with a foreigner; adding, that she rejoiced 
above all to find that his heart was again upon 
his hands, since on the winding up of his af- 
fairs, preparatory to his coming of age, his 
guardians and herself had discovered that, 
long as his minority had been, the accumula- 
tions consequent thereupon were entirely 
swallowed up by the payment of his sisters' 
portions ; and the mortgages that encumbered 
his property could only be cleared away by 
the sale of the beautiful demesne on which 
she resided during his absence abroad, and 
which, although the estate that had been long- 
est in the family, was the only one not strictly 
entailed, — or by the less painful expedient of 
a wealthy marriage. — "And now that your 
heart is free," continued Lady Lindore, " there 
can be but little doubt which measure you will 
adopt; the more especially as 1 have a young 
lady in view, whose talents and attainments 
are of no common order, whose temper and 



BELFORD RACES. 



485 



disposition are most amiable, and who wants 
nothiniT bat that outward beauty which you 
have at last been taught to estimate at its just 
value. Plain as you may possibly think her, 
her attractions of mind are such as to com- 
pensate most ampl}' for the absence of more 
perishable charms; whilst her fortune is so 
larcre that it would clear off all mortgrages, 
without involving the wretched necessity of 
parting with this venerable mansion, which 
you have scarcely seen since you were a child, 
but which is alike precious as a proud memo- 
rial of family splendour, and as one of the 
finest old buildings in the kingdom. The 
lady's friends are most desirous of the con- 
nexion, and she herself loves me as a daugh- 
ter. The path is straight before you. Return, 
therefore, as speedily as possible, my dear 
Arthur; and remember, whatever perils from 
bright eyes and rosy cheeks may beset you on 
j'our way, that I expect from your duly and 
your affection that you will not commit your- 
self either by word or deed, by open profes- 
sions or silent assiduities, until you have had 
an opportunity, not merely of seeing, but of 
becoming intimately acquainted with the amia- 
ble and richly-gifted young person whom, of 
all the women 1 have ever known, I Vv-ould 
most readily select as your bride. Come, 
then, my dearest Arthur, and come speedily 
to your affectionate mother, 

Mary Lindore." 

How so clear-headed a woman as Lady 
Lindore could write a letter so likely to defeat 
its own obvious purpose, and to awaken the 
spirit of contradiction in the breast of a young 
man who, with all his acknowledged kindness 
of temper, had never been found wanting in a 
petulant self-will, would be difficult to explain, 
except upon the principle that the cleverest 
people often do the silliest things ; — a maxim, 
from the promulgation of which so very 
many well-meaning persons derive pleasure, 
that to contradict it, even if one could do so 
conscientiously, would be to deprive a very 
large and estimable portion of the public of a 
source of enjoyment which does harm to no- 
body, inasmucli as the clever persons in ques- 
tion have an uiducky trick of caring little for 
what the worthy dull people aforesaid may 
happen to think or say. 

Whatever motive misrht have induced her 
I'adyship to write this letter, the effect was 
such as the reader has seen. Her dutiful son 
Arthur returned slowly and reluctantly home- 
ward ; loitering wherever he could find an ex- 
cuse for loitering, astounding his active courier 
and alert valet by the dilatoriness of his move- 
ments, meditating all the way on the odious- 
ness of blue-stocking women, (for from Lady 
Lindore's account oflafuhire, he expected an 
epitome of all the arts and sciences — a walk- 
ing and talking encyclopedia,) and feeling his 
taste for beauty grow stronger and stronger 

41* 



every step he took, until he finally surrendered 
his heart to the first pair of bright eyes and 
blooming cheeks which he had encountered 
since the receipt of his mother's letter — the 
pretty incognita of the Bel ford race-course. 

Finding on inquiry that the carriage belong- 
ed to a gentleman of some consequence in the 
neighbourhood — that the ladies seated in it 
were his wife and daughters, and that there 
was little doubt of their attending the ball in 
the evening, he proceeded to the assembly- 
room, made himself known, as we have seen, 
to our friend Mr. Clavering, one of the stewards 
of the Races, and requested of him the honour 
of an introduction to Miss Elphinstone. 

When led up in due form to the fair lady, he 
immediately discovered that she was not the 
divifiity of the laudau : but as he ascertained, 
both from Mr. Clavering and the waiter at the 
inn, that there was another sister, a certain 
Miss .lulia, whom his two authorities agreed 
in calling the finer woman ; and as he learned 
from his partner herself that Miss Julia had 
been that morning on the race-ground, — that 
she was slightly indisposed, but would proba- 
bly be sufficiently recovered on the morrow to 
attend both the course and the play — he de- 
termined to remain another night at Belford for 
the chance of one more glimpse of his fair one, 
and paid Miss Elphinstone sufficient attention 
to conceal his disappointment and command a 
future introduction to her sister, although he 
had too much self-control, and, to do him 
justice, too much respect for Lady Lindore's 
injunctions, to avail himself of the invitation 
of the lady of the mansion to partake of a late 
breakfast, or an early dinner — call it how he 
chose, — the next day at Ashley. He saw at 
a glance that she was a manosuvring mamma, 
(how very, very soon young gentlemen learn 
to make that discovery I) and, his charmer 
being absent, was upon his guard. " On the 
course," thought he, " I shall agnin see the 

beauty, and then why then I shall be 

ofuided by circumstances :" — that being the 
most approved and circumspect way of signi- 
fying to oneself that one intends following 
one's own devices, whatever they may happen 
to be. 

The morrow, however, proved so wet that 
the course was entirely deserted. Not a sin- 
gle carriage was present, except Miss Black- 
all's chariot and Ste})hen Lane's one-horse 
chaise. But in the evening, at the theatre. 
Lord Lindore had again the pleasure of seeing 
his fair enchantress, and of seeing her without 
her bonnet, and dressed to the greatest possible 
advantage in a very simply-made gown of 
clear muslin, without any other ornament than 
a nosesxay of geranium and blossomed myrtle. 

If he had thought her pretty under the 
straight brim of her cottage bonnet, he thought 
her still prettier now that her fair open fore- 
head was only shaded by the rich curls of her 
chestnut hair. It was a round, youthful face, 



486 



BELFORD REGIS. 



with a brio-ht, clear complexion ; a hazel eye, 
with a spark in it like the Scotch agate in the 
British Museum; very red lips, very while 
teeth, and an expression about the corners 
of the mouth that was quite bewitchinij. She 
sat in the front row of the box between her 
stately sister and another young lady; her 
mother and two other ladies sitting behind her, 
and completely barring all access. 

Lord Lindore hardly regretted this circnm- 
stance, so completely was he absorbed in 
watching his charmer, whose every look and 
action evinced the most perfect unconscious- 
ness of being an oliject of observation to him 
or to any one. Her attention was given en- 
tirely, exclusively to the stage; she being per- 
haps the one single person in the crowded house 
who thought of the play, and the play only. 
The piece was one of Mr. Coleman's laughing 
and crying comedies — John Bull — and she 
laughed at Dennis Brultrruddery and cried at 
Job Thornberry with a heartiness and sensi- 
bility, a complete abandonment to the senti- 
ment and the situation, that irresistibly sug- 
gested the idea of its being the first play she 
had ever seen. It was acted pretty much as 
such pieces (unless in the case of some rare 
exception) are acted in a country theatre; but 
hers was no critical pleasure : yielding entirely 
to the impression of the drama, the finest per- 
formance could not have gratified her more. 
To her, as to an artless but intelligent child, 
the scene was for a moment a reality. The 
illusion was perfect, and the sympathy evinced 
by her tears and her laughter was as unre- 
strained as it was ardent. Her mother and 
sister, who had the bad taste to be ashamed 
of this enviable freshness of feeling, tried to 
check her. But the attempt was vain. Ab- 
sorbed in the scene, she hardly heard them ; 
and even when the curtain dropped, she seem- 
ed so engrossed by her recollections as scarce- 
ly to attend to her mother's impatient summons 
to leave the house. 

"Charming creature !" thought Lord Lin- 
dore to himself, as he sat ' taking his ease in 
his inn,' after his return from the theatre; 
" Charming creature ! — how delightful is this 
artlessness, this ignorance, this bewitching 
youthfulness of heart and of person! How 
incomparably superior is this lovely girl, full 
of natural feeling, of intelligence and sensi- 
bility, to an over-educated heiress, with the 
whole code of criticism at her finger's end — 
too practised to be astonished, and too wise to 
be pleased ! A young lady of hi<jh attain- 
ments ! Twenty languages, I warrant me, and 
not an idea! Ugly too!" — thought poor Lord 
Lindore. And then the beauty of the Belford 
theatre passed before his eyes, and he made 
up his mind to stay another day and ascertain 
at least if the voice was as captivating as the 
countenance. 

Again was poor Arthur doomed to disap- 
pointment. The day was, if possible, more 



wet and dreary than the preceding; and on 
going into the ball-room and walking straight 
to Mrs. Elphinstone, imagine to yourself, 
gentle reader, his dismay at finding in Miss 
Julia an exact fac-simile of her elder sister, — 
another tall, stylish, fashionable-looking dam- 
sel, not very old, but of a certainty not what 
a lordling of one-and-twenty is accustomed to 
call young. Poor dear Arthur! if Lady Lin- 
dore could but have seen how blank he looked, 
she would have thought him almost enough 
punished for his disobedient meditations of the 
night before. His lordship was however a 
thoroughly well-bred man, and after a moment 
of consternation recovered his politeness and 
his self-possession. 

" Was there not another young lady besides 
Miss Elphinstone and yourself in the carriage 
on Tuesday, and at the play last night 1" in- 
quired Lord Lindore in a pause of the dance. 

" I was not at the play," responded Miss 
Julia, — " but I suppose you mean Katy, poor 
dear Katy !" 

"And who may Katy be?" demanded his 
lordship. 

"Oh, poor little Katy! — she's a sister of 
mine, a younger sister." 

"Very young, I presume'? — not come out 
yef? — not introduced'?" 

"Yes! — no!" said Miss Julia, rather puz- 
zled. " I don't know — I can't tell. The fact 
is, my lord, that Katy does not live with us. 
She was a sickly child, and sent for change of 
air to a distant relation of my mother's — a 
very good sort of person indeed, very respect- 
able and very well o!F, but who made a strange 
mesa/iianee. I believe her husband is a gen- 
tleman farmer, or a miller, or a maltster, or 
something of that sort, so that they cannot be 
noticed by the family ; but as they were very 
kind to Katy, and wished to keep her, having 
no children of their own, and the place agreed 
with her, she has stayed on with them. 
Mamma often talks of having her home. But 
she is very fond of them, and seems happy 
there, and has been so neglected, poor thing! 
that perhaps it is best that she should stay. 
And they are never contented without her. 
They sent for her home this morning. I don't 
wonder that they love her," added Miss Julia, 
" for she's a sweet natural creature, so merry 
and saucy, and artless and kind. Everybody 
is glad when she comes, and sorry when she 
goes." 

This was praise after Lord Lindore's own 
heart, and he tried to prolong the conversation. 

"Would she have come to the ball to-night 
if she had stayed ■?" 

" Oh no ! She would not come on Tuesday. 
She never was at a dance in her life. Bui 
she wanted exceedingly to go to another play, 
and 1 dare sa)' that papa would have taken her. 
She was enehante(l with the play." 

" T/iat I saw. She showed great sensibility. 
Her education has been neglected, you say'?" 



BELFORD RACES. 



487 



*' She has had no education at all, except 
from the old rector of the parish, — a college 
tutor or some such oddity; and she is quite 
ignorant of all the things that other people 
know, but very quick and intelligent ; so 
that" 

" Miss Julia Elphinstone," said Mr. Clav- 
ering, coming up to Lord Lindore and his 
partner, and interrupting a colloquj'^ in which 
our friend Arthur was taking much interest, — 
"Miss Julia Elphinstone, Lady Selby has 
sprained her ancle, and is obliged to sit down ; 
so that I must call upon you to name this 
dance. Come, young ladies ! — to your places ! 
What dance do you call, Miss Julia?" 

And in balancing between the merits of 
" The Dusty Miller" and " Money Musk" (for 
this true story occurred in the merry day of 
country dances), and then in mastering the 
pleasant difficulties of going down an intricate 
figure remarking on the mistakes of the other 
couples, the subject dropped so effectually 
that it was past the gentleman's skill to recall. 

Nor could he extort a word on the topic 
from his next partner, Miss Elphinstone, who, 
somewhat cleverer than her sister — colder, 
prouder, and more guarded, took especial pains 
to conceal what she esteemed a blot on the 
family escutcheon from one whose rank would, 
she thought, make him still more disdainful 
than herself of any connexion with the yeo- 
manry, or,, as she called them, the farmer and 
miller people of the country. He could not 
even learn the place of his fair one's residence, 
or the name of the relations with' whom she 
lived, and returned to his inn in a most un- 
happy frame of mind, dissatisfied with him- 
self and with all about him. 

A sleepless night had, however, the not un- 
common effect of producing a wise and proper 
resolution. He determined to proceed im- 
mediately to Gienham, and open bis mind to 
his fond mother, — the friend, after all, most 
interested in his happiness, and most likely to 
enter into his feelings, however opposed they 
might be to her own views. " She has a right 
to my confidence, kind and indulgent as she 
has always been — I will lay my whole heart 
before her," thought Arthur. He had even 
magnanimity enough to determine, if she in- 
sisted upon the measure, that he would take a 
look at the heiress. " Seeing is not marry- 
ing," thought Lord Lindore; "and if she be 
really as ugly and as pedantic as I anticipate, 
I shall have a very good excuse for getting off 
— to say nothing of the chance of her dislik- 
ing me. I'll see her at all events, — that can 
do no harm ; and then — why then — alms comme 
alors! as my friend the baron says. At all 
events, I'll see her." 

In meditations such as these- passed the 
brief and rapid journey between Belford and 
Gienham. The morning was brilliantly beau- 
tiful, the distance little more than thirty miles, 
and it was still early in the day when the 



noble oaks of his ancestral demesne rose be- 
fore him in the splendid foliage of autumn. 

The little village of Gienham was one of 
those oases of verdure and cultivation which 
are sometimes to be met with in the brown de- 
sert of the Berkshire Downs. It formed a 
pretty picture to look down upon from the top 
of one of the turfy hills by which it was sur- 
rounded : the cottages and cottage gardens; 
the ch urch rising amongst lime-trees and yews ; 
the parsonage close by; the winding road; 
the great farm-house, with its suburb of ricks 
and barns, and stables and farm-buildings, sur- 
rounded by richly-timbered meadows, exten- 
sive coppices, and large tracts of arable land ; 
and the abbey, with its beautiful park, its lake, 
and its woods, stretching far into the distance, 
— formed an epitome of civilized life in all its 
degrees — an island of fertility and comfort in 
the midst of desolation. Lord Lindore felt, 
as he gazed, that to be the owner of Gienham 
was almost worth the sacrifice of a young 
man's fancy. 

Still more strongly did this feeling press 
upon him, mixed with all the tenderest asso- 
ciations of boyhood, as, in passing between 
the low Gothic lodges, the richly-wrought iron 
gate was thrown open to admit him by the 
well-remembered portress, a favourite pension- 
er of his mother's, her head sligiitly shaking 
with palsy, her neatly-attired person bent with 
age, and her hand trembling partly from in- 
firmity but more for joy at the sight of her 
young master; and as he drove through the 
noble park, with its majestic avenues, its clear 
waters and magnificent woods, to the venera- 
ble mansion which still retained, in its antique 
portal, its deep bay windows, its turrets, 
towers and pinacles, its cloisters and its ter- 
races, so many vestiges of the incongruous 
but picturesque architecture of the age of the 
Tudors: and by the time that he was ushered 
by the delighted old butler into the presence 
of Lady Lindore — a dignified and still hand- 
some woman, full of grace and intellect, who, 
seated in the stately old library, looked like 
the very spirit of the place, — he was so en- 
tirely absorbed in the early recollections and 
domestic affections — had so completely for- 
gotten his affairs of the heart, the beauty 
with whom be was so reasonably in love, and 
the heiress whom with equal wisdom he hated, 
that, when his mother mentioned the subject, 
it came upon him with a startling painfulness 
like the awaking from a pleasant dream. 

He had, however, suflicient resolution to tell 
her the truth, and the whole truth, although 
the almost smiling surprise with which she 
heard the story was not a little mortifying to 
his vanity. A young man of one-and-twenty 
cares little for a lecture; but to suppose him- 
self an object of ridicule to a ])erson of ad- 
mitted talent is insupportable. Such was un- 
fortunately poor Arthur's case at the present 
moment. 



488 



BELFORD REGIS. 



"So much for arrivintjat what the law calls 
years of discretion," observed Lady Lindore, 
quietly resuming her embroidery. " From the 
time you wrote yourself sixteen, until this 
very hour, that silly heart of yours has heen 
tossed like a shuttlecock from one pretty jjirl 
to another ; and now you celebrate your coming;' 
of age by the sage avowal of loving a lady 
whom you have never spoken to, and hating 
another whom you have never seen — Well ! I 
suppose you must have your own way. But, 
without questioning the charms and graces of 
this Katy of yours, just be pleased to tell me 
why you have taken such an aversion to my 
poor little girl. Is it merely because she has 
the hundred thousand pounds necessary to 
clear off your mortgages r' 

" Certainly not." 

"Or because I unluckily spoke of her 
talents'?" 

"Not of her talents, dear mother: no son 
of yours could dislike clever women. But 
you spoke of her as awfully accomplished — " 

" I have never said a word of her accom- 
plishments." 

"As awfully learned, then " 

"Neither do 1 remeinber speaking of that." 

"At all events, as awfully wise. And, 
dearest mother, your wise ladies and literary 
ladies are, not to say anything affronting, too 
wise for me. I like something artless, siinple, 
natural — a wild, gay, playful creature, full of 
youthful health and lif^e, with all her girlish 
tastes about her; fond of birds and flowers — " 

" And charmed with a country play," added 
Lady Lindore, completing her son's sentence. 
" Well I we must find out this Katy of 
yours, if indeed the fancy holds. In the 
mean while, I have letters to write to your 
guardians ; and you can revisit your old haunts 
in the grounds till dinner time, when you will 
see this formidable heiress, and will, I trust, 
treat her at least with the politeness of a gen- 
tleman and the attention due from the master 
of the house to an unoffending guest." 

" She is here then 1" inquired Lord Lindore. 

" She was in this room in search of a book 
not half an hour before your arrival." 

" Some grave essay or learned treatise, 
doubtless !" thought Arthur within himself; 
and then assuring his mother of his attention 
to her commands, he followed her suggestion 
and strolled out into the park. 

Tiie sun was yet high in the heavens, and 
the beautiful scene aroundhim, clothed in the 
deep verdure of September, seemed rejoicing 
in his beams, — the lake, especially, lay spark- 
ling in the sunshine like a sheet of molten sil- 
ver; and almost unconsciously TiOrd Lindore 
directed his steps to a wild glen near the 
water, which had been the favourite haunt of 
his bo^^'hood. 

It was a hollow dell, surrounded by steep 
banks, parted from the lake by a thicket of 
fern and holly and old thorn, much frequented 



by the deer, and containing in its bosom its 
own deep silent pool, dark and bright as a dia- 
mond, with a grotto scooped out of one side 
of the hill, which in his childish days had 
heen decayed and deserted, and of which he 
had taken possession for his fishing-tackle and 
other boyish property. Lady Lindore had, 
however, during his absence, taken a fancy 
to the place ; had extended the stone-work, 
and covered it with climbing plants ; had 
made walks and flowerbeds round the pool, in- 
denting the pond itself with banks, bays, and 
headlands ; had erected one or two rustic 
seats ; — and it formed now, under the name of 
The Rockery, -a very pretty lady's garden — all 
the prettier that the improvements had been 
managed with great taste — that the scene re- 
tained much of its original wildness, its irreg- 
ularity of form and variety of shadow — and 
that even even in the creepers which trailed 
about the huge masses of stone, indigenous 
plants were skilfully mingled with the more 
gorgeous exotics. On this lovely autumn day 
it looked like a piece of fairy-land, and Lord 
Lindore stood gazing at the scene froim under 
the ivied arch wliich led to its recesses with 
much such a feeling of delight and astonish- 
ment as must have been caused to Aladdin the 
morning after the slaves of the lamp had 
erected his palace of jewels and gold. 

There are no jewels after all, like the living 
gems called flowers ; and never were flowers 
so bright, so gorgeous, so beautiful, as in the 
Glenham Rockery. Convolvuluses of all 
colours, passion-flowers of all shades, clema- 
tises of twenty kinds, rich nasturtiums, sweet 
musk-roses, pearly-blossomed myrtles, starry 
jessamines, and a hundred splendid exotics, 
formed a glowing tapestry round the walls, — 
whose tops were crowned by velvet snapdra- 
gons, and large bushes of the beautiful cistus, 
called the rock-rose ; whilst beds of geraniums, 
of lobelias, of calceolaria, and of every sort 
of gay annual, went dotting round the pool, 
and large plants of the blue hydrangea grew 
low upon the banks, and the long coral hlos- 
somsof the fuschia hunglike weeping-willows 
info the water. Bees were busy in the honey- 
ed tubes of the different coloured sultans, and 
dappled butterflies were swinging in the rich 
flowers of the China-aster ; gold and silver 
fishes were playing in the pond, and the song- 
ster of early autumn, the ever-cheerful red- 
breast, was twittering from the tree. But 
bees, and birds, and butterflies were not the 
only tenants of the Glenham Rockery. 

A group well suited to the scene, and so 
deeply occupied as to be wholly unconscious 
of observation, was collected near tlie entrance 
of the grotto. Adam Griffith, the well-remem- 
bered old gardener, with his venerable white 
locks, was standing, receiving and depositing 
in a covered basket certain prettily-folded 
little packets delivered to him by a young 
lady, who, half sitting, half kneeling, was I 



BELFORD RACES 



489 



writing^ with a pencil the namos of the flower- 
seeds (for such it seemed thej' were) on each 
nicely-arranoed parcel. A fawn with a silver 
collar, and a very large Newfoundland do^, 
were amicahly lying- at her side. The figure 
was light, and round, and graceful; the air 
of the head (for her straw bonnet was also 
performing the office of a basket) was ex- 
quisitely fine, and the little white hand that 
was writing under old Adam's dictation might 
have served as a model for a sculptor. If 
these indications had not been sufficient to con- 
vince him that the incognita was not his night- 
mare the heiress, the first words she uttered 
would have done so. 

" What name did you say, Adam 1" 

" EschschoUzia Californica I" 

" Oh dear me ! I shall never write that with- 
out a blunder. How I do wish they would 
call flowers by pretty simple short names now- 
a-days, as they used to do! How much pret- 
tier words lilies and roses are than Es 

"What did you say, Adam ]" 

" PCschscholtzia, Miss; 'tis a strange hea- 
thenish name, to be sure — Eschscholtzia Cali- 
fornica," replied Adam. 

" Esch — scholt — zia ! Is that right, Adam 1 
Look." 

And Adam assumed his spectacles, exa- 
mined and assented. 

" Eschscholtzia Cali " And the fair 

seed-gatherer was proceeding gravely with 
her task, when the little fawn, whose quick 
sense of hearing was alarmed at some slight 
motion of Artiiur's, bounded suddenly up, 
jerked the basket out of old Adam's hand, 
which fell (luckily tightly closed) into the 
water, and was immediately followed by the 
Newfoundland dog, who with no greater dam- 
age than alarming a whole shoal of gold and 
silver fish, who wondered what monster was 
coming upon them, and wetting his own shaggy 
coat, rescued the basket and bore it triumph- 
antly to his mistress. 

" Fie, Leila ! Good Nelson !" exclaimed 
their fair mistress, turning round to caress her 
dog — " Lord Lindore !" 

" Katy 1 — Miss Elphinstone !" 

And enchanted to see her, and bewildered 
at finding her there, (for Katy it really was — 
the very Katy of the Belford Race-ground,) 
Lord Lindore joined the party, shook hands 
with old Adam, patted Nelson, made friends 
with Leila, and finally found h'xmseW tete-d-tefe 
with his fair mistress ; she sitting on one of 
the great low stones of the Rockery ; he re- 
clining at her side, just like that most graceful 
of all lovers Hamlet the Dane at the feet of 
Ophelia, — but with feelings differing as com- 
pletely from those of that most sweet and 
melancholy prince, as hap|iiness from misery. 
Never had Lord Lindore been so happy be- 
fore ! — never, (and it is saying much, consider- 
ing the temperament of the young gentleman) 
never half so much in love ! 



It would not be fair, even if it were possible, 
to follow the course of a conversation that 
lasted two hours, which seemed to them as 
two minutes. 

They talked of a thousand things: first of 
flower-seeds, — and she introduced him to the 
beautiful winged seed of the geranium, with 
the curious elastic corkscrew curl at the bot- 
tom of its silvery plume ; and to that minia- 
ture shuttlecock which gives its name to one 
species of larkspur; and to the minute shining- 
sandlike seed of the small lilac campanula, 
and the bright jet-like bullets of the fraxinella, 
and the tiny lilac balls of the white petuana; 
and to the heavy nutmeg-like seeds of the 
marvel of Peru : and they both joined in loving 
flowers and in hating hard names. 

And then he tried to find out how she came 
there: and she told him that she lived close 
by : that the dear and kind relation with whom 
she resided was married to Mr. John Hale, his 
old tenant 

" John Hale !" interrupted Lord Lindore — 
" Old John Hale, the great farmer, great meal- 
man, great maltster, the richest yeoman in 
Berkshire! — the most respectable of his re- 
spectable class ! John Hale, who has accu- 
mulated his ample fortune with every man's 
good word, and has lived eighty years in the 
world without losing a friend or making an 
enemy! — I have thought too little of these 
things ; but I have always been proud of being 
the landlord of John Hale !" 

" Oh, how glad I am to hear you say so!" 
cried Katy. "He and his dear wife — his 
mistress, as he calls her — are so good to every- 
body and so kind to me! How" glad I am to 
hear you say that !" 

The tears glistened in her beautiful eyes; 
and Lord Lindore, after a little more praise of 
his venerable tenant, began talking of her own 
family, of the races, and of the play. And 
Katy laughed at her admiration of the acting, 
and acknowledged her delight with the most 
genuine naivete. 

"Idid like it," said Katy: "and I should 
like to go to the play every night; and I don't 
wish to become too wise to be pleased, like 
mamma and Gertrude. But I should like to 
see Shakspeare acted best," added she, point- 
ing to a book at her side, which Lord Lindore 
had not observed before. He took it up, and 
it opened of itself at " Much ado about No- 
thing;" and they naturally fell into talk upon 
the subject of the great poet of England, — a 
subject which is almost as inexhaustible as 
nature itself. 

" I should think," said Katy, " that an 
actress of real talent would rather play Bea- 
trice than any other part. Lady Lindore says 
that it is too saucy — but I think not ; provided 
always that the sauciness be very sweetly 
spoken. That, however, is not what I love 
best in Beatrice: it is her uncalculating friend- 
ship for Hero, her devotion to her injured 



490 



BELFORD REGIS. 



cousin, her generous indignation at the base 
suspicion of Claudio. I don't know what the 
critics may say of the matter; but in my mind 
the fervid ardency of Beatrice, her violent — 
and the more violent because powerless — 
anger, forms the most natural female portrait 
in all Shakspeare. Imogen, Juliet, Desde- 
mona, are all charming in their several ways, 
but none of them come up to that, scolding." 

" You think scolding, then, natural to a 
woman ]" 

"To be sure, when provoked. What else 
can she do? You would not have her fight, 
would you 1 And yet Beatrice had as good a 
mind for a battle as any woman that ever 
lived. Hark ! There's the dressing-bell. 
You and I must fiffht out this battle another 
time," said she, with something of the sweet 
sauciness she had described. " Good b'ye till 
dinner-time, my lord. — Leila! Nelson!" 

And followed by her pets, Katy ran off by 
an entrance to the Rockery which he had not 
seen before. Arthur was about to trace the 
windings of the labyrinth and follow the swift- 
footed beauty, when his mother's voice ar- 
rested him. She was standing under the ivied 
arch by which he bad entered. 

" Well, Arthur, how do you like the little 
heiress ■?" 

" Mother !" 

" Ay, the little heiress, — the learned, the 
ugly, and the wise ! Your Katy! my Katy !" 

"And are they really one] And had you 
the heart to frighten me in this cruel way for 
notliingl" 

" Nay, Arthur, not for nothing ! If I had 
called Katy as pretty as I thought her, there 
was great danger that the very commendation 
might have provoked you into setting up some 
opposite standard of beauty. I having selected 
a Hebe, you would have chosen a .Tuno. For, 
after all, your falling in love with her dear 
self at Belford Races, which I could not fore- 
see, was as much the result of the spirit of 
contradiction as of anything else. Heaven 
grant that, now you know she has a hundred 
thousand pounds, you may not for that reason 
think fit to change your mind ! For the rest, 
you now, I suppose, understand that good old 
.John Hale (whose riches are not at all sus- 
pected by those foolish persons, Mr. and Mrs. 
Elphinstone) proposed the match to me on 
findintr at once your embarrassments and my 
fondness for his young relation, who, since 
the marriage of my own children, has been as 
a daughter in my tiouse; and who is the kind- 
est and dearest little girl that ever trod this 
work-a-day world." 

"And learned]" inquired Lord Lindore, 
laughing. 

"That you must inquire into yourself," 
replied his mother. " But if it should turn 
out that Doctor Wilmot, our good rector, find- 
ing her a child of seven years old, with very 
quick parts and very little instruction, took 



her education in hand, and has enabled her at 
twenty to gratify her propensity for the drama, 
by understanding Schiller and ('alderon as 
well as you do, and Eschylus and Sophocles 
much better, why then you will have to con- 
sider how far your philosophy and her beauty 
may enable you to support the calamity. For 
my part, I hold the opinion that knowledge 
untainted by pedantry or vanity seldom does 
harm to man or woman ; and Katy's bright eyes 
may possibly convert you to the same faith. 
In the mean while, you have nothing to do but 
to make love; a language, in which, from long 
practice, I presume you to be sufficiently well 
versed to play the part of instructor." 
" O mother ! have some mercy !" 
" And as the fair lady dines here, you may 
begin your lessons this very evening. So 
now, my dear Arthur, go and dress." 

And with another deprecating " O mother !" 
the happy son kissed Lady Lindore's hand, 
and they parted. 



THE ABSENT MEMBER. 

Everybody remembers the excellent cha- 
racter of an absent man by La Bruyere, since 
so capitally dramatized by Isaac Bickerstaff ; 
[why does not Mr. Listen revive the piece ? — 
he would be irresistibly amusing in the part] ; 
— everybody remembers the character, and 
everybody would have thought the whole ac- 
count a most amusing and pleasant invention, 
had not the incredible facts been verified by 
the sayings and doings of a certain Parisian 
count, whose name has escaped me,* a well- 
known individual of that day, whose dutrac- 
iions (I use the word in the French sense, and 
not in the English) set all exaggeration at de- 
fiance, — who was, in a word, more dish-ait 
than Le Distrait of La Bruyere. 

He, " that nameless he," still remains un- 
rivalled ; as an odd Frenchman, when such 
a thing turns up, which is seldom, will gene- 
rally be found to excel at all points your Eng- 
lish oddity, which is comparatively common. 
No single specimen so complete in its kind 
has appeared in our country; but the genus is 

* In writing of the forgelfulness of others, a touch 
of that quality may be permitted in oneself It is in 
keeping, and belongs to the subject. And in good 
truth, if one may say of this sort of distractions as of 
that worst species of hallucination called love, " lliey 
best can paint them who can leel them most," then 
am I a iit recorder of all the errors, bliniders, and 
mistakes that proceed from want of moniory; I being 
as much addicted to forget names, and dates, and 
places — to write one word for anotlier — to confound 
authorities, and misquote verse, as Mr. Coningsby 
liimselfi I cannot even rememl)er the style and title 
of my own geraniutns, and only yesterday gave away 
our own IMegalantliou seedling (as precious to a gera- 
mum-brerder as an Kclipse colt to a geiitleinan on the 
turf), mistaking it for a l.ord Combcrmere. "The 
force of absence could no farther go." 



THE ABSENT MEMBER. 



491 



by no means extinct; and every now and then, 
especially amnnirst learned men, great niatlie- 
maticians, and eminent Grecians, one has llie 
luck to lifrlit upon an oriijinal, whose powers 
of perception and memory are subject to lapses 
the most extraordinary, — (its of abstraction, 
durintr wiiich everything that passes falls un- 
observed into some pit of forgetfulness, like 
the oubliette of an old castle, and is never 
seen or heard of again. 

My excellent friend Mr. Coningsby is just 
such a man. The Waters of Oblivion of the ! 
Eastern Fairy Tale, or the more classical 
Lethe, are but types to shadow forth the extent 
and variety of his anti-recollective faculty. 
Let the fit be strong upon him, and he shall 
not recognize his own mansion or remember 
his own name. Suppose him at Whitehall, 
and the fire which burnt the two Houses 
would at such a lime hardly disturb him. 
You might, at certain moments, commit mur- 
der in his presence with perfect impunity. 
He would not know the killer from the killed. 

Of course this does not happen every day; 
or rather opportunities of so striking a charac- 
ter do not often fall in his way, or doubtless 
he would not fail to make the most of them. 
Of the smaller occasions, which can occur 
more frequently, he is pretty sure to take ad- 
vantao-e; and, from the time of his putting on 
two diiferent coloured stockings, when getting 
up in the morning, to that of his assuminghis 
wife's laced night-cap on going to bed, his 
every-day's history is one perpetual series of 
blunders and mistakes. 

He will salt his tea, for instance, at break- 
fast-time, and put sugar on his muffin, and 
swallow both messes without the slightest 
perception of his having deviated from the 
common mode of applying those relishing con- 
diments. With respect to the quality of his 
food, indeed, he is as indilTerent as Dominie 
Sampson; and he has been known to fill his 
glass with vinegar instead of sherry, and to 
pour a ladle of turtle-soup over his turbot in- 
stead of lobster-sauce; and doubtless would 
have taken both the eatables and drinkables 
very quietly, had not his old butler, on the 
watch against such occurrences, whisked both 
glass and plate away with the celerity of 

Sancho's physician, Don Bless me ! I have 

forgotten that name also! I said that this sub- 
ject was contairious — Don he who officiat- 
ed in the island of Barataria — Don No, 

Doctor Pedro Rezio de Aauero, that is the 
title to which the gentleman answers : — Well, 
t!ie vinegar would have been drunken, and the 
turbot and turtle-sauce eaten, had not the 
vigilant butler played the part of Don Pedro 
Rezio, and wlnpped otF the whole concern, 
whilst the good man, his master, sat in 
dubious meditation, wondering what had be- 
come of his dinner, and not quite certain that 
he might not have eaten it, until a plateful of 
more salubrious and less inconorruous viands 



— ham and chicken, for instance, or roast beef 
and French beans — was placed before him, 
and- settled the question. But for that inesti- 
mable butler, a coroner's inquest would have 
been held upon him long ago. 

After breakfast he would dress, thrice happy 
if the care of his valet protected him from 
shaving with a pruning-knife, or putting on 
his waistcoat wrong side out; being dressed, 
he would prepare for his morning ride, mount- 
ing if his groom did not happen to be waiting, 
the very first four-footed animal that came in 
his way, soinetimes the butcher's horse, with 
a tray nicely balanced before — sometimes the 
postboy's donkey, with the letter-bags swing- 
ing behind — sometimes his daughter's pony, 
side-saddle notwithstanding; and, when 
mounted, forth he sallies, rather in the direc- 
tion which his steed may happen to prefer 
than in that which he himself had intended to 
follow. 

Bold would be the pen that should attempt 
even a brief summary of the mistakes com- 
mitted in one single morning's ride. If he 
proceed, as he frequently does, to our good 
town of Belford, he goes for wrong things, to 
the wrong shops ; miscalls the people whom 
he accosts (seldom, indeed, shall he hit on the 
proper name, title, or vocation of any one 
whom he chances to address ;) and asks an 
old bachelor after his wife, and an old maid 
after her children ; and finally sums up a 
morning of blunders by going to the inn where 
he had not left his horse, and quietly stepping 
into some gig or phaeton prepared for another 
person. In a new neighbourhood this appro- 
priation of other people's property miglit bring 
our hero into an awkward dilemma; but the 
man and his ways are well known in our 
parts; and, when the unlucky owner of the 
abstracted equipage arrives in a fury, and de- 
mands of the astounded ostler what has be- 
come of his carriage, one simple exclamation, 
" Mr. Coningsby, sir !" is at once felt by the 
aggrieved proprietor to be explanation enough. 

Should morning-calls be the order of the day, 
he contrives to make a pretty comfortable con- 
fusion in that simple civility. First of all, he 
can hardly gallop along the king's highway 
without getting into a demele with the 
turnpike keepers; sometimes riding quietly 
through a gate without paying the slightest 
attention to their demand for toll ; at others, 
tossing them, without dreaming of stopping to 
receive the change, a shilling or a sovereign, 
as the case may be : for, although great on 
the currency question — (have I not said that 
the gentleman is* a county member?) — he is 



* Erratum : for is read ?wzs. " Was a county mem- 
ber" will do just as well, and save the eminent pub- 
lisher and respectable printer of these loyal volumes 
from any danger of being called, innocent as they are, 
to the bar of the House, and committed to his Majes- 
ty's gaol of Newgale for breach of privilege — to say 
nothing of my own share of the peril. Has must be 
the word. 



492 



BELFORD REGIS. 



practically most happily ignorant of the cur- 
rent coin of the realm, and would hardly know 
gold from silver, if asi<ed to distimruish .be- 
tween them. This event is a perfect God- 
send to the nrate-keeper ; who, confidinjr in the 
absolute deafness produced by his abstraction, 
calls after him with a complete assurance that 
he may be honest with impunity, and that, 
bawl as he may, there is no more chance of 
his arrestintr his passenger, than the turnpike- 
man of Ware had of stopping Johnny Gilpin. 
Accordingly, after undergoing the ceremony of 
offering change, he pockets the whole coin 
with a safe conscience. Beggars (and he is 
very charitable) find their account also in this 
ignorance: he flings about crowns for penny- 
pieces, and half-sovereigns for sixpences, re- 
lieving the same set a dozen times over, and 
getting quit of a pocketful of money — (for 
though he have a purse, he seldom remembers 
to make use of it — luckily seldom — for if he 
do fill that gentlemanly net-work, he is sure to 
lose it, cash, bank-notes, and all) — in the 
course of a morning's ride. 

Arrived at the place of his destination, the 
house at which he is to call, a new scene of 
confusion is pretty sure to arise. In the first 
place, it rarely happens that he does arrive at 
the veritable mansion to which his visit is in- 
tended. He is far more likely to ride to the 
wrong place, inquire of the bewildered foot- 
man for some name not his master's, and be 
finally ushered into a room full of strangers, 
persons whom he neither visits nor knows, 
who stare and wonder what brought him, 
whilst he, not very sure whether he ought to 
remember them, whether they be his ac- 
quaintances or not, stammers out an apology 
and marches off again. (N. B. He once did 
this whilst canvassing for the county to a 
rival candidate, and finding only the lady of 
the house, entreated her, in the most insinuat- 
ing manner, to exert her influence with her 
husband for his vote and interest. This passed 
for a deep stroke of finesse amongst those 
who did not know him — they who did, laughed 
and exclaimed, " Mr. Coningsby !") or he shall 
commit the reverse mistake, and riding to the 
right house, shall ask for the wrong people; 
or, finding the family out, he shall have for- 
gotten his own name — I mean his name- 
tickets — and shall leave one from his wife's 
or daughter's card-case, taken up by that sort 
of accident which is to him second nature; — 
or he" shall unite all these blunders, and leave 
at a house, where he himself does not visit, a 
card left at his own mansion by vi third per- 
son, who is also unacquainted with the family 
to which so unconsciously that outward sign 
and token of acquaintanceship had travelled. 
Imagine the mistakes and the confusions 
occasioned by su('h doings in a changeable 
neighbourhood, much broken into parties by 
politics and election contests ! Sometimes it 
does good, — as between two old country 



squires, who, having been friends all their 
lives, had quarrelled about the speed of a 
greyhound and the decision of a course, and 
had mutually vowed never to approach each 
other's door. The sight of his antagonist's 
card (left in one of Mr. Coningsby's absent 
fits) so mollified the more testy elder of the 
two, that he forthwith returned the visit, 
and the opposite party being luckily not at 
home, a card was left there also; and either 
individual thinking the concession first made 
to himself, was emulous in stepping forward 
with the most cordial hand-shaking when they 
met casually at dinner at a third place. 

But Mr. Coningsby's visiting blunders 
were not always so fortunate; where they 
healed one breach, they made twenty, and 
one had very nearly occasioned a duel betwixt 
two youngsters, lords of neighbouring manors, 
between whose gamekeepers there was an 
outstanding feud. The card left was taken 
for a cartel — a note of defiance ; and but for 
the interference of constables and mayors, 
and magistrates, and aunts, and sisters, and 
mammas, and peace-preservers of all ages 
and sexes, some very hot blood would inevi- 
tably have been spilt. As it was, the affair 
terminated in a grand effusion of ink ; the cor- 
respondence between the seconds, a delicious 
specimen of polite and punctilious quarrelling, 
having been published for the edification of 
the world, and filling three columns of the 
county newspapers. It came to no conclu- 
sion ; for although the one party conceded 
that a card had been left, and the other that 
the person to whom the name belonged did 
not leave it, yet how the thing did arrive on 
the hall-table remained a mystery. The ser- 
vant who opened the door happened to be a 
stranger, and somehow or other nobody ever 
thought of Mr. Coningsby ; — nay, he himself, 
although taking a great interest in the dispute, 
and wondering over the puzzle like the rest 
of the neighbourhood, never once recollected 
his own goings on that eventful morning, nor 
dreamt that it could be through his infirmity 
that Sir James Mordaunt's card was left at 
Mr. Chandler's ; — to so incredible a point was 
his forgetfulness carried. 

If in so simple a matter as morning visit- 
ing he contrived to produce such confusion, 
think how his genius must have expanded 
when so dangerous a weapon as a pen got 
into his hands ! I question if he ever wrote 
a letter in his life without some blunder in the 
date, the address, the signature, or the sub- 
ject. He would indite an epistle to one 
])erson, direct it to another, and send it to a 
third, who could not conceive from whom it 
came, because he had forgotten to put his 
name at the bottom. But of the numerous 
perplexities to which he was in the habit of 
givino- rise, franks were by very far the most 
frequent cause. Ticklish things are they even 
to the punctual and the careful ; and to Mr. 



THE ABSENT MEMBER. 



49S 



Coningsby the giving one quite perfectly 
right seemed an ireipossibility. There was 
the date to consider, the month, the day of the 
month, the year — I have known him write the 
wrong century ; — then came the name, the 
place, the street, and number, if in London — 
if in the country, the town and county ; — 
then, lastly, his own name, which, for so 
simple an operation as it seems, he would 
contrive generally to omit, and sometimes to 
boggle with, now writing only his patronymic 
as if he were a peer, now only his Christian 
name as if a prince, and now an involution 
of initials that defied even the accurate eye 
of the Clerks of the Post Office. Very, very 
few can have been the franks of his that es- 
caped paying. 

Of course his friends and acquaintance 
w"ere forewarned, and escaped the scrape (for 
it is one) of making their correspondents pay 
triple postage. Bountiful as he was in his 
offers of service in this way, (and keeping no 
account of the numbers, he would just as rea- 
dily give fifty as one) none incurred the penalty 
save strangers and the unwary. I, for my 
own part, never received but one letter direct- 
ed by him in my life, and in the address of 
that, the name — my name, the name of the 
person to whom the letter was written — was 
wanting. " Three Mile Cross," held the place 
usually occupied by " Miss Mitford." 
" Three Mile Cross- 
Reading, 
Berks," 
ran the direction. But as I happened to re- 
ceive about twenty times as many letters, and 
especially franked letters, as all the good peo- 
ple of the " Cross" put together, the packet 
was sent first to me, by way of experiment; 
and, as I recognized the seal of a dear friend 
and old correspondent, I felt no scruple in ap- 
propriating for once, like a Scottish laird, the 
style and title of the place where I reside. 
And I and the postmaster were right ; the 
ejjistle was, as it happened, intended for me. 

Notes would, in his hands, have been still 
more dangerous than letters ; but from this 
peril he was generally saved by the caution 
of the two friends most anxious for his credit, 
— his wife and the old butler, who commonly 
contrived, the one to write the answers to all 
invitations or general billets that arrived in 
the house, the other to watch that none from 
him should pass without due scrutiny. Once, 
however, he escaped their surveillance ; and 
the consequence was an adventure which, 
though very trifling, proved, in the first in- 
stance, so uncomfortable as to cause both his 
keepers to exert double vigilance for the future. 
Thus the story ran : — 

A respectable, but not wealthy, clergyman 
had been appointed to a living about ten miles 
olf — had married, and brought home his bride ; 
and Mr. Coningsby, who, as county member, 
called upon everybody within a still wider 

42 



circuit, paid a visit in due form, accompanied 
by, or rather accompanying, his lady ; which 
call having been duly returned (neither party 
being at home), was followed at the proper 
interval by an invitation for Mr. and Mrs. 
Ellis to dine at Coningsby House. The in- 
vitation was accepted ; but, when the day 
arrived, the dangerous illness of a near rela- 
tion prevented the young couple from keeping 
their engagement; and some time after, the 
fair bride began to think it necessary to return 
the civilities of her neighbours, by giving her 
first dinner-party. Notes of invitation were 
despatched accordingly to four families of eon- 
sequence, amongst them Mr. Coningsby's ; 
but it was the busy Christmas-time, when, 
between family parties, and London visiters, 
and children's balls, everybody's evenings 
were bespoken for weeks beforehand ; and 
from three of her friends, accordingly, she 
received answers declining her invitation, and 
pleading pre-engagements. From the Co- 
ningsbys, only, no note arrived. But acci- 
dentally Mr. Ellis heard that they were to 
go at Christmas on a distant visit, and, taking 
for granted that the invitation had not reached 
the worthy member or his amiable lady, Mrs. 
Ellis, instead of attempting to collect other 
friends, made up her mind to postpone her 
party to a more convenient season. 

The day on which the dinner was to have 
been given proved so unfavourable that our 
young couple saw good cause to congratulate 
themselves on their resolution. The little ham- 
let of East Longford, amongst the prettiest 
of our North-of-Hampshire villages, so beau- 
tiful in the summer, from the irregularities of 
the ground, the deep woody lanes hollowed 
like water-courses, the wild commons which 
must be passed to reach it, and the profound 
seclusion of the one straggling street of cot- 
tages and cottage-like houses, with the vicar- 
age, placed like a bird's-nest on the side of a 
steep hill, clothed to the very top with beech- 
woods ; this pretty hamlet, so charming in its 
summer verdure, its deep retirement, and its 
touch of wildness in the midst of civilization, 
was, from those circumstances, no tempting 
spot in midwinter ; vast tracts across the com- 
mons were then nearly impassable ; the lanes 
were sloughs ; and the village itself, rendered 
insulated and inaccessible by the badness of 
the roads, conveyed no other feeling than that 
of dreariness and loneliness. Mr. and J^Irs. 
Ellis, who, although not insensible of the in- 
conveniences of their abode, had made up 
their minds to bear the evil and enjoy the 
good of their situation, could not help con- 
gratulating themselves as they sat in their 
snug dining-parlour, after a five o'clock dinner, 
on the postponement of their party. " The 
snow is above a foot deep, and the bridge 
broken, so that neither servants nor horses 
could have^got to the Eight Bells ; and where 
could we have housed them V said the gentle- 



494 



BELFORD REGIS. 



man. "And the drawing-room smokes so, in 
this heavy atmosphere, that we cannot light 
a fire there," responded the lady. " Never, 
to be sure, was anything so fortunate !" 

And just as the word was spoken, a carriage 
and four drove up to the door, and exactly at 
half-past six (the hour named in the invitation) 
Mr. and Mrs. Coningsby were ushered into the 
room. 

Imagine the feelings of four persons who 
had never met before in such a situation — es- 
pecially of the two ladies. Mrs. Ellis, dinner 
over, with the consciousness of the half bottle 
of port and the quarter of sherry, the apples, 
the nuts, the single pair of mould candles, her 
drawing-room fire that could not be lighted, 
her dinner to provide as well as to cook, and 
her own dark merino and black silk apron ! 
Poor Mrs. Coningsby, on the other hand, see- 
ing at a glance how the case stood, feeling for 
the trouble that they were giving, and sinking 
under a consciousness far worse to bear than 
Mrs. Ellis's — the consciousness of being over- 
dressed, — how heartily did she wish herself at 
home again ! or, if that were too much to de- 
sire, what would she have given to have re- 
placed her claret-coloured satin gown, her hat 
with its white plumes, her pearls and her 
rubies, back again in their wardrobes and cases. 

It was a trial of no ordinary nature to the 
good sense, good breeding, and good humour 
of both parties; and each stood it well. There 
happened to be a cold round of beef in the 
house, some undressed game, and plenty of 
milk and eggs; the next fcrmer had killed a 
pig; and with pork chops, cold beef, a pheas- 
ant, and apple fritters, all very nicely prepared, 
more fastidious persons than Mr. and Mrs. 
Coningsby might have made a good dinner. 
The host brought out his best claret ; the pretty 
hostess regained her smiles, and forget her 
black apron and her dark merino; and, what 
was a far more difficult achievement, the fair 
visiter forgot her plumes and her satin. The 
evening, which began so inauspiciously, ended 
pleasantly and sociably; and, when the note 
(taken, as was guessed, by our hero from the 
letter-boy, with the intention of sending it by 
a groom) was found quietly ensconced in his 
waistcoat pocket, Mrs. Coningsby could hardly 
regret the termination of her present adventure, 
although fully resolved never again to incur a 
similar danger. 

Of his mishaps when attending his duty in 
parliament, and left in some measure to his own 
guidance, (for, having no house in town, his 
family only go for about three months in the 
season,) there is no end. Some are serious, 
and some very much the reverse. Take a 
specimen of his London scrapes. 

Our excellent friend wears a wig, made to 
imitate a natural head of hair, which it is to 
be presumed that at the best of times it does 
not very closely resemble, and which after a 
week of Mr. Coningsby's wearing put on with 



the characteristic negligence of his habits some- 
times on one side, sometimes on the other, — 
always awry, and frequently hindside before, 
— assumes such a demeanour as never was 
equalled by Christian peruke at any time or 
in any country. 

One day last winter, being in London with- 
out a servant, he by some extraordinary chance 
happened to look in the glass when he was 
dressing, and became aware of the evil state 
of his caxon ; — a piece of information for 
which he had been generally indebted to one 
of his two guardians, Mrs. Coningsby or the 
old butler; — and, recollecting that he was 
engaged to a great dinner-party the ensuing 
evening, stepped into the first hairdresser's 
shop that he passed to bespeak himself a wig ; 
where being a man of exceedingly pleasant 
and jocular manners, (your oddities, with the 
exception of the peculiar oddity, are commonly 
agreeable persons,) he passed himself off for 
a bachelor to the artificer of hair, and declared 
that his reason for desiring a wig of peculiar 
beauty and becomingness was that he was en- 
gaged to a great party the next day, at which 
he expected to meet the lady of his heart, and 
that his fate and fortune depended on the set 
of his curls. This he impressed very strongly 
on the mind of the perruquier, who, an enthu- 
siast in his art, as a great artist should be, saw 
nothing extraordinary in the fact of a man's 
happiness hanging on the cut of his wig, and 
gravely promised that no exertion should be 
wanting on his part to contribute to the felicity 
of his customer, and that the article in question, 
as perfect as hands could make it, should be 
at his lodgings the next evening at seven. 

Pimctual to the hour arrived the maker of 
perukes ; and, finding Mr. Coningsby not yet 
returned to dress, went to attend another ap- 
pointment, promising to come back in half an 
hour. In half an hour accordingly the man 
of curls reappeared — ^just in time to see a cab- 
riolet driving rapidly from the door, at which 
a maid-servant stood tittering. 

"Where is Mr. Coningsby'?" inquired the 
perruquier. 

"Just gone out to dinner," replied the girl ; 
"and a queer figure he is, sure enough. He 
looks, for all the world, like an owl in an ivy- 
bush ?" 

"To be sure, he has not got his new wig on 
— my wig !" returned the alarmed artist. 
" He never can be such a fool as that !" 

" He's fool enough for anything in the way 
of forgetting or not attending, although a main 
clever man in other respects," responded our 
friend Sally ; "and he has got a mop of hair 
on his head, whoever made it, that would have 
served for half a dozen wigs." 

" The article was sent home untrimmed, just 
as it was woven," replied the unfortunate fab- 
ricator, in increasing consternation; "and a 
capital article it is. I came by his own direc- 
tion to cut and curl it, according to the shape 



THE ABSENT MEMBER. 



495 



of his face; the a^entleman being particular 
about the set of it, because he's going a-court- 
ing." 

" Going a-courtingr' exclaimed Sally, amaz- 
ed in her turn ; "the Lord ha' mercy upon the 
poor wretch ! If he has not clean forgot that 
he's married, and is going to commit big — big 
— bigotry, or bigoly — I don't know what you 
call it — to have two wives at once ! and then 
he'll be hanged. Going a-courting ! What'U 
Madam say ! He'll come to be hanged, sure 
enough !' 

" Married already !" quoth the perruquier, 
with a knowing whistle, and a countenance 
that spoke " Benedick, the married man," in 
every feature. " Whew ! One wife at a time's 
enough for most people. But he'll not be 
hanged. The fact of his wearing my wig 
with the hair six inches long will save him. 
He must be non compos. And you that stand 
tittering there can be little better to let him go 
out in such a plight. Why did'nt you stop 
himf' 

" Stop him !" ejaculated the damsel, — " stop 
Mr. Coningsby ! I should like to know how !" 

"Why, by telling him what he was about 
to be sure, and getting him to look in the glass. 
Nobody with eyes in his head could have gone 
out such a figure !" 

"Talk to him!" quoth Sally; "but how 
was I to get him to listen 1 And, as to look- 
ing in the glass, I question if ever he did such 
a thing in his life. You don't know our Mr. 
Coningsby, that's clear enough !" 

" I only wish he had never come in my way, 
that I never had had the ill luck to have known 
him!" rejoined the discomfited artist. "If 
he should happen to mention my name as his 
wigmaker whilst he has that peruke on his 
head, I am ruined ! — my reputation is gone for 
ever !" 

" No fear of that !" replied Sally, in a com- 
forting tone, struck with comjjassion at the 
genuine alarm of the unlucky man of wigs. 
"There's not the slightest danger of his men- 
tioning your name, because you may be certain 
sure that he does not remember it. Lord love 
you ! he very often forgets his own. Don't 
you be frightened about that !" repeated the 
damsel soothingly, as she shut the door, whilst 
the discomfited perruquier returned to his shop, 
and Mr. Coningsby, never guessing how en- 
tirely in outward semblance he resembled the 
wild man of the woods, proceeded to his din- 
ner-party, where his coiflfure was, as the hair- 



dresser had predicted, the theme of universal 
astonishment and admiration.* 

This, however, was one of the least of his 
scrapes. He has gone to court without a 
sword ; has worn coloured clothes to a fune- 
ral, and black to a wedding. There is scarcely 
any conventional law of society which, in 
some way or other, he hath not contrived to 
break; and, in two or three slight instances, 
he has approached more nearly than beseems 
a magistrate and a senator to a demele with 
the laws of the land. He hath quietly 
knocked down a great fellow, for instance, 
whom he caught beating a little one, and hath 
once or twice been so blind, or so absent, as 
to suffer a petty culprit to run away, when 
brought up for examination, in virtue of his 
own warrant. But it is remarkable that he 
never, in his most oblivious moods, is betrayed 
into an unkind word or an ungenerous action. 
There is a moral instinct about him which 
preserves him, in the midst of his oddities, 
pure and unsullied in thought and deed. 
With all his " distractions,'''' he never lost a 
friend or made an enemy ; his opponents at 
an election are posed when they have to get 
up a handbill against him ; and for that great 
test of amiableness, the love of his family, his 
household, his relations, servants, and neigh- 
bours, I would match my worthy friend, George 
Coningsby, against any man in the county. 



* Strange things are wigs on — it's a wonder that 
any man who has the good hick to be bald should 
condescend to wear one — and still stranger are they 
off; particularly when a large number are gathered 
together. The first grand collection that ever I hap- 
pened to see was, a great many years ago, at Mr. Basil 
Montagu's, where Dr. Parr, who made a London home 
of that inost agreeable house, did me the honour to 
introduce me to a long row of his own most orthodox- 
looking caxons, (everybody remembers the epithet 
borrowed from his peculiar peruke, "Parr's buzz 
pro.se," in the poetry of the Antijacobin), — a long row 
hung upon wine-bottles, each of which was dignified 
by some high-sounding title. One, I remember, he 
called the Grand Seignior, and another the Emperor 
of Morocco, — full-bottoms all of them, fit cushions for 
the three-cornered clerical hat. The last assortment 
that was brought under my notice consisted of some 
twenty or thirty lank-haired and puritanical-looking 
periwigs, arranged in due order on a long table in the 
V^ictoria Theatre, and destined to adorn the pates of 
the roundheads in my tragedy of Charles the first. 
Grave as the occasion was, — and nothing can be more 
serious than the first night of a new play to manager 
and author, — neither Mr. Abbott nor I could help 
laughing at the profound solemnity of their appear- 
ance. The only person who did not laugh was the 
hairdresser. He had a respect for his art. 



END OF BELFORD REGIS. 



COUNTRY STORIES. 



COUNTRY LODGINGS. 

Between two and three years atjo, the fol- 
lowing pithy advertisement appeared in several 
of the London papers : — 

" Country Lodgings. — Apartments to let in a large 
farm-house, situate in a cheap and pleasant village, 
about forty tniles from London. Apply (if by letter 
post-paid) to A. B., No. 7, Salisbury-street, Strand." 

Little did I think, whilst admiring in the 
broad page of the Morning Chronicle the 
compendious brevity of this announcement, 
that the pleasant village referred to was our 
own dear Aberleigh ; and that the first tenant 
of those apartments should be a lady whose 
family I had long known, and in whose for- 
tunes and destiny I took a more than common 
interest ! 

Upton Court was a manor-house of consid- 
erable extent, which had in former times been 
the residence of a distinguished Catholic fam- 
ily, but which, in the changes of property 
incident to our fluctuating neighbourhood, was 
now "fallen from its high estate," and de- 
graded into the homestead of a farm so small, 
that the tenant, a yeoman of the poorest class, 
was fain to eke out his rent by entering into 
an agreement with a speculating Belford up- 
holsterer, and letting off a part of the fine old 
mansion in the shape of furnished lodgings. 

Nothing could be finer than the situation of 
Upton, placed on the summit of a steep ac- 
clivity, looking over a rich and fertile valley 
to a range of woody hills ; nothing more 
beautiful than the approach from Belford, the 
road leading across a common between a dou- 
ble row of noble oaks, the ground on one side 
sinking with the abruptness of a north-country 
burn, whilst a clear spring, bursting from the 
hill side, made its way to the bottom between 
patches of shaggy underwood and a grove of 
smaller trees; a vine-covered cottage just 
peeping between the foliage, and the pic- 
turesque outline of the Court, with its old- 
fashioned porch, its long windows, and its 
tall, clustered chimneys towering in the dis- 
tance. It was the prettiest prospect ia all 
Aberleigh. 

The house itself retained strong marks of 
former stateliness, especially in one projecting 
wing, too remote from the yard to be devoted 
to the domestic purposes of the farmer's fam- 
ily. The fine proportions of the lofty and 
spacious apartments, the rich mouldings of 



the ceilings, the carved chimney-pieces, and 
the panelled walls, all attested the former 
grandeur of the mansion ; whilst the frag- 
ments of stained glass in the windows of the 
great gallery, the half-effaced coats of arms 
over the door-way, the faded family portraits, 
grim black-visaged knights, and pale shadowy 
ladies, or the reliques of mouldering tapestry 
that fluttered against the walls,- and, above all, 
the secret chamber constructed for the priest's 
hiding-place in days of Protestant persecution, 
for in darker ages neither of the doininant 
churches was free from that foul stain, — each 
of these vestiges of the maimers and the his- 
tory of times long gone by appealed to the 
imagination, and conspired to give a Mrs. 
Kadcliffe-like, Castle-of-Udolpho-sort of ro- 
mance to the manor-house. Really, when the 
wind swept through the overgrown espaliers 
of that neglected but luxuriant wilderness, 
the terraced garden ; when the screech-owl 
shrieked from the ivy which clustered up one 
side of the walls, and " rats and mice, and 
such small deer," were playing their pranks 
behind the wainscot, it would have forined as 
pretty a locality for a supernatural adventure, 
as ever decayed hunting lodge in the recesses 
of the Hartz, or ruined fortress on the castled 
Rhine. Nothing was wanting but the ghost, 
and a ghost of any taste would have been 
proud of such a habitation. 

Less like a ghost than the inhabitant who 
did arrive, no human being well could be. 

Mrs. Cameron was a young widow. Her 
father, a Scotch oflicer, well-born, sickly, and 
poor, had been but too happy to bestow the 
hand of his only child upon an old friend and 
fellow-countryman, the principal clerk in a 
government office, whose respectable station, 
easy fortune, excellent sense, and super-ex- 
cellent character, were, as he thought, and as 
fathers, right or wrong, are apt to think, ad- 
vantages more than sufficient to counterbalance 
a disparity of years and appearance, which 
some daughters might have thought startling, 
— the bride being a beautiful girl of seventeen, 
the bridegroom a plain man of seven-and- 
fifty. In this case, at least, the father was 
right. He lived long enough to see that the 
young wife was unusually attached to her 
kind and indulgent husband, and died, about a 
twelve-month after the marriage, with the full- 
est confidence in her respectability and hap])i- 
ness. Mr. Cameron did not long survive him. 
Before she was nineteen the fair Helen Came- 

(496) 



COUNTRY LODGINGS. 



497 



ron was a widow and an orphan, with one 
beautiful boy, to whom she was left sole per- 
sonal guardian, an income being secured to 
her ample for her rank in life, but clogged 
with the one condition of her not marrying 
again. 

Such was the tenant, who, wearied of her 
dull suburban home, a red brick house in the 
middle of a row of red brick houses; tired of 
the loneliness which never presses so much 
upon the spirits as when left solitary in the 
environs of a great city; pining for country 
liberty, for green trees, and fresh air ; much 
caught by the picturesqueness of Upton, and 
its mixture of old-fashioned stateliness and 
village rusticity ; and, perhaps, a little swayed 
by a desire to be near an old friend and cor- 
respondent of the mother, to whose memory 
she was so strongly attached, came in the 
budding spring time, the showery", flowery 
month of April, to spend the ensuing summer 
at the Court. 

We, on our part, regarded her arrival with 
no common interest. To me it seemed but 
yesterday since I had received an epistle of 
thanks for a present of one of dear Mary 
Hewitt's charming children's books, — an 
epistle undoubtedly not indited by the writer, 
— in huge round text, between double pencil 
lines, with certain small errors of orthography 
corrected in a smaller hand above ; followed 
in due time by postscripts to her mother's let- 
ters, upon one single line, and the spelling 
much amended ; then by a short, very short 
note, in French ; and at last, by a despatch of 
unquestionable authenticity, all about doves 
and rabbits, — a holiday scrawl, rambling, 
scrambling, and uneven, and free from re- 
straint as heart could desire. It appeared but 
yesterday since Helen Graham was herself a 
child ; and here she was, within two miles of 
us, a widow and a mother ! 

Our correspondence had been broken off by 
the death of Mrs. Graham when she was 
about ten years old, and although I had twice 
called upon her in my casual visits to town 
during the lifetime of Mr. Cameron ; and al- 
though these visits had been most punctually 
returned, it had happened, as those things do 
happen in dear, provoking London, where one 
is sure to miss the people one wishes most to 
see, that neither party had ever been at home; 
so that we had never met, and I was at full 
liberty to indulge in my foolish propensity of 
sketching in my mind's eye a fancy portrait 
of my unknown friend. 

II Penseroso is not more different from 
L' Allegro than was my anticipation from the 
charming reality. Remembering well her 
mother's delicate and fragile grace of figure 
and countenance, and coupling with that re- 
collection her own unprotected and solitary 
state, and somewhat melancholy story, I had 
pictured to myself (as if contrast were not in 
this world of ours much more frequent than 



congruity) a mild, pensive, interesting, fair- 
haired beauty, tall, pale, and slender; — I 
found a Hebe, and Euphrosyne, — a round, 
rosy, joyous creature, the very impersonation 
of youth, health, sweetness, and gaiety, laugh- 
ter flashing from her hazel eyes, smiles dimp- 
ling round her coral lips, and the rich curls of 
her chestnut hair, — for having been fourteen 
months a widow, she had, of course, laid 
aside the peculiar dress, — the glossy ringlets 
of her "bonny brown hair" literally bursting 
from the comb that attempted to confine them. 

We soon found that her mind was as charn>- 
ing as her person. Indeed, her face, lovely 
as it was, derived the best part of its loveli- 
ness from her sunny temper, her frank and 
ardent spirit, her affectionate and generous 
heart. It was the ever-varying expression, 
an expression which could not deceive, that 
lent such matchless charms to her glowing 
and animated countenance, and to the round 
and musical voice sweet as the spoken voice 
of Malibran, or the still fuller and more ex- 
quisite tones of Mrs. Jordan, which, true to 
the feeling of the moment, vibrated alike to 
the wildest gaiety and the deepest pathos. In 
a word, the chief beauty of Helen Cameron 
was her sensibility. It was the perfume to 
the rose. 

Her little boy, born just before his father's 
death, and upon whom she doted, was a mag- 
nificent piece of still life. Calm, placid, dig- 
nified, an infant Hercules for strength and fair 
proportions, grave as a judge, quiet as a flow- 
er, he was, in point of age, exactly at that 
most delightful period when children are very 
pleasant to look upon, and require no other 
sort of notice whatsoever. Of course this 
state of perfection could not be expected to 
continue. The young gentleman would soon 
aspire to the accomplishments of walking and 
talking — and then ! — but as that hour of tur- 
moil and commotion to which his mamma 
looked forward with ecstasy was yet at some 
months' distance, I contented myself with say- 
ing of master Archy, with considerably less 
than the usual falsehood, that which every- 
body does say of only children, that he was 
the finest baby that ever was seen. 

W^e met almost every day. INIrs. Cameron 
was never weary of driving about our beauti- 
ful lanes in her little pony-carriage, and usually 
called upon us in her way home, we being 
not merely her oldest, but almost her only 
friends ; for lively and social as was her tem- 
per, there was a little touch of shyness about 
her, which induced her rather to shun than to 
court the company of strangers. And indeed 
the cheerfulness of temper, and activity of 
mind, which made her so charming an acqui- 
sition to a small circle, rendered her indepen- 
dent of general society. Busy as a bee, 
sportive as a butterfly, she passed the greater 
part of her time in the open air, and, having 
caught from me that very contagious and en- 



42 * 



3N 



498 



COUNTRY STORIES. 



grossing passion, a love of floriculture, had 
actually undertaken the operation of restoring 
the old garden at the Court — a coppice of 
brambles, thistles, and weeds of every de- 
scription, mixed with flowering-shrubs, and 
overgrown fruit-trees — to something like its 
original order. The farmer, to be sure, had 
abandoned the job in despair, contenting him- 
self with growing his cabbages and potatoes 
in a field hard by. But she was certain that 
she and her maid Martha, and the boy Bill, 
who looked after her pony, would weed the 
paths, and fill the flower-borders in no time. 
We should see ; I had need take good care 
of my reputation, for she meant her garden 
to beat mine. 

What progress Helen and her forces, a 
shatterbrain boy who did not know a violet 
from a nettle, and a London-bred girl who 
had hardly seen a rose-bush in her life, would 
have made in clearing this forest of under- 
wood, might easily be foretold. Accident, 
however, that frequent favourer of bold pro- 
jects, came to her aid in the shape of a more 
efficient coadjutor. 

Late one evening the fair Helen arrived at 
our cottage with a face of unwonted gravity. 
Mrs. Davies (her landlady) had used her very 
ill. She had taken the west wing, in total 
ignorance of their being other apartments to 
let at the Court, or she would have secured 
them. And now a new lodger had arrived, 
had actually taken possession of two rooms 
in the centre of the house; and Martha, who 
had seen him, said he wae- a young man, and 
a handsome man — and she herself a young 
woman unprotected and alone ! — It was awk- 
ward, very awkward! Was it not very 
awkward ■? What was she to do ] 

Nothing could be done that night; so far 
was clear; but we praised her prudence, pro- 
mised to call at Upton the next day, and, if 
necessary, to speak to this new lodger, who 
might, after all, be no very formidable person ; 
and o'lite relieved by the vent which she had 
given to her scruples, she departed in her 
usual good spirits. 

Early the next morning she re-appeared. 
" She would not have the new lodger disturb- 
ed for the world ! He was a Pole. One, 
doubtless, of those unfortunate exiles. He 
had told Mrs. Davies that he was a Polish 
gentleman desirous chiefly of good air, cheap- 
ness, and retirement. Beyond a doubt he 
was one of those unhappy fugitives. He 
looked grave, and pale, and thoughtful, quite 
like a hero of romance. Besides, he was the 
very person who a week before had caught 
hold of the reins, when that little restive pony 
had taken fright at the baker's cart, and nearly 
backed Bill and herself into the great gravel- 
pit on Lanton Common. Bill had entirely 
lost all command over the pony, and but for 
the stranger's presence of mind, she did not 
know what would have become of them. 



Surely I must remember her telling me the 
circumstance ! Besides, he was unfortunate ! 
Me was poor ! He was an exile ! She would 
not be the means of driving him from the 
asylum which he had chosen, for all the 
world! — No! not for all my geraniums!" 
an expression W'hich is by no means the anti- 
climax that it seems — for in the eyes of a 
florist, and that florist an enthusiast and a 
woman, what is this rusty fusty dusty musty 
bit of earth, called the world, compared to a 
stand of bright flowers ? 

And finding upon inquiry, that M. Choy- 
nowski (so he called himself) had brought a 
letter of recommendation from a respectable 
London tradesman, and that there was every 
appearance of his being, as our fair young 
friend, had conjectured, a foreigner in distress, 
my father not only agreed that it would be a 
cruel attempt to drive him from his new 
home, (a piece of tyranny which, even in this 
land of freedom, might, I suspect, have been 
managed in the form of an offer of double 
rent, by that grand despot, money,) but re- 
solved to offer the few attentions in our poor 
power, to one whom every look and word 
proclaimed him to be, in the largest sense of 
the word, a gentleman. 

My father had seen him, not on his visit 
of inquiry, but a few days after, bill-hook in 
hand, hacking away manfully at the briars 
and brambles of the garden. My first view 
of him was in a position still less romantic, 
assisting a Belford tradesman to put up a 
stove in the nursery. 

One of Mrs. Cameron's few causes of com- 
plaint in her country lodgings had been the 
tendency to smoke in that important apart- 
ment. We all know that when those two 
subtle essences, smoke and wind, once come 
to do battle in a wide, open chimney, the in- 
visible agent is pretty sure to have the best 
of the day, and to drive his vapoury enemy 
at full speed before him. M. Choynowski, 
who by this time had established a gardening 
acquaintance, not merely with Bill and Mar- 
tha, but with their fair mistress, happening to 
see her, one windy evening, in a paroxysm of 
smoky distress, not merely recommended a 
stove, after the fashion of the northern nations' 
notions, but immediately walked into Belford 
to give his own orders to a respectable iron- 
monger ; and they were in the very act of 
erecting this admirable accessary to warmth 
and comfort (really these words are synony- 
mous) when I happened to call. 

I could hardly have seen him under cir- 
cumstances better calculated to display his 
intelliirence, his delicacy, or his good-breed- 
ing. The patience, gentleness, and kind feel- 
ing, with which he contrived at once to excuse 
and to remedy certain blunders made by the 
workmen in the execution of his orders, and 
the clearness with which, in perfectly correct 
and idiomatic English, slightly tinged with a 



COUNTRY LODGINGS. 



499 



foreign accent, he explained the mechanical 
and scientific reasons for the construction he 
had sugo-ested, gave evidence at once of no 
common talent, and of a considerateness and 
good-nature in its exercise more valuable than 
all the talent in the world. If trifling and 
every-day occurrences afford, as I believe they 
do, the surest and safest indications of charac- 
ter, we could have no hesitation in pronounc- 
ing upon the amiable qualities of M, Choy- 
nowski. 

In person he was tall and graceful, and 
very noble-looking. His head was particular- 
ly intellectual, and there was a calm sweetness 
about the mouth that was singularly prepos- 
sessing. Helen had likened him to a hero of 
romance. In my mind he bore much more 
plainly the stamp of a man of fashion — of 
that very highest fashion which is too refined 
for finery, too full of self-respect for affecta- 
tion. Simple, natural, mild, and gracious, 
the gentle reserve of his manner added, under 
the circumstances, to the interest which he 
inspired. Somewhat of that reserve continued 
even after our acquaintance had ripened into 
intimacy. He never spoke of his own past 
history, or future prospects, shunned all politi- 
cal discourse, and was with difticulty drawn 
into conversation upon the scenery and man- 
ners of the North of Europe. He seemed 
afraid of the subject. 

IJpon general topics, whether of literature 
or art, he was remarkably open and candid. 
He possessed in an eminent degree the talent 
of acquiring languages for which his country- 
men are distinguished, and had made the best 
use of those keys of knowledge. I have 
never met with any person whose mind was 
more richly cultivated, or who was more cal- 
culated to adorn the highest station. And 
here he was wasting life in a secluded village 
in a foreign country ! What would become 
of him after his present apparently slender 
resources should be exhausted, was painful to 
imagine. The more painful, that the acci- 
dental discovery of the direction of a letter 
had disclosed his former rank. It was part 
of an envelope addressed, " A Monsieur Mon- 
sieur le Comte Choynowski," and left as a 
mark in a book all except the name being torn 
off. But the fact needed no confirmation. 
All his habits and ways of thinking bore 
marks of high station. What would become 
of him 1 

It was but too evident that another calamity 
was impending over the unfortunate exile. 
Although studiously discreet in word, and 
guarded in manner, every action bespoke his 
devotion to his lovely fellow inmale. Her 
wishes were his lavt'. His attentions to her 
little boy were such as young men rarely 
show to infants, except for love of the mother; 
and the garden, that garden abandoned since 
the memory of man, (for the Court, previous 
to the arrival of the present tenant, had been 



for years uninhabited,) was, under his exer- 
tions and superintendence, rapidly assuming 
an aspect of luxuriance and order. It was 
not impossible but Helen might realize her 
playful vaunt, and beat me in my own art 
after all. 

.lohn (our gardener lad) was as near being 
jealous as possible, and, considering the esti- 
mation in which John is known to hold our 
doings in the flower way, such jealousy must 
be accepted as the most flattering testimony 
to his rival's success. To go beyond our 
garden was, in John's opinion, to be great 
indeed ! 

Every thought of the Count Choynowski 
was engrossed by the fair Helen ; and we 
saw with some anxiety that she in her turn 
was but too sensible of his attentions, and 
that every thing belonging to his country as- 
sumed in her eyes an absorbing importance. 
She sent to London for all the books that 
could be obtained respecting Poland ; ordered 
all the journals that interested themselves in 
that interesting though apparently hopeless 
cause; turned liberal, — she who had been 
reared in the lap of conservatism, and whom 
my father used laughingly to call the little 
Tory; — turned Radical, turned Republican, — 
for she far out-soared the moderate doctrines 
of whigffism in her political flights; denounc- 
ed the Emperor Nicholas as a tyrant; spoke 
of the Russians as a nation of savages ; and 
in spite of the evident uneasiness with which 
the Polish exile listened to any allusion to the 
wrongs of his country, for he never mingled 
in such discussions, omitted no opportunity of 
proving her sympathj^ by declaiming with an 
animation and vehemence, as becoming as 
an3'thing so like scolding well could be, against 
the cruelty and wickedness of the oppressors 
of that most unfortunate of nations. 

It was clear that the peace of both was en- 
dangered, perhaps gone ; and that it had be- 
come the painful duty of friendship to awaken 
them from their too bewitching dream. 

We had made an excursion, on one sunny 
summer's day, as far as the Everley Hills. 
Helen, always impassioned, had been wrought 
into a passionate recollection of her own native 
country, by the sight of the heather just burst- 
ing into its purple bloom; and M. Choynow- 
ski, usually so self-possessed, had been be- 
trayed into the expression of a kindred feel- 
ing by the delicious odour of the fir planta- 
tions, which served to transport him in imagi- 
nation to the balm-breathing forests of the 
North. This sympathy was a new, and a 
strong bond of union between two spirits but 
too congenial ; and I determined no longer to 
defer informing the gentleman, in whose hon- 
our I placed the most implicit reliance, of the 
peculiar position of our fair friend. 

Detaining him, therefore, to coffee, (we had 
taken an early dinner in the fir grove,) and 
suffering Helen to go home to her little boy, 



500 



COUNTRY STORIES. 



I contrived, by leading the conversation to 
capricious wills, to communicate to him, as if 
accidentally, the fact of her forfeiting her 
whole income in the event of a second mar- 
riage. — He listened with grave attention. 

"Is she also deprived," inquired he, " of 
the guardianship of her child ?" 

" No. But as the sum allowed for the 
maintenance is also to cease from the day of 
her nuptials, and the money to accumulate 
until he is of age, she would, by marrying a 
poor man, do irreparable injury to lier son, by 
cramping his education. It is a grievous re- 
straint." 

He made no answer. And after two or 
three attempts at conversation, which his mind 
was too completely preoccupied to sustain, he 
bade us good-night, and returned to the Court. 

The next morning we heard that he had left 
Upton and gone, they said, to Oxford. And I 
could not help hoping that he had seen his 
danger and would not return until the peril was 
past. 

I was mistaken. In two or three days he 
returned, exhibiting less self-command than I 
had been led to anticipate. The fair lady, too, 
I took occasion to remind of this terrible will, 
in hopes, since he would not go, that she 
would have the wisdom to take her departure. 
No such thing; neither party would move 
a jot. I might as well have bestowed my 
counsel upon the two stone figures on the 
great gateway. And heartily sorry, and a 
little angry, I resolved to let matters take 
their own course. 

Several weeks passed on, when one morn- 
ing she came to me in the sweetest confusion, 
the loveliest mixture of bash fulness and joy. 

" He loves me !" she said ; " he has told me 
that he loves me !" 

"Weill" 

"And I have referred him to you. That 
clause " 

" He already knows it." And then I told 
her, word for word, what had passed. 

" He knows of that clause, and he still 
wishes to marry me ! He loves me for my- 
self ! Loves me, knowing me to be a beggar ! 
It is true, pure, disinterested affection !" 

" Beyond all doubt, it is. And if you could 
live upon true love " 

" Oh, but where that exists, and youth, and 
health, and strength, and education, may we 
not be well content to try to earn a living 
fogelher? Think of the happiness comprised in 
that word ! I could give lessons ; — I am sure 
that I could. I would teach music, and draw- 
ing, and dancing — anything for him ! or we 
could keep a school here at Upton — anywhere 
with him ! 

" And I am to tell him this ]" 

" Not the words!" replied she,blushinglikea 
rose at her own earnestness ; " not those words!" 

Of course, it was not very long before M. 
le Comte made his appearance. 



" God bless her, noble, generous creature !" 
cried' he, when I had fulfilled my commission. 
" God for ever bless her !" 

" And you intend, then, to take her at her 
word, and set up school together ?" exclaimed 
I, a little provoked at his unscrupulous ac- 
ceptance of her proffered sacrifice. " You 
really intend to keep a lady's boarding-school 
here at the Court]" 

" I intend to take her at her word, most cer- 
tainly," replied he very composedly ; " but I 
should like to know, my good friend, what 
has put it into her head, and into yours, that if 
Helen marries me she must needs earn her 
own living'? Suppose I should tell you," 
continued he, smiling, " that my father, one of 
the richest of the Polish nobility, was a 
favourite friend of the Emperor Alexander; 
that the Emperor Nicholas continued to me 
the kindness which his brother had shown to 
my father, and that I thought, as he had done, 
(gratitude and personal attachment apart,) 
that I could better serve my country, and more 
effectually ameliorate the condition of my 
tenants and vassals, by submitting to the Rus- 
sian government, than by a hopeless struggle 
for national independence'? Suppose that I 
were to confess, that chancing in the course 
of a three-years' travel to walk through this 
pretty village of yours, I saw Helen, and 
could not rest until I had seen more of her; — 
supposing all this, would you pardon the de- 
ception, or rather the allowing you to deceive 
yourselves'? Oh, if you could but imagine 
how delightful it is to a man, upon whom the 
humbling conviction has been forced, that his 
society is courted and his alliance sought for 
the accidents of rank and fortune, to feel that 
he is, for once in his life, honestly liked, fer- 
vently loved for himself, such as he is, his 
own very self, — if you could but fancy how 
proud he is of such friendship, how happy in 
such love, you would pardon him, I am sure 
you would ; you would never have the heart 
to be angry. And now that the Imperial con- 
sent to a foreign union — the gracious consent 
for wiiich I so anxiously waited to authorize 
my proposals — has at length arrived, do you 
think," added the Count, with some serious- 
ness, "that there is any chance of reconciling 
this dear Helen to my august master ! or will 
she still continue a rebel?" 

At this question, so gravely put, I laughed 
outright. " Why realfy, my dear Count, I 
cannot pretend to answer decidedly for the 
turn that the affair might take ; but my im- 
pression — to speak in that idiomatic English, 
more racy than elegant, which you pique 
yourself upon understanding — my full impres- 
sion is, that Helen having for no reason upon 
earth but her interest in you, ratted from Con- 
servatism to Radicalism, will for the same 
cause lose no time in ratting back again. A 
woman's politics, especially if she be a young 
woman, are generally the result of feeling 



THE LONDON VISITER. 



501 



rather than of opinion, and our fair friend 
strikes me as a most unliliely subject to'form 
an exception to the rule. However, if you 
doubt my authority in this matter, you have 
nothing to do but to inquire at the fountain- 
head. There she sits, in the arbour. Go and 
ask." 

And before the words were well spoken, the 
lover, radiant with happiness, was at the side 
of his beloved. 



THE LONDON VISITER. 

Being in a state of utter mystification, (a 
very disagreeable state, by-the-bye,) I hold it 
advisable to lay my unhappy case, in strict 
confidence, in the lowest possible whisper, 
and quite in a corner, before my kind friend, 
patron, and protector, the public, through 
whose means — for now-a-days every body 
knows everythinor, and there is no riddle so 
dark but shall find an ffidipus to solve it — I 
may possibly be able to discover whether the 
bewilderment under which I have been labour- 
iuCT for the last three days be the result of 
natural causes, like the delusions recorded in 
Dr. Brewster's book, or whether there be in 
this little south of England county of ours, 
year 1836, a revival of the old science of 
Gramarye, the glamour art, which, according 
to that veracious minstrel. Sir Walter Scott, 
was exercised with such singular success in 
the sixteenth century by the Ladye of Brank- 
some upon the good knight, Williamof Delo- 
raiiie, and others his peers. In short, I want 

to know But the best way to make my 

readers understand my story, will be to begin 
at the beginning. 

I am a wretched visiter. There is not a 
person in all Berkshire who has so often oc- 
casion to appeal to the indulgence of her ac- 
quaintance to pardon her sins of omission 
upon this score. I cannot tell how it happens ; 
nobody likes society better when in it, or is 
more delighted to see her friends ; but it is 
almost as easy to pull a tree of my age and 
size up by the roots, as it is to dislodge me in 
summer from my flowery garden, or in the 
winter from my sunny parlour, for the purpose 
of accepting a dinner invitation, or making a 
morning call. Perhaps the ijreat accumulation 
of my debts in this way, the very despair of 
ever paying them all, may be one reason (as 
is often the case, I believe, in pecuniary 
obligations) why I so seldom pay any; then, 
whether I do much or not, I have generally 
plenty to do; then again, I so dearly love to 
do nothing; then, summer or winter, the 
weather is commonly too cold for an open 
carriage, and I am eminently a catch-cold 
person ; so-that between wind and rain, busi- 
ness and idleness, no lady in the county with 



so many places that she ought to go to, goes 
to so few : and yet it was from the extraordi- 
nary event of my happening to leave home 
three days following, tiiat my present mys- 
tification took its rise. Thus the case stands. 

Last Thursday morning, being the 23d day 
of this present month of June, I received a 
note from my kind friend and neighbour^ Mrs. 
Dunbar, requesting very earnestly that my fa- 
ther and myself would dine that evening at 
the Hall, apologising for the short notice, as 
arising out of the unexpected arrival of a 
guest from London, and the equally unex- 
pected absence of the General, which threw 
her (she was pleased to say) upon our kind- 
ness to assist in entertaining her visiter. At 
seven o'clock, accordingly, we repaired to 
General Dunbar's, and found our hostess sur- 
rounded by her fine boys and girls, conversing 
with a gentleman, whom she immediately in- 
troduced to us as Mr. Thompson. 

Mr. Thompson was a gentleman of about 

Pshaw ! nothing is so unpolite as to go 

guessing how many years a man may have 
lived in this most excellent world, especially 
when it is perfectly clear, from his dress and 
demeanour, that the register of his birth is the 
last document relating to himself which he 
would care to see produced. 

Mr. Thompson, then, was a gentleman of 
no particular age ; not quite so young as he 
had been, but still in very tolerable preserva- 
tion, being pretty exactly that which is under- 
stood by the phrase an old beau. He was of 
middle size and middle height, with a slight 
stoop in the shoulders ; a skin of the true 
London complexion, between brown and yel- 
low, and slightly wrinkled : eyes of no very 
distinct colour; a nose which, belonging to 
none of the recognized classes of that many- 
named feature, may fairly be called anony- 
mous ; and a mouth, whose habitual mecha- 
nical smile (a smile which, by the way, con- 
veyed no impression either of gaiety or of 
sweetness) displayed a set of teeth which did 
great honour to his dentist. His whiskers 
and his wig were a capital match as to colour; 
and altogether it was a head calculated to con- 
vey a very favourable impression of the differ- 
ent artists employed in getting it up. 

His dress was equally creditable to his tailor 
and his valet, " rather rich than gaudy," (as 
Miss Byron said of Sir Charles Grandison,) 
except in the grand article of the waistcoat, a 
brocade brode of resplendent lustre, which 
combined both qualities. His shoes were 
bright with the new French blacking, and his 
jewelry, rings, studs, brooches, and chains 
(for he wore two, that belonging to his watch, 
and one from which depended a pair of sjiec- 
tacles, folded so as to resemble an eye-glass,) 
were of the finest material and the latest 
fashion. 

In short, our new acquaintance was an old 
beau. He was not, however, that which an 



502 



COUNTRY STORIES. 



old beau so frequently is, an old bachelor. 
On the contrary, he sjjoke of Mrs. Thompson 
and her parties, and her box at the opera (he 
did not say on what tier) with some unction, 
and mentioned with considerable pride a cer- 
tain Mr. Browne, who had lately married his 
eldest dauijhter; Browne, be it observed, with 
an e, as his name (I beg his pardon for havinor 
misspelt it) was Thomson without the^,- there 
being- I know not what of dignity in the ab- 
sence of the consonant, and the presence of 
the vowel, though mute. We soon found that 
both he and Mr. Browne lent these illustrious 
names to half a score of clubs, from the 
Athen<eum downward. We also gathered 
from his conversation that he resided some- 
where in Gloucester Place or Devonshire 
Place, in Wimpolo Street or Harley Street, 
(I could not quite make out in which of those 
respectable double rows of houses his domicile 
was situate,) and that he contemplated with 
considerable jealousy the manner in which the 
tide of fashion had set in to the south-west, 
rolling its changeful current round the splendid 
mansions of Belgrave Square, and threatening 
to leave this once distinguished quartier as 
bare and open to the jesters of the silver-fork 
school as the ignoble precincts of Bloomsbury. 
It was a strange mixture of feeling. He was 
evidently upon the point of becoming ashamed 
of a neighbourhood of which he had once been 
not a little proud. He spoke slightingly of 
the Regent's Park, and eschewed as much as 
possible all mention of the Diorama and the 
Zoological, and yet seemed pleased and flat- 
tered, and to take it as a sort of personal com- 
pliment, when Mrs. Dunbar professed her 
fidelity to the scene of her youthful gaiety, 
Cavendish Square and its environs. 

He had been, it seemed, an old frieud of the 
General's, and had come down partly to see 
him, and partly for the purpose of a day's 
fishing, although, by some mistake in the 
wording of his letter, his host, who did not 
expect him until the next week, happened to 
be absent. This, however, had troubled him 
little. He saw the General often enough in 
town. Angling was his first object in the 
country; and as the fine piece of water in the 
park (famous for its enormous pike) remained 
i/i statu quo, and Edward Dunbar was ready 
to accompany and assist him, he had talked 
the night before of nothing but his flies and 
his r(jds, and boasted, in speaking of Ireland, 
the classic land of modern fishermen, of what 
he meant to do, and what he had done — of 
salmon caught in the wilds of Connemara, 
and trout drawn out amid the beauties of Kil- 
larney. Fishing exploits, past and future, 
formed the only theme of his conversation 
during his first evening at the Hall. On that 
which we spent in his company, nothing could 
be farther from his inclination tlian any allu- 
sion, however remote, to his beloved sport. 
He had been out in the morning, and we at 



last extorted from Edward Dunbar, upon a 
promise not to hint at the story until the hero 
of the adventtire should be fairly off, that, 
after trying with exemplary patience all parts 
of the mere for several hours without so much 
as a nibble, a huge pike, as Mr. Thompson 
asserted, or, as Edward suspected, the root of 
a tree, had caught fast hold of the hook. If 
pike it were, the fish had the best of the bat- 
tle, for, in a mighty jerk on one side or the 
other (the famous Dublin tackle maintaining 
its reputation, and holding as firm as the cord- 
age of a man-of-war,) the unlucky angler had 
been fairly ])nlled into the water, and soused 
over head and ears. How his valet contrived 
to reinstate his coiffure, unless, indeed, he tra- 
velled with a change of wigs, is one of those 
mysteries of an old beau's toilet which pass 
female comprehension. 

Of course there was no further mention of 
angling. Our new acquaintance had quite 
subjects enough without touching upon that. 
In eating, for instance, he might fairly be 
called learned. Mrs. Dunbar's cuisine was 
excellent, and he not only praised the different 
dishes in a most scientific and edifying man- 
ner, but volunteered a recipe for certain little 
mutton pies, the fashion of the season. In 
drinking he was equally at home. Edward 
had produced his father's choicest hermitage 
and lachryma, and he seemed to me to know 
literally by heart all the most celebrated vin- 
tages, and to have made pilgrimages to the 
most famous vineyards all over Europe. He 
talked to Helen Dunbar, a musical young lady, 
of Grisi and Malihran; to her sister Caroline, 
a literary enthusiast, of the poems of the year, 
"Ion," and " Paracelsus;" to me he spoke of 
geraniums; and to my father of politics — con- 
triving to conciliate both parties, (for there 
were Whigs and Tories in the room,) by dub- 
bing himself a liberal Conservative. In short, 
he played his part of Man of the World per- 
fectly to his own satisfaction, and would have 
passed with the whole family for the very 
model of all London visiters, had he not un- 
fortunately nodded over certain verses which 
he had flattered Miss Caroline into producing, 
and fallen fast asleep during her sister's cava- 
tina; and if his conversation, however easy 
and smooth, had not been felt to be upon the 
whole rather vapid and prosy. "Just exact- 
ly," said young Edward Dunbar, wJio, in the 
migration transit between I'^ton, which he had 
left at Easter, and Oxford, which he was to 
enter at Michaelmas, was plentifully imbued 
with the aristocratic prejudices common to 
each of those venerable seats of learning 
"just exactly what in the fitness of things 
the talk of a Mr. Thompson ought to be." 

The next afternoon I happened to be en- 
gaged to the Lady IMaroaret Gore, another 
])leasant neiohbour, to drink tea; a convenient 
fashion, whic-h saves time and trouble, and is 
much followed in these parts during the sum- 



THE LONDON VISITER. 



503 



mer months. A little after eight I made my 
appearance in her saloon, which, contrary to 
her usual polite attention, I found empty. In 
the course of a i'ew minutes she entered, and 
apologised for her momentary absence, as 
having been caused by a London gentleman 
on a visit at the house, who arriving the even- 
ing before, had spent all that morning at the 
side of Loddon fishing, (where, by the way, 
observed her ladyship, he had caught nothing,) 
and had kept them waiting dinner. "' He is 
a very old friend of ours," added Lady Mar- 
garet ; "Mr. Thompson, of Harley Street, 
whose daughter lately married Mr. Browne 
of Gloucester Place," and, with the word, 
entered Mr. Thompson in his own proper 
person. 

Was it or was it not the Mr. Thompson of 

the day before 1 Yes! no! No! yes! It 

would have been, only that it could not be. 
The alibi was too clearly proved : Lady Mar- 
garet had spent the preceding evening with 
her Mr. Thompson in one place, and I myself 
with my Mr. Thompson in another. Different 
they must be, but oh, how alike I I am too 
short-sighted to be cognizant of each separate 
feature. But there it was, the same common 
height and common size, and common phy- 
siognomy, wioged, whiskered, and perfumed 
to a hair! Tiie self-same sober magnificence 
of dress, the same cut and colour of coat, the 
same waistcoat of brocade brode — of a surety 
they must have employed one identical tailor, 
and one measure had served for both ! Chains, 
studs, brooches, rings — even the ej^e-glass 
spectacles were there. Had he (this he) 
stolen them] Or did the Thompsons use 
them alternately, upon the principle of ride 
and tie ] 

In conversation the similarity was even 
more striking — safe, civil, prosy, dozy, and 
yet not without a certain small pretension. 
The Mr. Thompson of Friday talked as his 
predecessor of Thursday had done, of Mali- 
bran and Grisi, "Paracelsus" and "Ion," 
politics and geraniums. He alluded to a re- 
cipe (doubtless the famous recipe for mutton 
pies) which he had promised to write out for 
the benefit of the housekeeper, and would be- 
yond all question have dozed over one young 
lady's verses, and fallen asleep to another's 
singing, if there had happened to be such 
narcotics as music and poetry in dear Lady 
Margaret's drawing-room. Mind and body, 
the two Mr. Thompsons were as alike as two 
peas, as two drops of water, as two Emperor- 
of-Morocco butterflies, as two death's-head 
moths. Could they have been twin brothers, 
like the Dromios of the old drama] or was 
the vicinity of the Regent's Park peopled with 
Cockney anglers — Thompsons whose daugh- 
ters had married Brownes ] 

The reseml)lance haunted me all night. I 
dreamt of Browns and Thompsons, and to 
freshen my fancy and sweep away the shapes 



by which I was beset, I resolved to take a 
drive. Accordingly, I ordered my little phae- 
ton, and, perplexed and silent, bent my way 
to call upon my fair friend, Miss Mortimer. 
Arriving at Queen's-bridge Cottage, I was 
met in the rose-covered porch by the fair 
Frances. " Come this way, if you please," 
said she, advancing towards the dining-room; 
" we are late at luncheon to-day. My friend, 
Mrs. Browne, and her father, Mr. Thompson, 
our old neighbours when we lived in Welbeck 
Street, have been here for this week past, and 
he is so fond of fishing that he will scarcely 
leave the river even to take his meals, although 
for aught I can iiear he never gets so much as 
a bite." 

As she ceased to speak, we entered ; and 
another I\Ir. Thompson — another, yet the 
same, stood before me. It was not yet four 
o'clock in the day, therefore of course the 
dress-coat and the brocade waistcoat were 
wanting; but there was the man himself, 
Thompson the third, wigged, whiskered, and 
eye-glassed, just as Thompson the first might 
have tumbled into the water at General Dun- 
bar's, or Thompson the second have stood 
waiting for a nibble at Lady Margaret's. 
There he sat evidently preparing to do the 
agreeable, to talk of music and of poetry, of 
Grisi and Malibran, of " Ion" and " Paracel- 
sus," to profess himself a liberal Conservative, 
to give receipts for pates, and to fall asleep 
over albums. It was quite clear that he was 
about to make this display of his conversa- 
tional abilities ; but I could not stand it. 
Nervous and m3'Stified as the poor Frenchman 
in the memorable story of " Monsieur Ton- 
son," I instinctively followed his example, and 
fairly fled the field. 



JESSE CLIFFE. 

Living as we do in the midst of rivers, 
water in all its forms, except indeed that of 
the trackless and mighty ocean, is familiar to 
our little inland county. The slow majestic 
Thames, the swift and wandering Kennet, the 
clear and brimming Loddon, all lend life and 
verdure to our rich and fertile valleys. Of the 
great river of England — whose course from 
its earliest source, near Cirencester, to where 
it rolls calm, equable, and full, through the 
magnificent bridges of our splendid metropolis, 
giving and reflecting beauty,* presents so 

* There is nothing finer in London than the view j 
from Waterloo-bridge on a July evening, whether ' 
coloured by the gorgeous hues of the setting sun re- ! 
fiected on tiie water in tenfold glorv, or ilhiminated | 
by a thousand twinkling lights from lamps, and boats, I 
and houses, mingling with the mild beams of the | 
rising moon. The calm and glassy river, gay with un- 
numbered vessels; the magnificent buildings which 
line its shores ; the combmation of all that is loveliest i 
in art or in nature, with aid that is most animating in 



504 



COUNTRY STORIES. 



grand an image of power in repose — it is not 
now my purpose to speak ; nor am I about to 
expatiate on that still nearer and dearer stream, 
the pellucid Ijoddon, — althouj^h to be rowed 
by one dear and near friend up those transpa- 
rent and meanderinrr vvaters, from where they 
sweep at their extremest breadth under the 
lime-crowned terraces of the Old Park at 
Aberleijjh, to the pastoral meadows of Sand- 
ford, throuo^h which the narrowed current 
wanders so brifrhtly — now impeded by beds of 
white water-lilies, or feathery-blossomed bul- 
rushes, or golden flags — now overhung by 
thickets of the rich wayfaring tree, with its 
wealth of glorious berries, redder and more 
transparent than rubies — now spanned from 
side to side by the fantastic branches of some 
aged oak ; — altiiough to be rowed along that 
clear stream, has long been amongst the 
choicest of my summer pleasures, so exquisite 
is the scenery, so perfect and so unbroken the 
solitude. Even the shy and foreitjn-looking 
kingfisher, most gorgeous of English birds, 
who, like the wild Indian retiring before the 
foot of man, has nearly deserted our populous 
and cultivated country, knows and loves the 
lovely valley of the Loddon. 

It is not, however, of the Loddon that I am 
now to speak. The scene of my little story 
belongs to a spot quite as solitary, but far less 
beautiful, on the banks of the Kennett, which, 
a few miles before its junction with the 
Thames, passes through a tract of wild, marshy 
country — water-meadows at once drained and 
fertilised by artificial irrigaiion, and totally un- 
mixed with arable land ; so that the fields 
being for the most part too wet to admit the 
feeding of cattle, divided by deep ditches, un- 
dotted by timber, unchequered by cottages, 
and untraversed by roads, convey in their 
monotonous expanse (except perhaps at the 
gay season of haymaking) a feeling of dreari- 
ness and desolation, singularly contrasted with 
the picturesque and varied scenery, rich, glow- 
ing, sunny, bland, of the equally solitary 
Loddon meadows. 

A large portion of these English prairies, 
comprising a farm called the Moors, was, at 
the time of which I write, in the occupation of 
a wealthy yeoman named John Cobham, who, 
the absentee tenant of an absentee landlord, 
resided upon a small property of his own 
about two miles distant, leaving the large 

motion and in life, produce a picture gratifying alike to 
ttie eye and the heart — and tlie more exhilarating, or 
rather perhaps more soothing, because, for London, so 
singularly peacefuland quiet. Itis like some gorgeous 
town in liiiryland, astir with busy and happy creatures, 
the iium of whose voices comes floating from the craft 
iiixin the river, or the quays by the water side. Life 
is there, and sound and motion ; but blessedly free 
from the josthng of the streets, the rattling of the 
pavement, the crowd, the confusion, the tumult, and 
the din of the worka-day world. There is nothing 
in the great city like the scene from Waterloo bridge 
at sunset. I see it in my mind's eye this instant. 



deserted house, and dilapidated out-buildings, 
to sink into gradual decay. Barns half un- 
thatched. tumble-down cart-houses, palings rot- 
ting to pieces, and pigsties in ruins, contributed, 
together with a grand collection of sul)stantial 
and dingy ricks of fine old hay — tiiat inost 
valuable but most gloomy-looking species of 
agricultural property — to the general as))ect of 
desolation by which the jilace was distin- 
guished. One solitary old labourer, a dreary 
bachelor, inhabited, it is tru:;, a corner of tlie 
old roomy house, calculated for the convenient 
accommodation of the patriarchal family of 
sons and daughters, men-servants and maid- 
servants, of which a farmer's household con- 
sisted in former days ; and one open window, 
(the remainder were bricked up to avoid 
taxes,) occasionally a door ajar, and still more 
rarely a thin wreath of smoke ascending from 
one of the cold dismal-looking chimneys, 
gave token that the place was not wholly 
abandoned. But the uncultivated garden, the 
grass growing in the bricked court, the pond 
green with duckweed, and the absence of all 
living things, cows, horses, pigs, turkeys, 
geese, or chickens — and still more of those 
talking, as well as living things, women and 
children — all impressed on the beholder that 
strange sensation of melancholy which few 
can have failed to experience at the sight of an 
uninhabited human habitation. The one soli- 
tary inmate failed to relieve the pressing sense 
of solitude. Nothing but the ringing sound 
of female voices, the pleasant and familiar 
noise of domestic animals, could have done 
that; and nothing approaching to noise was 
ever heard in the Moors. It was a silence 
that might be felt. 

The house itself was approached through a 
long, narrow lane, leading from a wild and 
watery coinmon ; a lane so deeply excavated 
between the adjoining hedge-rows, that in 
winter it was little better than a water-course; 
and beyond the barns and stables, where even 
that apology for a road terminated, lay the 
extensive tract of low, level, marshy ground 
from whence the farm derived its title ; a 
series of flat, productive water-meadows, sur- 
rounded partly by thick coppices, partly by 
the winding Kennett, and divided by deep 
end broad ditches; a few pollard willows, so 
old that the trunk was, in some, riven asun- 
der, whilst in others nolliing but the mere 
shell remained, together witii here and there 
a stunted thorn, alone relieving the monotony 
of tiie surface. 

The only regular inhabitant of this dreary 
scene was, as I have before said, the old 
labourer, Daniel Thorpe, who slept in one 
corner of the house, partly to prevent its total 
dilapidation, and to preserve the valuable hay 
ricks and the tumble-down farm buildings 
from the pillage to wiiich unprotected property 
is tiecessarily exposed, and partly to keep in 
repair the long line of boundary fence, to 



JESSE CLIFFE. 



505 



clean the grafTages, clear out the moat-like 
ditches, and see that the hollow-sounding 
wooden bridges, which fornif^d the sole com- 
munication by which tlie hay wagons could 
pass to and from the distant meadows, were 
in proper order to sustain their ponderous 
annual load. Daniel Thorpe was the only 
accredited unfeathered biped who figured in 
the parish hooks as occupant of Tlie iMoors ; 
nevertheless, that swampy district could boast 
of one other irregular and forbidden but most 
pertinacious inhabitant — and that inhabitant 
was our herd, Jesse Ciiffe. 

Jesse Ciiffe was a lad of some fifteen or 
sixteen years of age — there or thereabout; 
for, with the exact date of his birth, although 
from circumstances most easily ascertained, 
even the assistant-overseer did not take the 
trouble to make himself acquainted. He was 
a parish child born in the workhouse, the 
offspring of a half-witted orphan girl and a 
sturdy vagrant, partly linker, partly ballad- 
singer, who took good care to disappear before 
the strong arm of justice, in the shape of a 
tardy warrant and a halting constable, could 
contrive to intercept his flight. He joined, it 
was said, a tribe of gipsies, to whom he was 
suspected to have all along belonged ; and 
who, vanishing at the same time, accompanied 
by half the linen and poultry of the neigh- 
bourhood, were never heard of in our parts 
again ; whilst the poor girl whom he had 
seduced and abandoned, with sense enough to 
feel her misery, although hardly sufficient to 
be responsible for the sin, fretted, moaned, 
and pined — losing, she hardly knew how, the 
half-unconscious light-heartedness which had 
plmost seemed a comi)ensation for her defi- 
ciency of intellect, and with that light-heart- 
edness losing also her bodily strength, her 
flesh, her colour, and her appetite, until about 
a twelvemonth after the birtli of her boy, she 
fell into a decline and died. 

Poor Jesse, born and reared in the work- 
house, soon began to evince symptoms of the 
peculiarities of both his parents. Half-witted, 
like his mother, wild and roving as his father — 
it was found impossible to check his propen- 
sity to an out-of-door life. 

From the moment, ])ostponed as long as 
possible in such establishments, in which he 
doffed the petticoat — a moment, by the way, 
in which the obstinate and masterful spirit of 
the ungentle sex often begins to show itself 
in nurseries of a far more polished descrip- 
tion ; — from that moment may Jesse's wander- 
ings be said to commence. Disobedience 
lurked in the habit masculine. The wilful 
urchin stood, like some dandy apprentice, 
contemplating his brown sturdy legs, as they 
stuck out from his new trousers, already 
(such was the economy of the tailor employed 
on the occasion) " a world too short,'''' and the 
first use he made of those useful supporters 
was to run away. So little did any one really 



care for the poor child, that not being missed 
till night-fall, or sought after till the next 
morning, he had strayed far enough, when at 
last picked up, and identified by the parish 
mark on his new jacket, to be haif-frozcn, (it 
was midwinter when his first elo])einent hap- 
pened,) half-starved, half-drowned, and more 
than half-dead of fatigue and exhaustion. " It 
will be a lesson !" said the moralizing matron 
of the workhouse, as, after a sound scolding, 
she fed the little culprit and put him to bed. 
" It will be a lesson to the rover!" And so it 
proved ; for, after being recruited by a few 
days' nursing, he again ran away, in a differ- 
ent direction. 

When recovered the second time, he was 
whipped as well as fed — another lesson which 
only made the stubborn recusant run the 
faster. Then, upon his next return, they shut 
him up in a dark den appropriately called the 
black-hnle, a restraint which, of course, in- 
creased his zest for light and liberty, and in 
the first moment of freedom — a moment greatly 
accelerated by his own strenuous efforts in 
the shape of squalling, bavi^ling, roaring, and 
stamping, unparalleled and insupportable, 
even in that mansion of din — in the very in- 
stant of freedom he was off again; he ran 
away from work ; he ran away from school ; 
certain to be immersed in his dismal dungeon 
as soon as he could be recaught ; so that his 
whole childhood became a series of alternate 
imprisonments and escapes. 

That he should be so often lost was, con- 
sidering his propensities and the proverbial 
cunning of his caste, not, perhaps, very re- 
markable. But the number of times and the 
variety of ways, in which, in spite of the little 
trouble taken in searching for him, he was 
sent back to the place from whence he came, 
was really something wonderful. If any 
creature in the world had cared a straw for 
the poor child, he must have been lost over 
and over: nobody did care for him, and he 
was sure to turn up as a bad guinea. He has 
been cried like Found Goods in Belford Mar- 
ket; advertised like a strayed donkey in the 

H shire Courant ; put for safe keeping 

into compters, cages, roundhouses, and bride- 
wells ; passed, by different constables, through 
half the parishes in the county; and so fre- 
quently and minutely described in handbills 
and the Hue and Cry, that by the time he was 
twelve years old, his stature, features, and 
complexion were as well known to the rural 
police as those of some great state criminal. 
In a word, "the lad vwuld live;" and the 
Aberleigh overseers, w'ho would doubtless 
have been far from inconsolable if they had 
never happened to hear of him again, were 
reluctantly obliged to make the best of their 
bargain. 

Accordingly, they placed him as a sort i 
of boy of all-work, at "the shop" at Hin- 
ton, where he remained, upon an accurate 



43 



30 



508 



COUNTRY STORIES. 



computation, somewliere about seven hours; 
they then put him with a butcher at Lan»ley, 
where he staid about five hours and a half, 
arriving at dusk, and escapintj before mid- 
niirht : then with a baker at Belford, in which 
ofood town he sojourned the (for him) unusual 
space of two niohts and a day; and then they 
apprenticed him to Master Samuel Goddard, 
an eminent dealer in cattle, leaving- his new 
master to punish him according to law, pro- 
vided he should run away again. Run away 
of course he did ; but as he had contrived to 
earn for himself a comfortably bad character 
for stupidity and laziness, and as he timed his 
evasion well — during the interval between the 
sale of a bargain of Devonshire stots, and the 
purchase of a lot of Scotch kyloes, when his 
services were little needed — and as Master 
Samuel Goddard had too much to do and to 
think of, to waste his time and his trouble on 
a search after a heavy-looking under-drover, 
with a considerable reputation for laziness, 
Jesse, for the first time in his life, escaped his 
ordinary penalties of pursuit and discovery — 
the parish officers contenting themselves by 
notifying to Master Samuel Goddard, that 
they considered their responsibility, legal as 
well as moral, completely transferred to him 
in virtue of their indentures, and that whatever 
might be the future destiny of his unlucky 
apprentice, whether frozen or famished, hanged 
or drowned, the blame would rest with the 
cattle-dealer aforesaid, to whom they resolved 
to refer all claims on their protection, whether 
advanced by Jesse himself or by others. 

Small intention had Jesse Clifleto return to 
their protection or their workhouse ! The in- 
stinct of freedom was strong in the poor boy 
— quick and strong as in the beast of the field, 
or the bird of the air. He betook himself to 
the Moors (one of his earliest and favourite 
haunts) with a vague assurance of safety in the 
deep solitude of those wide-spreading mea- 
dows, and the close coppices that surrounded 
them : and at little more than twelve years of 
age he began a course of lonely, half-savage, 
self-dependent life, such as has been rarely 
heard of in this civilized country. How he 
lived is to a certain point a mystery. Not by 
stealing. That was agreed on all hands — 
except indeed, so far as a few roots of turnips 
and potatoes, and a few ears of green corn, 
in their several seasons, may be denominated 
theft. Ripe corn for his winter's hoard, he 
gleaned alter the fields were cleared, with a 
scrupulous honesty that might have read ales- 
son to peasant children of a happier nurture. 
And they who had opportunities to w^atch the 
process, said that it was curious to see him 
bruise the grain between large stones, knead 
the rude flour with fair water, mould his 
simple cakes, and then bake them in a primi- 
tive oven formed Dy his own lai)our in a dry 
bank of the coppice, and heated by rotten wood 
shaken from the tops of the trees, (which he 



climbed like a squirrel,) and kindled by a flint 
and a piece of an old horseshoe : — such was 
his unsophisticated cookery ! Nuts and berries 
from the woods; fish from the Kennett — 
caught with such tackle as might be con- 
structed of a stick and a bit of packthread, 
with a strong pin or needle formed into a 
hook ; and perhaps an occasional rabbit or 
partridge, entrapped by some such rough and 
inartificial contrivance, formed his principal 
support; a modified, and, according to his 
vague notions of right and wrong, an innocent 
form of poaching, since he sought only what 
was requisite for his own consumption, and 
would have shunned as a sin the killing game 
to sell. Money, indeed, belittle needed. He 
formed his bed of fern or dead grass, in the 
deepest recesses of the coppice — a natural 
shelter; and the renewal of raiment, which 
warmth and decency demanded, he obtained 
by emerging from his solitude, and joining 
such parties as a love of field sports brought 
into his vicinity in the pursuit of game — an 
inspiring combination of labour and diversion, 
which seemed to awaken something like 
companionship and sympathy even in this 
wild boy of the Moors, — one in which his 
knowledge of the usual haunts and habits of 
wild animals, his strength, activity, and actual 
insensibility to hardship or fatigue, rendered 
his services of more than ordinary value. 
There was not so good a hare-finder through- 
out that division of the county ; and it was 
curious to observe how completely his skill in 
sportsmanship overcame the coi\tempt with 
which grooms and gamekeepers, to say no- 
thing of their less fine and more tolerant 
masters, were wont to regard poor Jesse's 
ragsred garments, the sunburnt hair and skin, 
the want of words to express even his simple 
meaning, and most of all, the strange obliquity 
of taste whi<!h led him to prefer Kennett water 
to Kennett ale. Sportsmanship, sheer sports- 
manship, carried him through all ! 

Jesse was, as I have said, the most popular 
hare-finder of the country-side, and during the 
coursing season was brought by that good gift 
into considerable communication with his fel- 
low-creatures : amontjst the rest with his in- 
voluntary landlord, John Cobham. 

John Cobham was a fair specimen of an 
English yeoman of the old school — honest, 
generous, brave, and kind ; but in an equal 
degree, ignorant, obstinate, and prejudiced. 
His first impression respecting Jesse had been 
one of strong dislike, fostered and cherished 
by the old labourer Daniel Thorpe, who, ac- 
customed for twenty years to reign sole so- 
vereign of that unpeopled terriUny, was as 
much startled at the sight of Jesse's wild, 
ragged figure, and sunburnt face, as Robinson 
Crusoe when he first spied the track of a hu- 
man foot upon his desert island. It was na- 
tural that old Daniel should feel his monarchy, 
or, more correctly speaking, his viceroyalty, 



JESSE CLIFFE. 



507 



invaded and endangered ; and at least equally 
natural that he should communicate his alarm 
to his master, who sallied forth one Novemher 
niorniticr to the Moors, fully prepared to drive 
the intruder from his grounds, and resolved, if 
necessary, to lodge him in the county Bride- 
well hefore night. 

Rut the good farmer, Vvho chanced to be a 
keen sportsman, and to be followed that day 
by a favourite greyhound, was so dulcified by 
the manner in which the delinquent started a 
bare at the very moment of Venus's passing, 
and still more lay the culprit's keen enjoyment 
of a capital single-handed course, (in which 
Venus had even excelled herself,) that he 
could not find in his heart to take any harsh 
measures against him, for that day at least, 
more especially as Venus seemed to have 
taken a fancy to the lad — so his expulsion 
was postponed to another season ; and before 
ttiat season arrived, poor Jesse had secured 
the goodwill of an advocate far more powerful 
than Venus — an advocate who, contrasted with 
himself, looked like Ariel by the side of Cali- 
ban, or Titania watching over Bottom the 
Weaver. 

John Cobham had married late in life, and 
had been left, after seven years of happy wed- 
lock, a widower with five children. In his 
family he may be said to have been singularly 
fortunate, and singularly unfortunate. Pro- 
mising in no common degree, his sons and 
daughters, inheriting their mother's fragile 
constitution as well as her amiable character, 
fell victims one after another to the flattering 
and fatal disease which had carried her otf in 
the prime of life ; one of them only, the eldest 
son, leaving any issue; and his little ^irl, an 
ori)han, (for her mother had died in bringing 
her into the world,) was now the only hope 
and comfort of her dotiugr grandfather, and of 
a maiden sister who lived with him as house- 
keeper, and, havincr ofliciated as head-nurse 
in a nobleman's family, was well calculated 
to brintr up a delicate child. 

And delicate in all tiiat the word conveys 
of beauty — delicate as the Virgins of Guido, 
or the Angels of Correggio, as the valley lily 
or the maiden rose — was at eight years old, 
the little charmer, Phcebe Cobham. But it 
was a delicacy so blended with activity and 
power, so lioht and airy, and buoyant and 
spirited, that the admiration which it awakened 
was wholly unmingled with fear. Fair, bloom- 
ing, polished, and pure, her comjilexion had at 
once the colouring and the texture of a flower- 
leaf: and her recrular and lovely features — the 
red smiling lips, the clear blue eyes, the curl- 
ing goUien hair, and the round yet slender 
fitrure — formed a most rare combination of 
childish beauty. The expression, too, at once 
gentle and lively, the sweet and joyous tem- 
per, the quick intellect, and the affectionate 
lieart, rendered little Phoebe one of the most 
I attractive children that the imagination can 



picture. Her grandfather idolized her; taking 
her with him in his walks, never weary of 
carrying her when her own little feet were 
tired — and it was wonderful how many miles 
those tiny feet, aided by the gay and buoyant 
spirit, would compass in the course of the 
day; and so bent uj)on keeping her constantly 
with him, and constantly in the open air, 
(which he justly considered the best means of 
warding off the approach of that disease which 
had proved so fatal to his family,) that he even 
had a pad constructed, and took her out before 
him on horseback. 

A strange contrast formed the old farmer, so 
gruff and blufT-looking — with his stout square 
figure, his weather-beaten face, sl*ort grey 
hair, and dark bushy eyebrows — to the slight 
and graceful child, her aristocratic beauty set 
oflT by exactly the same style of paraphernalia 
that had adorned the young Lady Janes and 
Lady Marys, Mrs. Dorothy's former charge, 
and her habitual grace of demeanour adding 
fresh elegance to the most studied elegancies 
of the toilet ! A strange contrast ! — but one 
W'hich seemed as nothing compared with that 
which was soon to follow : for Phcebe, hap- 
pening to be with her grandfather and her 
great friend and playmate Venus, a jet-black 
greyhound of the very highest breed, whose 
fine-limbed and shining beauty was almost as 
elegant and aristocratic as that of Phffibe her- 
self; — the little damsel, happening to be with 
her grandfather when, instigated by Daniel 
Thorpe's grumbling accusation of broken 
fences and I know not what, he was a second 
time upon the point of warning poor Jesse off 
the ground — was so moved by the culprit's 
tattered attire and helpless condition, as he 
stood twirling, between his long lean fingers, 
the remains of what had once been a hat, that 
she interceded most warmly in his behalf. 

" Don't turn him off the Moors, grandpapa," 
said Phoebe, " pray don't ! Never mind old 
Daniel ! I'm sure he'll do no harm; — will 
you, Jesse] Venus likes him, grandpapa; 
see how she puts her pretty nose into his 
hand ; and Venus never likes bad people. 
How often I have heard you say that ! And / 
like him, poor fellow ! He looks so thin and 
so pitiful. Do let him stay, dear grandpapa!" 

And John Cobham sat down on the bank, 
and took the pitying child in his arms, and 
kissed and blessed her, and said, that, since 
she wished it, Jesse shmld stay ; adding, in a 
sort of soliloquy, that he hoped she never 
would ask him to do what was wrong, for he 
could refuse her nothing. 

And Jesse — what did he say to these, the 
first words of kindness that he had ever heard 
from human lips'? or rather, what did he feell 
for beyond a muttered " Thankye," speak he 
could not. But gratitude worked strongly in 
the poor boy's heart: gratitude ! — so new, so 
overpowering, and inspired by one so sweet, 
so lovely, so gentle as his protectress, as far 



508 



COUNTRY STORIES. 



as he was concerned, all-powerful ; and yet a 
mere infant whom he might protect as well as 
serve! It was a stranjje mixture of feelingfs, 
all good, and all delightful ; a stirring of im- 
pulses, a quicliening of affections, a striking 
of chords never touched before. Substitute 
the sacrsd innocence of childhood for the 
equally sacred power of virgin purity, and his 
feelings of affectionate reverence, of devoted 
service and submission, much resembled those 
entertained by the Satyr towards "the holy 
shepherdess," in Fletcher's exquisite drama.* 
Our 

" Rnuffh thins;, who never knew 
Manners, nor smooth humanity," 

could not have spoken nor have thought such 
words as those of the satyr; but so far as our 

*That matchless Pastoral, "The Faithful Shep- 
herdess," is so much less iinown than talked of, tliat 
I subjoin the passage in question. One more beautiful 
can hanlly be found in the wide range of English 
poetry. 

Satyr. Throtich yon same bending plain 

That flinirs his arms down to the main; 
And ihrniigh these thick woods, have I run. 
Whose deptlis have never kiss'd the sun; 
Since the lusly spring began. 
All to please my master. Pan, 
Have 1 Irolted without rest 
To get hiin fruit ; for at a feast 
He entertains, this coming nicrht. 
His paramour, the Syrinx brisht. 

[He sees Clorin and stands amazed. 
But behold a fairer sight ! 
P<y that heavenly fiirin of thine, 
Brightest fair, thou art divine. 
Sprung from great, immortal race 
Of the Gncis; for in ihv face 
Shines more awful majesty. 
Than dull, weak moriality 
Dare with misty eves behold 
And live! Therefore on this mould 
Slowly do I bend my knee. 
In worship of thy deity. 
Deign it, goddess, from my hand 
To receive whate'er this land, 
from her fertile womb doth send 
Of her choice fi-uifs; and hut lend 
Belief to that the Satyr tells: 
Fairer by the famous wells 
To this present day ne'er grew, 
Never better nor more true. 
Here be grapes whose lusty blood 
Is the learned poet's good ; 
Sweeter yet did never crown 
The head of Bacchus; nuts more brown 
Than the squirrel whose teeth crack 'em. 
Deign, oh fairest fiiir, to take 'em.' 
For these black-eyed Dryope 
Kalh often times commanded me, 
Wuh my clasped knee to tdimb; 
See how well the lusty time 
Hath deck'd their rising cheeks in red, 
SmcIi as on your lips is spread. 
Here he berries for a ipieen. 
Some be red, and some be green; 
'J'hese are of that luscious sweet. 
The great god Pan himself doth eat; 
All these, and what the woods can yield, 
The hanging mountain, or the field, 
I freely offer, and ere long 
Will bring you more, more sweet and strong; 



English climate and his unfruitful territory 
might permit, he put much of the poetry into 
action. 

Sluggish of intellect, and uncouth of de- 
meanour, as the poor lad seemed, it was quite 
wonderful how quickly he discovered the sev- 
eral ways in which he might best please and 
gratify his youthful benefactress. 

Phoebe loved flowers; and from the earliest 
tuft of violets ensconced under the sunny 
southern hedge, to the last lingering sprig of 
woodbine shaded by some time-hallowed oak, 
the blossoms of the ineadow and the coppice 
were laid under contribution for her posies. 

Phcebe had her own little garden ; and to 
fill that garden, Jesse was never wear}?^ of 
seeking after the roots of such wild plants as 
he himself thought pretty, or such as he found 
(one can hardly tell how) were considered by 
better judges to be worthy of a place in the 
parterre. The different orchises, for instance, 
the white and lilac primrose, the golden oxlip, 
the lily of the valley, the chequered fritillary, 
which blows so freely along the banks of the 
Kennett, and the purple campenula which co- 
vers with equal |)rofiision the meadows of the 
Thames, all found their way to Phcsbe's flow- 
erplats. He brought her in suirimer evenings 

Till when, humbly leave I take, 
Lest the great Pan do awake, 
That sleeping lies in a deep glade. 
Under a broad beech's shade. 
I must go, — I must run 
Swifter than the fiery sun. 

Clorin. 
And all my fears go with thee! 
What greatness or what private hidden power 
Is there'in me to draw submission 
From this rude man and beast? sure I am mortal; 
The daughter of a shepherd ; he was mortal. 
And she that bore me mortal: Prick my hand 
And it will bleed ; a fever shakes me, and 
The selfsame wind that makes the young lambs 

shrink 
Makes me a-cokl. My fear says I am mortal. 
Yet I have heard (my mother told it me, 
And now 1 do believe it) if I keep 
My virgin flower uncrojif, pure, chaste, and fair. 
No goljlin, wood-god, fitiry, elf or fiend. 
Satyr, or other ))ower, that haunts the groves. 
Shall hurt my body, or by vain illusion 
Draw me to wander after idle fires, 
Or voices calling me in dead of night 
To make me f()llow and so tempt me on 
Through mire and standing pools to find mj' swain. 
F,!se why should this rough thing, who never knew 
Manners nor smooth humanity, whose herds 
Are rougher than himself and more misshapen. 
Thus mildly kneel to me ? &c. &c. 

Beaumont and Fltlc/ier's Works, (Seward's edition,) 
vol. lii. p. 117—121. 

ITow w'P track Milton's exquisite Comus in this no 
less exquisite pastoral Drama! and the imitation is so 
beautiful, that the perception of the plagiarism rather 
iiicrea.ses than dimiuislies the ploasnre with which 
we read either deathless work. Rei>ublican although 
he were, the great poet sits a throned king upon Par- 
nassus, privilege<l to cull flowers where he listoth in 
right of his immortal laurel-crown. 



JESSE CLIFFE. 



509 



glowworms enouffh to form a constellation on 
the grass ; and would spend half a July day 
in cliasinij for iier some glorious insect, dragon- 
fly, or bee-bird, or golden beetle, or gorgeous 
butterfly. He not only bestowed upon her 
sloes, and dew-berries, and hazel-nuts "brown 
as the squirrel whose teeth crack 'em," but 
caught for her the squirrel itself. He brought 
her a whole litter of dormice, and tamed for 
her diversion a young magpie, whose first 
effort at flattery was " Pretty Phcebe I" 

But his greatest present of all, most prized 
both by donor and receiver, (albeit her tender 
heart smote her as she accepted it, and she 
made her faithful slave promise most faithfully 
to take nests no more,) was a grand string of 
birds' egsfs, long enough to hang in festoons 
round, and round, and. round her play-room, 
and sufficiently various aud beautiful to gratify 
more fastidious eyes than those of our little 
heroine. 

To collect this rope of variously-tinted 
beads — a natural rosary — he had sought the 
mossy and hair-lined nest of the hedge-sparrow 
for her turquoise-like rounds ; had scrambled 
up the chimney-corner to bear away those 
pearls of the land, the small white eggs of the 
house-martin ; had found deposited in an old 
magpie's nest the ovals of the sparrow-hawk, 
red and smooth as the finest coral ; had dived 
into the ground-mansion of the skylark for her 
lilac-tinted shells, and groped amongst the 
bushes for the rosy-tinted ones of the wood- 
lark ; climbed the tallest trees for the sea-green 
eggs of the rooks; had pilfered the spotted 
treasures from the snug dwelling which the 
wren constructed in the eaves; and, worst of 
all — I hardly like to write it, I hardly care to 
think, that Jesse could have committed such 
an outrage, — saddest and worst of all, in the 
very midst of that varied garland might be 
seen the brown and dusky egg, as little showy 
as its quaker-like plumage, the dark brown 
ea^, from which should have issued that " an- 
gel of the air," tiie songstress, famous in every 
land, the unparagoned nightingale. It is but 
just toward Jesse to add, that he took the nest 
in a mistake, and was quite unconscious of the 
mischief he had done until it was too late to 
repair it. 

Of course these gifts were not only gracious- 
ly accepted, but duly returned ; cakes, apples, 
tarts, and gingerbread, halfpence in profusion, 
and now and then a new shilling, or a bright 
sixpence — all, in short, that poor Phffibe had 
to bestow, she showered upon her uncouth 
favourite, and she would fain have amended his 
condition by more substantial benefits ; but au- 
thoritative as she was with her grandfather in 
other instances, in this alone her usual powers 
of persuasion utterly failed. Whether infect- 
ed by old Daniel's dislike, (and be it observed, 
an unfounded prejudice, that sort of prejudice 
for which he who entertains it does not pre- 
tend to account even to himself, is unluckily 

43* 



not only one of the most contagious feelings 
in the world, but one of the most invincible:) 
whether Farmer Cobham were inoculated 
with old Daniel's hatred of Jesse, or had ta- 
ken that very virulent disease the natural way, 
nothing could exceed the bitterness of the 
aversion which gradually grew up in his 
mind towards the poor lad. That Venus liked 
him, and Phcebe liked him, added strength to 
the feeling. He would have been ashamed to 
confess himself jealous of their good-will 
towards such an object, and yet most certainly 
jealous he was. He did not drive him from 
his shelter in the Moors, because he had 
unwarily passed his word — his word, which, 
with yeomanly pride, John Cobham held sacred 
as his bond — to let him remain until he commit- 
ted some offence ; but, for this offence, both he 
and Daniel watched and waited with an im- 
patience and irritability which contrasted 
strangely with the honourable self-restraint that 
withheld him from direct abuse of his power. 

For a long time, Daniel and his master waited 
in vain. Jesse, whom they had entertained 
some vague hope of chasing away by angry 
looks and scornful words, had been so much 
accustomed all his life long to taunts and con- 
tumely, that it was a great while before he be- 
came conscious of their unkindness ; and when 
at last it forced itself upon his attention, he 
shrank away crouching and cowering, and 
buried himself in the closest recesses of the 
coppice, until the footstep of the reviler had 
passed by. One look at his sweet little friend 
repaid him twenty-fold ; and although farmer 
Cobham had really worked himself into be- 
lieving that there was danger in allowing the 
beautiful child to approach poor Jesse, and had 
therefore on different pretexts forbidden her 
visits to the Moors, she did yet happen in her 
various walks to encounter that devoted adhe- 
rent oftener than would be believed possible 
by any one who has not been led to remark, 
how often, in this best of all possible worlds, 
an earnest and innocent wish does as it were 
fulfil itself. 

At last, however, a wish of a very different 
nature came to pass. Daniel Thor])e detected 
Jesse in an actual offence against that fertile 
source of crime and misery, the. game laws. 

Thus the affair happened. 

During many weeks, the neiofhbourhood had 
been infested by a gang of bold, sturdy pilfer- 
ers, roving vagabonds, begging by day, steal- 
ing and poaching by night — who had commit- 
ted such extensive devastations amongst the 
poultry and linen of the village, as well as the 
game in the preserves, that the whole popula- 
tion was upon the alert; and the lonely cop- 
pices of the Moors rendering that spot one pe- 
culiarly likely to attract the attention of the 
gang, old Daniel, reinforced by a stout lad as 
a sort of extra-guard, kept a most jealous 
watch over his territory. 

Perambulating the outside of the wood one 



510 



COUNTRY STORIES. 



eveninw at sunset, he heard the cry of a hare ; 
and climbing over the fence, had the unexpect- 
ed pleasure of secino- our friend Jesse in the 
act of taking a leveret still alive from the wire. 
]"So, so, master Jesse! thou be'st turned 
I poacher, be'st thou V ejaculated Daniel, with 
a malicious chuckle, seizing, at one fell grip, 
the hare and the lad, 

" Miss Piicebe !" ejaculated Jesse, submit- 
ting himself to the old man's grasp, but strug- 
gling to retain the leveret ; " Miss Phiebe !" 

" Miss Phoebe, indeed !" responded Daniel ; 
" she saved thee once, my lad, but thy time 's 
come now. What do'st thee want of the 
leveret, moni Do'st not thee know that 'tis 
part of the evidence against thee? Well, he 
may carry that whilst I carry the snare. Mas- 
ter '11 be main glad to see un. He always 
suspected the chap. And, for the matter of 
that, so did I. Miss Phrebe, indeed ! Come 
along, my mon, I warrant thou hast seen thy 
last o' Miss Phcebe. Come on wi' thee." 

And Jesse was hurried as fast as Daniel's 
legs would carry him to the presence of far- 
mer Cobham. 

On entering the house (notthg old deserted 
homestead of the Moors, but the comfortable 
dwelling-house at Aberleigh) Jesse delivered 
the panting, trembling leveret to the first per- 
son he met, with no other explanation than 
might be comprised in the words, " Miss 
Phoebe !" and followed Daniel quietly to the 
hall. 

" Poaching, was he ] Taking the hare from 
the wire 1 And you saw him 1 You can 
swear to the fact?" quotti John Cobham, 
rubbing his hands with unusual glee. " Well, 
now we shall be fairly rid of the fellow! 
Take him to the Chequers for the night, 
Daniel, and get another man beside yourself 
to sit up with him. It's too late to disturb 
Sir Robert this evening. To-morrow morning 
we'll take him to the Hall. See that the 
constable's ready by nine o'clock. No doubt 
but Sir Robert will commit him to the county 
bridewell. 

" Oh, grandpapa !" exclaimed Phcebe, dart- 
ing into the room with the leveret in her arms, 
and catching the last words. " Oh, grand- 
papa ! poor Jesse I" 

" Miss Phoebe !" ejaculated the culprit. 

"Oh. grandfather, it's all my fault," con- 
tinued I'hfEbe ; "and if anybody is to go to 
prison, you ought to send me. I had been 
reading about Cowper's hares, and I wanted 
a young hare to tame : I took a fancy for one, 
and told poor Jesse ! And to think of his 
going to prison for that !" 

"And did you tell him to set a wire for the 
hare, Phonbel" 

" A wire ! what does that mean 1" said the 
bewildered child. " But I dare say," added 
she, upon Farmer Col)ham's explaining the 
nature of the snare, " I dare say that the 
poachers set the wire, and that he only took 



up the hare for me, to please my foolish 
fanc}' ! Oh, grandpapa! Poor Jesse!" and 
Phcebe cried as if her heart would break. 

" God bless you. Miss Phcebe !" said Jesse. 

" All this is nonsense !" exclaimed the un- 
relenting farmer. "Take the prisoner to the 
Chequers, Daniel, and get another man to 
keep you company in sitting up with him. 
Have as much strong beer as you like, and 
be sure to bring him and the constable here 
by r)ine o'clock to-morrow morning." 

" Oh, grandfather, you 'II be sorry for this ! 
I did not think you had been so hard-hearted !" 
sobbed Phosbe. " You '11 be very sorry for 
this." 

" Yes, very sorry, that he will. God bless 
you. Miss Phoebe," said Jesse. 

" What ! does he threaten ] Take him off, 
Daniel. And you, Phebe, go to bed and 
compose yourself. Heaven bless you, my 
darling I" said the fond grandfather, smooth- 
ing her hair, as, the tears still chasing each 
other down her cheeks, she stood leaning 
against his knee. " Go to bed and to sleep, 
my precious ! and you, Sally, bring me my 
pipe :" and wondering why the fulfilment of 
a strong desire should not make him happier, 
the honest farmer endeavoured to smoke away 
his cares. 

In the meanwhile, old Daniel conducted 
Jesse to the Chequers, and having lodged him 
safely in an upper room, sought out "an 
ancient, trusty, drouthy crony," with whom 
he sate down to carouse in the same apart- 
ment with his prisoner. It was a dark, cold, 
windy, October night, and the two warders 
sate cosily by the fire, enjoying their gossip 
and their ale, while the unlucky delinquent 
placed himself pensively by the window. 
About midnight the two old men were startled 
by his flinging open the casement, 

" Miss Phcebe ! look ! look !" 

"What] where"?" inquired Daniel. 

"Miss Phcebe!" repeated the prisoner; 
and, looking in the direction to which Jesse 
pointed, they saw the flames bursting from 
Farmer Cobham's house. 

In a very few seconds they had alarmed 
the family, and sprung forth in the direction 
of the fire ; the prisoner accompanying them, 
unnoticed in the confusion. 

"Luckily, master's always insured to the 
value of all he's worth, stock and. goods," 
quoth the prudent Daniel. 

" Miss Phoebe !" exclaimed Jesse : and even 
as he spoke he burst in the door, darted up 
the staircase, and returned with the trembling 
child in his arms, followed by aunt Dorothy 
and the frightened servants. 

"Grandpapa! dear grandpapa! where is 
grandpapa 1 Will no one save my dear grand- 
papa ]" cried Phcebe. 

And, placing the little girl at the side of 
her aunt, Jesse again mounted the blazing 
staircase. For a few moments all gave him 



JESSE CLIFFE. 



511 



up for lost. But he returned, tottering under 
the weight of a man scarcely yet aroused 
from heavy sleep, and half sutfocated by the 
smoke and flames. 

" Miss Phoebe ! he 's safe, l\!iss Phffibe ! — 
Down, Venus, down — He's safe. Miss Ph(B- 
be ! And now, I sha'n't mind going to prison, 
'cause wlien I come back you'll be living at 
the Monrs. Sha'n't you. Miss Phoebe 1 And 
I shall see you every day !" 

One part of this speech turned out true, 
and anotlier part false — no uncommon fate, by 
the way, of prophetic speeches, even when 
uttered by wiser persons than poor Jesse. 
Phoebe did come to live at the Moors, and he 
did not go to prison. 

On the contrary, so violent was the revul- 
sion of feeling in the honest hearts of the 
good yeoman, John Cobham, and his faithful 
servant, old Daniel, and so deep the remorse 
which they both felt for their injustice and 
unkindness towards the friendless lad, that 
there was considerable danger of their falling 
into the opposite extreme, and ruining him by 
sudden and excessive indulgence. Jesse, 
however, vs'as not of a temperament to be 
easily spoilt. He had been so long an out- 
cast from human society, that he had become 
as wild and shy as his old companions of the 
fields and the coppice, the beasts of the earth 
and the birds of the air. The hare which he 
had himself given to Phosbe was easier to 
tame than Jesse Cliffe. 

Gradually, very gradually, under the gentle 
influence of the gentle child, this great feat 
was accomplished, almost as effectually, al- 
though by no means so suddenly, as in the 
well-known case of Cymon and Iphigenia, 
the most noted precedent upon record of the 
process of reaching the head through the 
heart. Venus, and a beautiful Welsh pony 
called Taffy, which her grandfather had re- 
cently purchased for her riding, had their 
share in the good deed ; these two favourites 
being placed by Phoebe's desire under Jesse's 
sole charge and management ; a measure 
which not only brought him necessarily into 
something like intercourse with the other lads 
about the yard, but ended in his conceiving so 
strong an attachment to the animals of whom 
he had the care, that before the winter set in 
he had deserted his old lair in the wood, and 
actually passed his nights in a vacant stall of 
the small stable appropriated to their use. 

From the moment that John Cobham de- 
tected such an approach to the habits of civil- 
ized life as sleeping under a roof, he looked 
upon the wild son of the Moors, as virtually 
reclaimed, and so it proved. Every day he 
became more and more like his fellow-men. 
He abandoned his primitive oven, and bought 
his bread at the baker's. He accepted thank- 
fully the decent clothing necessary to his at- 
tending Miss Phffibe in her rides round the 
country. He worked regularly and steadily 



at whatever labour was assigned to him, re 
ceiving wages like the other farm-servants; 
and finally it was discovered that one of the 
first uses he made of these wages was to 
purchase spelling-books and copy-books, and 
enter himself at an evening school, where the 
opening difficulties being surmounted, his pro- 
gress astonished everybody. 

His chief fancy was for gardening. The 
love, and, to a certain point, the knowledge of 
flowers which he had always evinced increased 
upon him every day ; — and happening to ac- 
company Phoebe on one of her visits to the 
young ladies at the Hall, who were much at- 
tached to the lovely little girl, he saw Lady 
Mordaunt's French garden, and imitated it the 
next year for his young mistress in wild flow- 
ers, after such a fashion as to excite the won- 
der and admiration of all beholders. 

From that moment Jesse's destiny was de- 
cided. Sir Robert's gardener, a clever Scotch- 
man, took great notice of him and offered to 
employ him at the Hall ; but the Moors had 
to poor Jesse a fascination which he could not 
surmount. He felt that it would be easier to 
tear himself from the place altogether, than to 
live in the neighbourhood and not there. Ac- 
cordingly he lingered on for a year or two, and 
then took a grateful leave of his benefactors, 
and set forth to London with the avowed in- 
tention of seeking employment in a great nur- 
sery-ground, to the proprietor of which he was 
furnished with letters, not merely from his 
friend the gardener, but from Sir Robert him- 
self. 

N. B. It is recorded that on the night of 
Jesse's departure, Venus refused her supper 
and Phoebe cried herself to sleep. 

Time wore on. Occasional tidings had 
reached the Moors of the prosperous fortunes 
of the adventurer. He had been immediately 
engaged by the great nurseryman to whom he 
was recommended, and so highly approved, 
that in little more than two years he became 
foreman of the flower department; another 
two years saw him chief manager of the gar- 
den; and now, at the end of a somewhat long- 
er period, there was a rumour of his having 
been taken into the concern as acting partner ; 
a rumour which received full confirmation in 
a letter from himself, accompanying a magni- 
ficent present of shrubs, plants, and flower- 
roots, amongst which were two Dahlias, tick- 
eted 'the Moors' and 'the Phcebe,' and an- 
nouncing his intention of visiting his best and 
earliest friends in the course of the ensuing 
summer. 

Still time wore on. It was full six months 
after this intimation, that on a bright morning 
in October, John Cobham, with two or three 
visiters from Belford, and his granddaughter 
Phcebe, now a lovely young woman, were 
coursing on the Moors. The towns-people 
had boasted of their greyhounds, and the old 



512 



COUNTRY STORIES, 



sportsman was in high spirits from having 
beaten them out of the field. 

"If that's your best dooj," quoth John, 
" whjs I'll be bound that our Snowball would 
beat him with one of his legs tied up. Talk 
of runnitio' such a cur as that against Snow- 
ball ! Why there 's Phoebe's pet, Venus, 
Snowball's great-grandam, who was twelve 
years old last May, and has not seen a hare 
these three seasons, shall give him the go-by 
in the first hundred yards. Go and fetch Ve- 
nus, Daniel ! It will do her heart good to see 
a hare awain," added he, answering the looks 
rather tiian the words of his granddaughter, 
for she had not spoken, "and I'll be bound 
to say she '11 beat him out of sight. He 
won't come in for a turn." 

Upon Venus's arrival, great admiration was 
expressed at her symmetry and beauty ; the 
greyness incident to her age having fallen 
upon her, as it sometimes does upon black 
greyhounds, in the form of small white spots, 
so that she appeared as if originally what the 
coursers call " ticked." She was in excellent 
condition, and appeared to understand the de- 
sign of the meeting as well as any one present, 
and to be delighted to find herself once more 
in the field of fame. Her competitor, a yellow 
dog called Smoaker, was let loose, and the 
whole party awaited in eager expectation of a 
hare. 

" Soho !" cried John Cobham, and off the 
dogs sprang ; Venus taking the turn, as he 
had foretold, running as true as in the first 
season, doing all the work, and killing the 
hare, after a course which, for any part 
vSmoaker took in it, might as well have been 
single-handed. 

" Look how she's bringing the hare to my 
grandfather!" exclaimed Phojbe ; "she al- 
ways brings her game !" 

And with the hare in her mouth, carefully 
poised by the middle of the back, she was 
slowly advancing towards her master, when 
a stranger, well dressed and well mounted, 
who had joined the party unperceived during 
the course, suddenly called "Venus!" 

And Venus started, pricked up her ears as 
if to listen, and stood stock still. 

"Venus !" again cried the horseman. 

And Venus, apparently recognizing the 
voice, walked towards the stranger, (who by 
this time had dismounted,) laid the hare down 
at his feet, and then sprang up herself to meet 
and return his caresses. 

" Jesse ! It must be Jesse ClifFe !" said 
Phoebe, in a tone which wavered between ex- 
clamation and interrogatory. 

" It can be none other," responded her 
grandfather. " I 'd trust Venus beyond all 
the world in the matter of recognising an old 
friend, and we all know that except her old 
master and her young mistress, she never 
cared a straw for anybody but Jesse. It must 
be Jesse Cliife, though to be sure he's so al- 



tered that how the bitch could find him out, 
is bej^ond my comprehension. It's remarka- 
ble," continued he in an under tone, walking 
away with Jesse from the Belford party, "that 
we five (counting Venus and old Daniel) 
should meet just on this very spot — isn't it 1 
It looks as if we were to come together. And 
if you have a fancy for Phcebe, as your friend 
Sir Robert says you have, and if Phcebe re- 
tains her old fancy for you, (as I partly believe 
may be the case,) why my consent sha'n't be 
wanting. Don't keep squeezing my hand, 
man, but go and find out what she thinks of 
the matter." 

Five minutes after this conversation, Jesse 
and Phoebe were walking together towards 
the house; what he said we have no business 
to inquire, but if blushes may be trusted, of 
a certainty the little damsel did not answer 
"No." 



MISS PHILLY FIRKIN, THE 
CHINA WOMAN. 

In Belford Regis, as in many of those pro- 
vincial capitals of the south of England, 
whose growth and importance have kept pace 
with the increased affluence and population of 
the neighbourhood, the principal shops will be 
found clustered in the close, inconvenient 
streets of th0 antique portion of the good town ; 
whilst the more showy and commodious 
modern buildings are quite unable to compete 
in point of custom with the old crowded 
localities, which seem even to derive an ad- 
vantage from the appearance of business and 
bustle occasioned by the sharp turnings, the 
steep declivities, the narrow causeways, the 
jutting-out windows, and the various obstruc- 
tions incident to the picturesque but irreglar 
street-architecture of our ancestors. 

Accordingly, Oriel Street, in Belford, — a 
narrow lane, cribbed and confined on the one 
side by an old monastic establishment, now 
turned into almshouses, called the Oriel, 
which divided the street from that branch of 
the river called the Holy Brook, and on the 
other bounded by the market-place, whilst one 
end abutted on the yard of a great inn, and 
turned so sharply up a steep acclivity that 
accidents happened there every day, and the 
olher terminus wound with an equally awkward 
curvature round the churchyard of St. Stephen's 
— this most strait and incommodious avenue of 
shops was the wealthiest quarter of the 
Borough. It was a provincial combination of 
Regent Street and Cheapside. The houses 
let for double their value; and, as a necessary 
consequence, goods sold there at pretty nearly 
the same rate ; horse-people and foot-people 
jostled upon the pavement ; coaches and 



THE CHINA WOMAN. 



513 



phaetons ran against each other in the road. 
Nobody dreannt of visiting Belford without 
wanting something or other in Oriel Street; 
and although noise, and crowd, and bustle, be 
very far from usual attributes of the good town, 
yet in driving through this favoured region on 
a fine day, between the hours of three and 
five, we stood a fiir chance of encountering as 
many difRculties and obstructions from car- 
riages, and as much din and disorder on the 
causeway, as we shall often have the pleasure 
of meeting with out of London. 

One of the most popular and frequented 
shops in the street, and out of all manner of 
comparison the prettiest to look at, was the 
well-furnished glass and china w^arehouse of 
Philadelphia Firkin, spinster. Few things 
are indeed more agreeable to the eye than the 
mixture of glittering cut glass, with rich and 
delicate china, so beautiful in shape, colour, 
and material, which adorn a nicely-assorted 
show-room of that description. The manu- 
factures of Sevres, of Dresden, of Derby, and 
of Worcester, are really works of art, and 
very beautiful ones too ; and even the less 
choice specimens have about them a clearness, 
a glossiness, and a nicety, exceedingly pleasant 
to look upon ; so tliat a china-shop is in some 
sense a shop of temptation : and that it is also 
a shop of necessity, every housekeeper who 
knows to her cost the infinite number of 
plates, dishes, cups, and glasses, which con- 
trive to get broken in the course of the year, 
(chiefly by that grand deniolisher of crockery 
ware called Nobody,) will not fail to bear tes- 
timony. 

Miss Philadelphia's was therefore awell-ac- 
customed shop, and she herself was in appear- 
ance most fit to be its inhabitant, being a trim, 
prim little woman, neither old nor young, 
whose dress hung about her in stiff regular 
folds, very like the drapery of a china shep- 
herdess on a mantel-])iece, and whose pink and 
white complexion, skin, eyebrows, eyes, and 
hair, all tinted as it seemed with one dash of 
ruddy colour, had the same professional hue. 
Change her spruce cap for a wide-brimmed 
hat, and the damask napkin which she flourish- 
ed in wiping her wares, for a china crook, and 
the figure in question might have passed for a 
miniature of the mistress. In one respect 
they differed. The china shepherdess was a 
silent personage. Miss Philadelphia was 
not; on the contrary, she was reckoned to make, 
after her own mincing fashion, as good a use 
of her tongue as any woman, gentle or simple, 
in the whole town of Belford. 

She was assisted in her avocations by a 
little shopwoman, not much taller than a china 
mandarin, remarkable for the height of her 
comb, and the length of her ear-rings, whom 
she addressed sometimes as Miss Wolfe, 
sometimes as Marianne, and sometimes as 
Polly, thus multiplying the young lady's in- 
dividuality by three; and a little shopman in 

3P 



apron and sleeves, whom, with equal ingenuity, 
she called by several appellations of Jack, 
Jonathan, and Mr. Lamb — mister ! — but who 
was really such a cock-o'-my-thumb as might 
have been served up in a tureen, or baked in a 
pie-dish, without in the slightest degree abridg- 
ing his personal dimensions. I have known 
him quite hidden behind a china jar, and as 
completely buried, whilst standing on tip-toe, 
in a crate, as the dessert-service which he was 
engaged in unpacking. Whether this pair of 
originals was transferred from a show at a fair 
to Miss Philly's warehouse, or whether she 
had picked them up accidentally, first one and 
then the other, guided by a fine sense of con- 
gruity, as she might match a wine-glass or a 
tea-cup, must be left to conjecture. Certain 
they answered her purpose, as well as if they 
had been the size of Gog and Magog ; were 
attentive to the customers, faithful to their 
employer, and crept about amongst the china 
as softly as two mice. 

The world went well with Miss Philly 
Firkin in the shop and out. She won favour 
in the sight of her betters by a certain prim, 
demure, simpering civility, and a power of 
multiplying herself as well as her little offi- 
cials, like Yates or Matthews in a monopolo- 
logue, and attending to half-a-dozen persons at 
once; whilst she was no less popular amongst 
her equals in virtue of her excellent gift in. 
gossiping. Nobody better loved a gentle tale 
of scandal, to sweeten a quiet cup of tea. 
Nobody evinced a finer talent for picking up 
whatever news happened to be stirring, or- 
greater liberality in its diffusion. She was 
the intelligencer of the place — a walking 
chronicle. 

In a word. Miss Philly Firkin was certainly 
a prosperous, and, as times go, a tolerably 
happy woman. To be sure, her closest in- 
timates, those very dear friends, who, as our 
confidence gives them the opportunity, are so 
obliging as to watch our weakness and report 
our foibles, — certain of these bosom compan- 
ions had been heard to hint, that Miss Philly, 
who had refused two or three good matches in 
her bloom, repented her of this cruelty, and 
would probably be found less obdurate now 
that suitors had ceased to ofier. This, if true, 
was one hidden grievance, a flitting shadow 
upon a sunny destiny ; whilst another might 
be found in a circumstance of which she was 
so far from making a secret, that it was one of 
her most frequent topics of discourse. 

The calamity in question took the not un- 
frequent form of a next-door neighbour. On 
her right dwelt an eminent tinman with his 
pretty daughter, two of the most respectable, 
kindest, and best-conducted persons in the 
town ; but on her left was an open bricked 
archway, just wide enough to admit a cart, 
surmounted by a dim and dingy representation 
of some horned animal, with "The Old Red 
Cow" written in white capitals above, and 



514 



COUNTRY STORIES. 



"James Tyler, licensed to sell beer, ale, 
wine, and all sorts of spirituous liquors," be- 
low ; and down the aforesaid passage, divided 
only by a paling from the spacious premises ' 
where her earthenware and coarser kinds of 
crockery were deposited, were the public- 
house, stables, cowhouses, and pigstyes of Mr. 
James Tyler, who added to his calling of pub- 
lican, the several capacities of milkman, cattle 
dealer, and pig merchant, so that the place 
was one constant scene of dirt and noise and 
bustle without and within; — this Old Red 
Cow, in spite of its unpromising locality, be- 
ing one of the best frequented houses in Bel- 
ford, the constant resort of drovers, drivers, 
and cattle dealers, with a market dinner on 
Wednesdays and Saturdays, and a club called 
the Jolly Tailors, every Monday night. 

Master James Tyler — popularly called Jem 
— was the very man to secure and increase 
this sort of custom. Of vast stature and ex- 
traordinary physical power, combined with a 
degree of animal spirits not often found in 
combination with such large proportions, he 
was at once a fit ruler over his four-footed 
subjects in the yard, a miscellaneous and most 
disorderly collection of cows, horses, pigs, 
and oxen, to say nothing of his own five boys, 
(for Jem was a widower,) each of whom, in 
striving to remedy, was apt to enhance the 
confusion, and an admirable lord of misrule 
at the drovers' dinners and tradesnrien's sup- 
pers over which be presided. There was a 
mixture of command and good-humour, of 
decision and fun, in the gruff, bluff, weather- 
beaten countenance, surmounted with its rough 
shock of coal-black hair, and in the voice loud 
as a stentor, with which he now guided a 
drove of oxen, and now roared a catch, that 
his listeners in either case found irresistible. 
Jem Tyler was the very spirit of vulgar jollity, 
and could, as he boasted, run, leap, box, wres- 
tle, drink, sing, and shoot (he had been a 
keeper in his youth, and still retained the love 
of sportmanship which those who imbibe it 
early seldom lose) with any man in the coun- 
ty. He was discreet, too, for a man of his 
occupation ; knew precisely how drunk a 
journeyman tailor ought to get, and when to 
stop a fight between a Somersetshire cattle- 
dealer and an Irish pig-driver. No inquest 
had ever sat upon any of his customers. 
Small wonder, that with such a landlord the 
Old Red Cow should be a hostelry of un- 
matched resort and unblemished reputation. 

The chief exception to Jem Tyler's almost 
universal popularity was beyond all manner 
of doubt his fair neighbour Miss Philadelphia 
Firkin. She, together with her trusty adhe- 
rents, Miss Wolfe and Mr. Lamb, held Jem, 
his alehouse, and his customers, whether tai- 
lor, drover, or dealer, his yard and its contents, 
horse or donkey, ox or cow, pig or dog, in un- 
measured and undisguised abhorrence : she 
threatened to indict the place as a nuisance. 



to appeal to the mayor ; and upon " some 
good-natured friend" telling her that mine 
host had snapped his fingers at her as a clat- 
tering old maid, she did actually go so far as 
to speak to her landlord, who was also Jem's, 
upon the iniquity of his doings. This worthy 
happening, however, to be a great brewer, 
knew better than to dismiss a tenant whose 
consumption of double X was so satisfactory. 
So that Miss Firkin took nothing by her mo- 
tion beyond a few of those smoothening and 
pacificatory speeches, which, when adminis- 
tered to a person in a passion, have, as I have 
often observed, a remarkable tendency to ex- 
asperate the disease. 

At last, however, came a real and substan- 
tial grievance, an actionable trespass ; and al- 
though Miss Philly was a considerable loser 
by the mischance, and a lawsuit is always 
rather a questionable remedy for pecuniary 
damage, yet such was the keenness of her 
hatred towards poor Jem, that I am quite con- 
vinced that in her inmost heart (although being 
an excellent person in her way, it is doubtful 
whether she told herself the whole truth in 
the matter) she rejoiced at a loss which would 
enable her to take such signal vengeance over 
her next-door enemy. An obstreperous cow, 
walking backward instead of forward, as that 
placid animal when j)rovoked has the habit of 
doing, came in contact with a weak part of 
the paling which divided Miss Firkin's back 
premises from Master Tyler's yard, and not 
only upset Mr. Lamb into a crate of crockery 
which he was in the act of unpacking, to the 
inexpressible discomfiture of both parties, but 
Miss Wolfe, who, upon hearing the mixture 
of crash and squall, ran to the rescue, found 
herself knocked down by a donkey who had 
entered at the breach, and was saluted as she 
rose by a peal of laughter from young Sam 
Tyler, Jem's eldest hope, a thorough Pickle, 
who, accompanied by two or three other chaps 
as unlucky as himself, sat quietly on a gate 
surveying and enjoying the mischief. 

" I '11 bring an action against tlie villain I" 
ejaculated Miss Pliilly, as soon as the enemy 
was driven from her quarters, and her china 
and her dependants set upon their feet: — 
"I'll take the law of him!" And in this 
spirited resolution did mistress, shopman, and 
shopwoman, find comfort for the losses, the 
scratches, and the bruises of the day. 

This affray commenced on a Thursday eve- 
ning towards the latter end of March; and it 
so happened that we had occasion to send to 
Miss Philly early the next morning for a cart- 
load of garden-pots for the use of my geran- 
iums. 

Our messenger was, as it chanced, a certain 
lad by name Dick Rarnctt, who has lived with 
us off and on ever since he was the height of 
the table, and who originally a saucy, lively, 
merry boy, arch, quick-witted, and amusing, 
has been indulged in giving vent to all manner 



THE CHINA WOMAN. 



515 



of impertinence until he has become a sort of 
privileged person, and tai<es, with hiorh or 
low, a freedom of speech that might become 
a lady's pag^e or a king's jester. Every now 
and then we feel that this license, which in a 
child of ten years old we found so diverting, 
has become inconvenient in a youth of seven- 
teen, and favour him and ourselves with a 
lecture accordingly. But such is the force of 
inveterate habit, that our remonstrances upon 
this subject are usually so much gravity 
wasted upon him and upon ourselves. He, 
in the course of a day or two, comes forth 
with some fresh prank more amusing than be- 
fore, and we (I grieve to confess such a weak- 
ness) resume our laughter. 

To do justice, however, to this modern 
Robin Goodfellow, there was most commonly 
a fund of good-nature at the bottom of his 
wildest tricks or his most egregious romances, 
— for in the matter of a jest he was apt to 
draw pretty largely from an inventive faculty 
o*" remarkable fertility ; he was constant in 
h.s attachments, whether to man or beast, 
loyal to his employers, and although idle and 
uncertain enough in other work, admirable in 
all that related to the stable or the kennel — 
the best driver, best rider, best trainer of a 
greyhound, and best finder of a hare, in all 
Berkshire. 

He was, as usual, accompanied on this er- 
rand by one of his four-footed favourites, a 
delicate snow-white greyhound called Mayfly, 
of whom Miss Philly fiatteringly observed, 
that "she w^as as beautiful as china;" and 
upon the civil lady of the shop proceeding to 
inquire after the health of his master and mis- 
tress, and the general news of Aberleigh, 
master Ben, who well knew her proficiency 
in gossiping, and had the dislike of a man 
and a rival to any female practitioner in that 
art, checked at once this condescending over- 
ture to conversation by answering with more 
than his usual consequence : "The chief news 
that I know. Miss Firkin, is, that our gerani- 
ums are all pining away for want of fresh 
earth, and that I am sent in furious haste after 
a load of your best garden-pots. There's no 
time to be lost, I can tell you, if you mean to 
save their precious lives. Miss Ada is upon 
her last legs, and Master Diomede in a gallop- 
ing consumption — two of our prime geraniums, 
ma'am V quoth Dick, with a condescending 
nod to Miss Wolfe, as that Lilliputian lady 
looked up at him with a stare of unspeakable 
mystification; " queerish names, a'nt they 1 
Well, there are the patterns of the sizes, and 
there's the order ; so if your little gentleman 
will but look the pots out, I have left the cart 
in Jem Tyler's yard, (I 've a message to Jem 
from master,) and we can pack 'em over the 
paling. I suppose you've a ladder for the lit- 
tle man's use, in loading carts and wagons : 
if not Jem or I can take them from him. 
There is not a better-natured fellow in England 



than Jem Tyler, and he'll be sure to do me a 
good turn any day, if it's only for the love of 
our Mayfly here. He bred her, poor thing, 
and is well-nigh as fond of her as if she was 
a child of his own; and so's Sam. Nay, 
what's the matter with you alH" pursued 
Dick, as at the name of Jem Tyler Miss 
Wolfe turned up her hands and eyes, Mr. 
Lamb let fall the pattern pots, and Miss Phil- 
ly flung the order upon the counter — " What 
the deuce is come to the people ?" 

And then out burst the story of the last 
night's adventure, of Mr. Lamb's scratched 
face, which indeed was visible enough, of 
Miss Wolfe's bruises, of the broken china, 
the cow, the donkey, and the action at law. 

" Whew !" whistled Dick in an aside whis- 
tle ; " going to law is she ] We must pacify 
her if we can," thought he, "for a lawsuit's 
no joke, as poor Jem would find. Jem must 
come and speechify. It 's hard if between us 
we can't manage a woman." 

"Sad affair, indeed. Miss Firkin," said 
Dick, aloud, in a soft, sympathising tone, and 
with a most condoling countenance; "it's 
unknown what obstropolous creatures cows 
and donkies are, and what mischief they do 
amongst gimcracks. A brute of a donkey got 
into our garden last summer, and ate up half- 
a-dozen rose-trees and fuchsias, besides tram- 
pling over the flower-beds. One of the roses 
was a present from France, worth five guineas, 
I hope Mr. Lamb and Miss Wolfe are not 
much hurt. Very sad affair ! strange too that 
it should happen through Jem Tylej 's cattle — 
poor Jem, who had such a respect for you !" 

"Respect for me!" echoed Miss Philly, 
" when he called me a chattering old maid, — 
Mrs. Loveit heard him. Respect for me !" 

" Ay," continued Dick, — "it was but last 
Monday was a fortnight that Kit Mahony, the 
tall pig-dealer, was boasting of the beauty of 
the Tipperary lasses, and crying down our 
English ladies, whereupon, although the lap 
was full of Irish chaps, Jem took the matter 
up, and swore that he could show Kit two as 
fine women in this very street — you, ma'am, 
being one, and Miss Parsons the other — two 
as fine women as ever he saw in Tipperary. 
Nay, he offered to lay any wager, from a pot 
of double X to half a score of his own pigs, 
that Kit should confess it himself. Now, if 
that 's not having a respect I don't know what 
is," added Dick, with much gravity ; " and I 
put it to your good sense, whether it is not 
more likely that Mrs. Loveit, who is as deaf 
as a post, should be mistaken, than that he 
should offer to lay such a wager respecting a 
lady of whom he had spoken so disparagingly." 

"This will do," thought Dick to himself 
as he observed the softening of Miss J'hilly's 
features and noted her very remarkable and 
unnatural silence — "this will do, and reite- 
rating his request that the order migi t be got 
ready, he walked out of the shop. 



516 



COUNTRY STORIES. 



"You'll find that I have settled the mat- 
ter," observed the yoiinjr (jentleman to Jem 
Tyler, after tell in cr him the story, "and you 
have nothinnj to do but to follow up my hints. 
Did not I manaire her famously ] 'T was well 
I recollected your challentre to Mahony, about 
that pretty creature, Harriet Parsons. It had 
a capital effect, I |)romise you. Now o^o and 
make yourself decent; put on your Sunday 
coat, wash your face and hands, and don't 
spare for fine speeches. Be off with )''ou." 

"I shall lauofh in her face," replied Jem. 

"Not you," quoth his saore adviser: "just 
think of the length of a lawyer's bill, and 
you'll be in no danger of laughing. Besides, 
she's really a niceish sort of a body enough, 
a tidyish little soul in her way, and you're a 
gay widower — so who knows]" 

And home went Dick, chuckling all the 
way, partly at his own good management, 
partly at the new idea which his quick fancy 
had started. 

About a fortnight after, I had occasion to 
drive into Belford, attended as usual by mas- 
ter Richard. The bells of St. Stephen's were 
ringing merrily as we passed down Oriel 
Street, and happening to look up at the well- 
known sign of the Old Red Cow, we saw that 
celebrated work of art surmounted by a bow 
of white ribbons — a bridal favour. Looking 
onward to Miss Philly's door, what should 
we perceive but Mr. Lamb standing on the 
step with a smilar cockade, half as big as 
himself, stuck in his hat ; whilst Miss Wolfe 
stood simpering behind the counter, dispensing 
to her old enemy Sam, and four other grinning 
boys in their best apparel, five huge slices of 
bridecake ! 

The fact was clear. Jem Tyler and Miss 
Philly were married. 



THE GROUND-ASH. 

Amongst the many pleasant circumstances 
attendant on a love of flowers — that sort of 
love which leads us into the woods for the 
earliest primrose, or to the river side for the 
latest forget-me-not, and carries us to the 
parching heath or the watery mere to procure 
for the cultivated, or, if I may use the expres- 
sion, the /ame beauties of the parterre, the soil 
that they love ; amongst the many gratifica- 
tions which such pursuits bring with them, 
such as seeing in the sf^asons in which it 
shows best, the prettiest, coyest, most un- 
hackneyed scenery, and taking, with just mo- 
tive enough for stimulus and for reward, drives 
and walks which approach to fatigue, without 
being fatiguing; amongst all the delights con- 
sequent on a love of flowers, I know none 
greater than the half-unconscious and wholly 
unintended manner in which such expeditions 



make us acquainted with the peasant children 
of remote and out-of-the-way regions, tlie in- 
habitants of the wild woodlands and still 
wilder commons of the hilly part of the north 
of Hampshire, which forms so strong a con- 
trast with this sunny and populous county of 
Berks, whose very fields are gay and neat as 
gardens, and whose roads are as level and 
even as a gravel-walk. 

Two of the most interesting of these flow- 
er-formed acquaintances, were my little friends 
Harry and Bess}^ Leigh. 

Every year I go to the Evcrly woods, to 
gather wild lilies of the valley. It is one of 
the delights that May — the charming, ay, and 
the merry month of May, which I love as 
fondly as ever that bright and joyous season 
was loved by our older poets — regularly brings 
in her train ; one of those rational pleasures 
in which (and it is the great point of supe- 
riority over pleasures that are artificial and 
worldly) there is no disappointment. About 
four years ago, I made such a visit. The day 
was glorious, and we had driven through lanes 
perfumed by the fresh green birch, with its 
bark silvery and many-tinted, and over com- 
mons where the very air was loaded with the 
heavy fragrance of the furze, an odour resem- 
bling in richness its golden blossoms, just as 
the scent of the birch is cool, refreshing, and 
penetrating, like the exquisite colour of its 
young leaves, until we reached the top of the 
hill, where, on one side, tl e enclosed wood, 
where the lilies grow, sank gradually, in an 
amphitheatre of natural terraces, to a piece of 
water at the bottom ; whilst on the otbfir, the 
wild open heath formed a sort of promontory 
overhanging a steep ravine, through which a 
slow and sluggish stream crept along amongst 
stunted alders, until it was lost in the deep 
recesses of Lidhurst Forest, over the tall trees 
of which we literally looked down. We had 
come without a servant; and on arriving at 
the gate of the wood with neither human 
figure nor human habitation in sight, and a 
high-blooded and high-spirited horse in the 
phaeton, we began to feel all the awkwardness 
of our situation. My companion, however, 
at length espied a thin wreath of smoke issu- 
ing from a small clay-built hut thatched with 
furze, built against the steepest part of the 
hill, of which it seemed a mere excrescence, 
about half-way down the declivity-; and, on 
calling aloud, two children, who had been 
picking up dry stumps of heath and gorse, 
and collecting them in a heap for fuel at the 
door of their hovel, first carefully deposited 
their little load, and then came ruiming to 
know what we wanted. 

If we had wondered to see human beings 
living in a habitation, which, both for space 
and appearance, would have been despised by 
a pig of any pretension, as too small and too 
mean for his accommodation, so we were again 
surprised at the strange union of poverty and 



THE GROUND-ASH. 



517 



content evinced by the apparel and counte- 
nances of its youna inmates. The cliildren, 
bareheaded and barefooted, and with little 
nnore clothirifj than one shabby-looking o-ar- 
nient, were yet as fine, sturdy, hardy, ruddy, 
sunburnt urchins, as one sliould see on a sum- 
mer day. They were clean, too : the stunted 
bit of raiment was patched, but not rafr^ed ; 
and when the o-irl,(t^or, althouoh it wasratiier 
difficult to distiufjuish between the brother and 
sister, the pair were of different sexes,) when 
the bricrht-eyed, square-made, upright little 
damsel clasped her two brown hands together, 
on the top of her head, pressed down her 
thick curls, looking at us and listening to us 
with an air of the most intelligent attention 
that returned -our curiosity with interest; and 
when the boy, in answer to our inquiry if he 
could hold a horse, clutched the reins with his 
small fingers, and planted himself beside our 
high-mettled steed with an air of firm deter- 
mination, that seemed to say, " I'm your mas- 
ter ! — Run away if you dare !" we both of us 
felt that they were subjects for a picture, and 
that, though Sir Joshua might not have paint- 
ed them, Gainsborough and our own Collins 
would. 

Buthesides their exceeding;' picturesqueness, 
the evident content, and hel|ifulness, and in- 
dustry of these little creatures, were delightful 
to look at and to think of. In conversation 
they were at once very civil and respectful 
(Bessy dropping her little curtsy, and Harry 
putting his hand to the lock of hair where the 
hat should have been, at every sentence they 
uttered) and perfectly frank and unfearing. 
In answer to our questions, they told us that 
" Father was a broom-maker, from the low 
country ; that he had come to these parts and 
married mother, and built their cottage, be- 
cause houses were so scarce hereabouts, and 
because of its convenience to the heath ; that 
they had done very well till the last winter, 
when poor father had had the fever for five 
months, and they had had much ado to get on ; 
but that father was brave again now, and was 
building another house (house!!) larger and 
finer, upon Squire Benson's lands: the squire 
had promised them a garden from the waste, 
and mother hoped to keep a ))ig. They were 
trying to get all the money they could to buy 
the pig; and what his honour had promised 
them for holding the horse, was all to be given 
to mother for that purpose." 

It was impossible not to be charmed with 
these children. We went afjain and again to 
the Everly wood, parth' to gather lilies, partly 
to rejoice in the trees with their young leaves 
so beautiful in texture as well as in colour, but 
chirdy to indulge ourselves in the pleasure of 
talking to the children, of adding something to 
their scanty stock of clothino-, (Bessy ran as 
fast as her feet could carry her to the clear 
pool at the bottom of the wood, to look at her- 
self in her new bonnet,) and of assisting in 

44 



the accumulations of the Grand Pig Savings' 
Bank, by engaging Harry to hold the horse, 
and Bessy to help fill the lily basket. 

This employment, by showing that the lilies 
had a money value, putanew branch of traffic 
into the heads of these thoughtful children, 
already accustomed to gather heath for their 
father's brooms, and to collect the dead furze 
which served as fuel to the family. After 
oaining permission of the farmer who rented 
the wood, and ascertaining that we had no 
objection, they set about making nosegays of 
the flowers, and collecting the roots for sale, 
and actually stood two Saturdays in Belford 
market (the smallest merchants of a surely 
that ever appeared in that rural Exchange) to 
dispose of their wares; having obtained a 
cast in a wagon there and back, and carrying 
home faithfully every penny of their gainings, 
to deposit in the common stock. 

The next year we lost sijht of them. No 
smoke issued from the small chimney by the 
hill-side. The hut itself was half demolished 
by wind and weather; its tenants had emi- 
grated to the new house on vSquire Benson's 
land ; and after two or three attempts to under- 
stand and to follow the directions as to the 
spot given us by the good farmer at Everly, 
we were forced to give up the search. 

Accident, the great discoverer and recoverer 
of lost goods, at last restored to us these good 
little children. It happened as follows : — 

In new potting some large hydrangeas, we 
were seized with a desire to give the blue 
tinge to the petals, which so orreatly improves 
the beauty of that fine bold flower, and which 
is so desirabl'" when they are placed, as these 
were destined to be, in the midst of red and 
pink blossoms, fuchsias, sal vis, and geraniums. 
Accordingly, we sallied forth to a place called 
the Moss, a wild tract of moorland lying about 
a mile to the right of the road to Everly, and 
famous for the red bog, produced, I presume, 
by chalybeate springs, which, when mixed 
with the fine Bagshot silver sand, is so effec- 
tual in changing the colour of flowers. 

It was a bleak gusty day in February, rain- 
ing by fits, but not with sufficient violence to 
deter me from an expedition to which I had 
taken a fancj'. Putting up, therefore, the 
head and apron of the phaeton, and followed 
by one lad (the shrewd boy Dick) on horse- i 
back, and another (John, the steady gardening j 
youth) in a cart laden with tubs and sacks, I 
spades and watering-pots, to procure and con- 
tain the bog mould, (for we were prudently 
determined to provide for all emergencies, and 
to carry with us fit receptacles to receive our \ 
treasure, whether it presented itself in the form i 
of red earth or of red mud,) our little proces- J 
sion set forth early in the afternoon, towards 
the wildest and most dreary piece of scenery 
that I have ever met with in this part of the 
country. 

Wild and dreary of a truth was the Moss, 



51S 



COUNTRY STORIES, 



and the stormy sky, the moanina wind, and 
the occasional sfushes of driving rain, suited 
well with the dark and cheerless reoion into 
which we had entered by a road, if a rude 
cart-track may be so called, such as shall 
seldom be encountered in this land of INIacad- 
amisation. And yet, partly perhaps from their 
novelty, the wild day and the wild scenery 
had for me a strangre and thrilling charm. 
The ground, covered with the sea-green moss, 
whence it derived its name, mingled in the 
higher parts with brown patches of heather, 
and dark bushes of stunted furze, was Lioken 
with deep hollows full of stagnant water; 
some almost black, others covered with the 
rusty scum which denoted the presence of the 
powerful mineral, upon whose agency we re- 
lied for performing that strange piece of natural 
magic which may almost be called the trans- 
mutation of flowers. 

Towards the ruddiest of these pools, situated 
in a deep glen, our active coadjutors, leaving 
phaeton, cart, and horses, on the brow of the 
hill, began rolling and tossing the several tubs, 
buckets, watering-pots, sacks, and spades, 
which were destined for the removal and con- 
veyance of the much coveted-bog; we follow- 
ed, amused and pleased, as, in certain moods, 
physical and mental, people are pleased and 
amused at self-imposed difficulties, down the 
abrupt and broken descent ; and for some time 
the process of digging among the mould at 
the edge of the bank went steadily on. 

In a few minutes, however Dick, whose 
quick and restless eye was never long bent on 
any single object, most of all when that object 
presented itself in the form of work, ex- 
claimed to his comrade, " Look at those chil- 
dren wandering about amongst the firs, like 
the babes in the wood in the old ballad. 
What can they be about]" And looking in 
the direction to which he pointed, we saw, 
amidst the gloomy fir ])lantations, which form- 
ed a dark and massive border nearly round the 
Moss, our old friends Harry and Bessy Leigh, 
collecting, as it seemed, the fir cones with 
which the ground was strewed and depositing 
them carefully in a large basket. 

A manful shout from my companion soon 
brought the children to our side — good, busy, 
cheerful, and healthy-looking as ever, and 
marvellously improved in the matter of equip- 
ment. Harry had been promoted to a cap, 
which added the grace of a flourish to his 
bow; Bessy had added the luxury of a pin- 
afore to her nondescript garments; and hotli 
pairs of little feet were advanced to the certain 
dignity, although somewhat equivocal comfort, 
of shoes and stockings. 

The world had gone well with them, and 
with their parents. The house was built. 
Upon remounting the hill, and advancing a 
little fa'lher into the centre of the Moss, we 
saw the comfortable low-browed cottage, full 
of light and shadow, of juttings out, and cor- 



ners and angles of every sort and description, 
with a garden stretching along the side, back-; 
ed and sheltered by the tall impenetrable plan- [ 
tation, a wall of trees, against whose dark 
masses a wreath of light smoke was curling, I 
whose fragrance seemed really to perfume the 1 
winter air. The pig had been bought, fatted, i 
and killed ; but other pigs were inhabiting the 
sty, almost as large as their former dwelling, j 
which stood at the end of their garden ; and | 
the children told with honest joy how all this 
prosperity had come about. Their father, 
taking some brooms to my kind friend Lady 
Denys, had seen some of the ornamental 
baskets used for flowers upon a lawn, and had 
been struck with the fancy of trying to make 
some, decorated with fir cones; and he had 
been so successful in this profitable manufac- 
ture, that he had more orders than he could 
execute. Lady Denys had also, with charac- 
teristic benevolence, put the children to her 
Sunday-school. One misfortune had a little 
overshadowed the sunshine. Squire Benson 
had died, and the consent to the erection of 
the cottage being only verbal, the attorney 
who managed for the infant heir, a ward in 
Chancery, had claimed the property. But the 
matter had been compromised upon the pay- 
ment of such a rent as the present prospects 
of the family would fairly allow. Besides 
collecting fir cones for the baskets, they pick- 
ed up all they could in that pine forest, (for it 
was little less,) and sold such as were dis- 
coloured, or otherwise unfit for working up, to 
Lady Denys and other persons who liked the 
fine aromatic odour of these the pleasantest of 
pastilles, in their dressing-room or drawing- 
room fires. " Did I like the smell 1 We 
had a cart there — might they bring us a ham- 
per-fuin" And it was with great difiiculty 
that a trifling present (for we did not think of 
offering money as payment) could be forced 
upon the grateful children. "We," they said, 
" had been their first friends." For what 
very small assistance the poor are often deep- 
ly, permanently thankful ! Well says the 
great poet — 

"I've heard of hearts unkind, pood deeds 
With ill deeds slill reluming; 
Alas, the gratitude of man 
Hath oflener left me mourning !" 

VVORDSWORTII. 

Again for above a year we lost sight of our 
little favourites, for such they were with both 
of us ; though absence, indisposition, busi- 
ness, company — engagements, in short, of 
many sorts — combined to keep us from the 
Moss for u|)wards of a twelvemonth. Early 
in the succeeding April, however, it happened 
that, discussing with some morning visiters 
the course of a beautiful winding brook, (one 
of the tributaries to the Loddon, which bright 
and brimming river has nearly as many 
sources as the Nile,) one of them observed 
that the well-head was in Lanton Wood, and , 



THE GROUND-ASH. 



519 



that it was a bit of scenery more like the 
burns of the North Countrie (my visiter was 
a Northumbrian) than anything he had seen in 
the south. Surely I had seen it? I was half 
ashamed to confess that I had not — (how often 
are we obflged to confess that we have not 
seen the beauties which lie close to our doors, 
too near for observation !) — and the next day 
proving fine, I determined to repair my omis- 
sion. 

It was a soft balmy April morning, just at 
that point of the flowery spring when violets 
and primroses are lingering under the northern 
hedgerows, and cowslips and orchises peeping 
out upon sunny banks. My driver was the 
clever, shrewd, arch boy Dick ; and the first 
part of our way lay along the green winding 
lanes which lead to Everly; we then turned 
to the left, and putting up our phaeton at a 
small farm-house, where my attendant (who 
found acquaintances everywhere) was intimate, 
we proceeded to the wood ; Dick accompany- 
ing me, carrying my flower-basket, opening 
the gates, and taking care of my dog Dash, a 
very beautiful thorough-bred Old English span- 
iel, who was a little apt, when he got into a 
wood, to run after the game, and forget to come 
out again. 

I have seldom seen any thing in woodland 
scenery more picturesque and attractive than 
the old coppice of Lanton, on that soft and 
balmy April morning. The underwood was 
nearly cut, and bundles of long split poles for 
hooping barrels were piled together against 
the tall oak trees, bursting with their sap ; 
whilst piles of fagots were built up in other 
parts of the copse, and one or two -saw-pits, 
with light open sheds erected over them, 
whence issued the measured sound of the saw 
and the occasional voices of the workmen, 
almost concealed by their subterranean posi- 
tion, were placed in the hollows. At the far 
side of the coppice, the operation of hewing 
down the underwood was still proceeding, and 
the sharp strokes of the axe and the bill, soft- 
ened by distance, came across the monotonous 
jar of the never-ceasing saw. 

The surface of the ground was prettily tum- 
bled about, comprehending as pleasant a va- 
riety of hill and dale as could well be com- 
prised in some thirty acres. It declined, how- 
ever, generally speaking, towards the centre 
of the coppice, along which a small, very 
small rivulet, scarcely more than a runlet, 
wound its way in a thousand graceful mean- 
ders. Tracking upward the course of the 
little stream, we soon arrived at that which 
had been the ostensible object of our drive — 
the spot whence it sprung. 

It was a steep irregular acclivity on the 
highest side of the wood, a mound, I had al- 
most said a rock, of earth, cloven in two about 
the middle, but with so narrow a fissure that 
the brushwood which grew on either side 
nearly filled up the opening, so that the source 



of the spring still remained concealed, although 
the rapid gushing of the water made a plea- 
sant music in that pleasant place; and here 
and there a sunbeam, striking upon the spark- 
ling stream, shone with a bright and glancing 
light amidst the dark ivies, and brambles, and 
mossy stumps of trees, that grew around. 

This mound had apparently been cut a year 
or two ago, so that it presented an appearance 
of mingled wildness and gaiety, that contrasted 
very agreeably with the rest of the coppice ; 
whose trodden-down flowers I had grieved 
over, even whilst admiring the picturesque 
effect of the woodcutters and their several 
operations. Here, however, reigned the flow- 
ery spring in all her glory. Violets, pansies, 
orchises, oxslips, the elegant wood-sorrel, the 
delicate wood anemone, and the enamelled 
wild hyacinth, were sprinkled profusely 
amongst the mosses, and lichens, and dead 
leaves, which formed so rich a carpet beneath 
our feet. Primroses, above all, were there of 
almost every hue, from the rare and pearly 
white, to the deepest pinkish purple, coloured 
by some diversity of soil, the pretty freak of 
nature's gardening; whilst the common yel- 
low blossom — commonest and prettiest of all 
— peeped out from amongst the boughs in the 
stump of an old willow, like (to borrow the 
simile of a dear friend, now no more) a canary 
bird from its cage. The wild geranium was 
already showing its pink stem and scarlet- 
edged leaves, themselves almost gorgeous 
enough to pass for flowers; the periwinkle, 
with its wreaths of shining foliage, was hang- 
ing in garlands over the precipitous descent ; 
and the lily of the valley, the fragrant wood- 
roof, and the silvery wild garlic, were just 
peeping from the earth in the most sheltered 
nooks. Charmed to find myself surrounded 
by so much beauty, I had scrambled, with 
much ado, to the top of the woody cliff, (no 
other word can convey an idea of its precipi- 
tous abruptness,) and was vainly attempting 
to trace by my eye the actual course of the 
spring, which was, by the clearest evidence 
of sound, gushing from the fount many feet 
below me; when a peculiar whistle of delight 
(for whistling was to Dick, although no ordi- 
nary proficient in our common tongue, another 
language,) and a tremendous scrambling 
amongst the bushes, gave token that my faith- 
ful attendant had met with something as agree- 
able to his fancy, as the primroses and orchises 
had proved to mine. 

Guided by a repetition of the whistle, I 
soon saw my trusty adherent spanning the 
chasm like a Colossus, one foot on one bank, 
the other on the opposite — each of which ap- 
peared to me to be resting, so to say, on no- 
thing — tugging away at a long twig that grew 
on the brink of the precipice, and exceedingly 
likely to resolve the inquiry as to the source 
of the Loddon, by plumping souse into the 
fountain-head. I, of course, called out to 



520 



/COUNTRY STORIES. 



warn him ; and he equally, of course, went 
on with his labour witliout pnyino; the slightest 
attention to my caution. On the contrary, 
having possessed himself of one straight slen- 
der twig, which, to my great astonishment, 
he wound round his fingers, and deposited in 
his pocket, as one should do by a bit of pack- 
thread, he apparently, during the operation, 
caught sight of another. Testifying his de- 
light by a second whistle, which, having his 
knife in his mouth, one wonders how he could 
accomplish; and scrambling with the fearless 
daring of a monkey up the perpendicular bank, 
supported by strings of ivy, or ledges of roots, 
and clinging by hand and foot to the frail 
bramble or the slippery moss, leaping like a 
squirrel from bough to hough, and yet, by 
happy boldness, escaping all danger, he at- 
tained his object as easily as if he had been 
upon level ground. Three, four, five times 
was the knowing, joyous, triumphant whistle 
sounded, and every time with a fresh peril and 
afresh escape. At last, the young gentleman, 
panting and breathless, stood at my side, and 
I began to question him as to the treasure he 
had been pursuing. 

"It's the ground-ash^ ma'am," responded 
master Dick, taking one of the coils from his 
pocket; "the best riding-switch in the world. 
All the whips that ever were made are nothing 
to it. Only see how strong it is, how light, 
and how supple ! You may twist it a thou- 
sand ways without breaking. It won't break, 
do what you will. Each of these, now, is 
worth half-a-crown or three shillings, for they 
are the scarcest things possible. They grov/ 
up at a little distance from the root of an old 
tree, like a sucker from a rose-bush. Great 
luck, indeed !" continued Dick, putting up his 
treasure with another joyful whistle; "it was 
but t'other day that Jack Barlow offered me 
half-a-guinea for four, if I could but come by 
them. I shall certainly keep the best, though, 
for myself — unless ma'am, you would be 
pleased to accept it for the purpose of whip- 
ping Dash." Whipping Dash ! ! ! Well 
have I said that Dick was as saucy as a lady's 
page or a king's jester. Talk of whipping 
Dash ! W^hy, the young gentleman knew 
perfectly well that I had rather be whipt my- 
self twenty times over. The very sound 
seemed a profanation. Whip my Dash ! Of 
course I read master Dick a lecture for this 
irreverent mention of my pet, who, poor fel- 
low, hearing his name called in question, 
came up in all innocence to fondle me ; to 
which grave remonstrance the hopeful youth 
replied by another whistle, half of penitence, 
half of amusement. 

These discourses brontjht us to the bottom 
of the mound, and turning round a clump of 
hawthorn and holly, we espied a little damsel 
with a basket at her side, and a large knife in 
her hand, carefully digging up a large root of 



white primroses, and immediately recognised 
my old acquaintance, Bessy Leigh. 

She was, as before, clean and healthy, and I 
tidy, and unaffectedly glad to see me; but the j 
joyousness and buoyancy which had made so I 
much of her original charm, were greatly di- j 
minished. It was clear that poor Bessy had ' 
suffered worse griefs than those of cold and 
hunger; and upon questioning her, so it turned j 
out. j 

Her father had died, and her mother had 
been ill, and the long hard winter had been I 
hard to get through; and then the rent had | 
come upon her, and the steward (for the young j 
gentleman himself was a minor) had threat-'; 
ened to turn them out if it were not paid to a j 
day — the very next day after that on which 
we were speaking; and her mother had been 
afraid they must go to the workhouse, which 
would have been a sad thing, because now 
she had got so much washing to do, and Harry 
was so clever at basket-making, that there 
was every chance, this rent once paid, of their 
getting on comfortably. " And the rent will 
be paid now, ma'am, thank God !" added 
Bessy, her sweet face brightening; " for we 
want only a guinea of the whole sum, and ■ 
Lady Denys has employed me to get scarce 
wild-flowers for her wood, and has promised | 
me half-a-guinea for what I have carried her, ! 
and this last parcel, which I am to take to the ' 
lodge to-night; and Mr. John Barlow, her 
groom, has oiTered Harry twelve-and-sixpence 
for five ground-ashes that Harry has been so 
lucky as to find by the spring, and Harry is 
gone to cut them : so that now we shall get 
on bravely, and mother need not fret any Ion- j 
ger. I hope no harm will befall Harry in get- j 
ting the ground-ash, though, for it's a noted j 
dangerous place. But he 's a careful boy. "■ | 

Just at this point of her little speech, poor 
Bessy was interrupted by her brother, who 
ran down the declivity exclaiming, "They're 
gone, Bessy ! — they're gone! somebody has 
taken them ! the ground-ashes are gone !" 

Dick put his hand irresolutely to his pocket, 
and then, -uttering a dismal whistle, pulled it 
resolutely out again, with a hardness, or an 
affectation of hardness, common to all lads, 
from the prince to the stable-boy. 

I also put my hand into my pocket, and 
found, with the deep disappointment which 
often punishes such carelessness, that I had 
left my purse at home. All tiiat I could do, 
therefore, was to bid the poor children be com- 
forted, and ascertain at what time Bessy in- 
tended to take her roots, which in the midst 
of her distress she continued to dig up, to my j 
excellent friend Lady Denys. I then, exhort- 
ing them to hope the best, made my way 
quick!}' out of the wood. 

Arriving at the gate, I missed my attendant. 
Before, however, I had reached the farm at 
which we had left our phaeton, I heard his 



MR. JOSEPH HANSON, THE HABERDASHER. 



521 



crayest and most triumjiliant whistle behind 
me. Thiiikinir of the poor oliildren, it jarred 
upon my feeliixjfs, " Where have you been 
loitering-, Sirl" I asked, in a sterner voice 
than he had probably ever heard from me be- 
fore. 

"Where have I been ?" replied he; " (jiv- 
intj little Harry the around-ashes, to be sure : 
I felt just as if 1 had stolen them. And now, 
I do believe," continued he, with a prodigious 
burst of whistliniT, which seemed to me as 
melodious as the song of tlie nightingale, " I 
do believe," quoth Dick, " that I am happier 
than they are. I would not have kept those 
ground-ashes, no, not for fifty pounds !" 



MR. JOSEPH HANSON, THE 
HABERDASHER. 

These are good days for great heroes ; so 
far at least as regards the general spread and 
universal diffusion of celebrity. In the mat- 
ter of fame, indeed, that grand bill upon pos- 
terity which is to be found written in the page 
of history, and the changes of empires, Alex- 
ander may, for aught I know, be nearly on a 
par with the Duke of Wellington; but in point 
of local and temporary tributes to reputation, 
the great ancient, king though he were, must 
have been far behind the great modern. Even 
that comparatively recent warrior, the Duke 
of Marlborough, made but a slight approach 
to the popular honours paid to the conqueror 
of Napoleon. A few alehouse signs and the 
ballad of " ■\Iarlhrook s'en va't en guerre," 
(for we are not talking now of the titles, and 
pensions, and palaces, granted to him by the 
Sovereign and the Parliament,) seem to have 
been the chief if not the only popular demon- 
strations vouchsafed by friends and enemies 
to the hero of Blenheim. 

The name of Wellington, on the other hand, 
is necessarily in every man's mouth at every 
hour of every day. He is the universal god- 
father of every novelty, whether in art, in lit- 
erature, or in science. Streets, bridges, places, 
crescents, terraces, and rail-ways, on the land ; 
steam-boats on the water; balloons in the air, 
are all distinguished by that honoured appel- 
lation. We live in Wellington squares, we 
travel in Wellington coaches, we dine in Wel- 
lington hotels, we are educated in Wellington 
establishments, and are clotlied from top to 
toe (that is to say the male half of the nation) 
in Wellington boots, Wellington cloaks, Wel- 
lington hats, each of which shall have been 
severally purchased at a warehouse bearing 
the same (listinguished title. 

Since every market town and almost every 
village in the kingdom, could boast a Wel- 
lington house, or a Waterloo house, emulous 
to catch some gilded ray from the blaze of 



their great namesake's glor)% it would have 
been strange indeed if the linen-drapers and 
haberdashers of our good town of Belford 
Regis had been so much in the rear of fashion 
as to neglect this easy method of putfing ofi" 
their wares. On the contrary, so much did 
our shopkeepers rely upon the intluence of an 
illustrious appellation, that they seemed to 
despair of success unless sheltered by the 
laurels of the great commander, and would 
press his name into the service, even after its 
accustomed and legitimate forms of use seem- 
ed exhausted. Accordingly we had not only 
a Wellington house and a Waterloo house, 
but a new Waterloo establishment, and a gen- 
uine and original Duke of Wellington ware- 
house. 

The new Waterloo establishment, a flashy, 
dashy shop in the market-])lace, occupying a 
considerable extent of frontage, and "con- 
ducted (as the advertisements have it) by Mr. 
Joseph Hanson, late of London," put forth by 
far the boldest pretensions of any magazine of 
finery and fripperj' in the town ; and it is Avith 
that magnificent ^iore, and with that only, that 
I intend to deal in the present story. 

If the celebrated Mr. PuflT, he of the Critic, 
who, although Sheridan probably borrowed 
the idea of that most amusing personage frona 
the auctioneers and picture-dealers of Foote's 
admirable farces, first reduced to system the 
art of profitable lying, setting forth methodic- 
ally (scienlifically it would be called in these 
days) the different genera and species of that 
flourishing craft — if IMr. Puff himself were 
to revisit this mortal stage, he would lift up 
his hands and e)'es in admiration and astonish- 
ment at the improvements which have taken 
place in the art from whence he took, or to 
which he gave, a name (for the fact is doubt- 
ful) the renowned art of Puffing! 

Talk of the progress of society, indeed ! of 
the march of intellect, and the diffusion of 
knowledge, of infant schools and adult col- 
leges, of gas-lights and rail-roads, of steam- 
boats and steam-coaches, of literature for no- 
thing, and science for less ! What are they and 
fifty other such knick-knacks compared with 
the vast strides made by this improving age 
in the grand art of pufTing? Nay, are they 
not for the most part mere implements and 
accessories of that mighty engine of trade? 
What is half the march of intellect, but puff- 
ery 7 Why do little children learn their letters 
at school, but that they maj- come hereafter to 
read pufi's at college'? Why but for the pro- 
pagation of puffs do honorary lecturers hold 
forth upon science, and gratuitous editors cir- 
culate literature? Are not gas-lights chiefly 
used for their illumination, and steam-boats 
for their speed ? And shall not history, which 
has given to one era the name of the age of 
gold, and has entitled another the age of silver, 
call this present nineteenth century the age of 
puffs ? 



44* 



3Q 



522 



COUNTRY STORIES. 



Take up the first thing upon your table, the 
newspaper for instance, or the magazine, the 
decorated drawing-box, the Brahma pen, and 
twenty to one bui a puff more or less direct 
shall lurk in the patent of the one, while a 
whole congeries of puffs shall swarm in bare 
and undisguised effrontery between the pages 
of the other. 

Walk into the streets; — and what meet you 
there] Puffs! puffs! puffs! From the dead 
walls, chalked over with recommendations to 
purchase Mr. Such-an-one's blacking, to the 
walking placard insinuating the excellences 
of Mr. VVhat-d'ye-eall-him's Cream Gin* — 
from the bright resplendent brass-knob, gar- 
nished with the significant words "Office 
Bell," beside the door of an obscure surveyor, 
to the spruce carriage of a newly-arrived phy- 
sician driving empty up and down the street, 
everything whether moveable or stationary is 
a puff. 

But shops form, of course, the chief locality 
of the craft of puffing. The getting off of 
goods is its grand aim and object. And of all 
shops those which are devoted to the thousand 
and one articles of female decoration, the few 
things which women do, and the many which 
they do not want, stand pre-eminent in this 
great art of the nineteenth century. 

Not to enter upon the grand manceuvres of 
the London establishments, the doors for car- 
riages to set down and the doors for carriages 
to take up, indicating an affluence of custom- 
ers, a degree of crowd and inconvenience 
equal to the King's Theatre on a Saturday 
night, or the queen's drawing-room on a birth- 
day, and attracting the whole female world by 
that which in a fashionable cause the whole 
female world loves so dearly, confusion, pres- 
sure, heat and noise; — to say nothing of those 
bold schemes which require the multitudes of 
the metropolis to afford them the slightest 
chance of success, we in our good boroucrh of 
Belford Regis, simple as it stands, had, as I 
have said, as pretty a show of speculating 
haberdashers as any country town of its inch- 
es could well desire; the most eminent of 
whom was beyond ail question or competition, 
the proprietor of the New Waterloo Establish- 
ment, Mr. .Joseph Hanson, late of London. 

His shop displayed, as I have already in- 
timated, one of the largest and showiest front- 
ages in the market-place, and had been distin- 



*He was a genius in his line (I had almost written 
an evil genius) who invented that rare epithet, liiat 
singular cotiibinatiori of'ilie sweetest and purest of all 
luxuries, tlui mast iiealliiriil and iiiiiocerit of daiuties, 
redolent ol assoeiaiion so rural and |ii)elical, with itie 
vdest abornuiations of great cities, the impure and 
disgusting source of misery and crime. Cream Ciiii ! 
The union of such words is really a desecration of 
one of nature's most genial gifts, as well as a burlesque 
on the charming old pastoral [loets; a flagrant oflence 
against morals, and against ihat wliicli in its highest 
sense may almost be considered a branch of morality 
— taste. 



guished by a greater number of occupants and 
a more raj)id succession of failures in the same 
line than any other in the town. 

The last tenant, save one, of that celebrated 
warehouse — the penultimate bankrupt — had 
followed the beaten road of puffing, and an- 
nounced his goods as the cheapest ever manu- 
factured. According to himself, his handbills, 
and his advertisements, everything contained 
in that shop was so very much under prime 
cost, that the more he sold the sooner he must 
be ruined. To hear him, you would expect 
not only that he should give his ribbons and 
muslins for nothing, but that he should offer 
you a premium for consenting to accept of 
them. Gloves, handkerchiefs, night-caps, 
gown-pieces, every article at the door and in 
the window was covered with tickets, each 
nearly as large as itself, tickets that might be 
read across the market-place; and towns-peo- 
ple and country-people came flocking round 
about, some to stare and some to buy. The 
starers were, however, it is to be presumed, 
more numerous than the buyers, for notwith- 
standing his tickets, his handbills, and his 
advertisements, in less than six months the 
advertiser had failed, and that stock, never, as 
its luckless owner used to say, approached 
for cheapness, was sold off at half its origitral 
price. 

Warned by his predecessor's fate, the next 
coiner adopted a newer and a nobler style of 
attracting public attention. He called himself 
a steady trader of the old school, abjured 
cheapness as synonymous with cheating, dis- 
claimed everything that savoured of a puff, 
denounced handbills and advertisements, and 
had not a ticket in his whole shop. He cited 
the high price of his articles as proofs of their 
goodness, and would have held himself dis- 
graced for ever if he had been detected in sell- 
ing a reasonable piece of goods. " He could 
not," he observed, "expect to attract the rab- 
ble by such a mode of transacting business; 
his aim was to secure a select body of custom- 
ers amongst the nobility and gentry, persons 
who looked to quality and durability in their 
purchases, and were capable of estimating the 
solid advantages of dealing with a tradesman 
who despised the trumpery artifices of the 
day." 

So high-minded a declaration, enforced too 
by much solemnity of utterance an-d appear- 
ance — the speaker being a solid, substantial, 
middle-aoed inan, equipped in a full suit of 
black, wilii a head nicely powdered, and a 
pen stuck behind his ear — such a declaration 
from so important a personage ought to liave 
succeeded ; but somehow or other it did not. 
His customers, gentle and siiuple, were more 
select than numerous, and in another six 
montlis the high-price man failed just as the 
low-price man had failed before him. 

Their successor, INIr. .Joseph Hanson, claiiu- 
ed to unite in his own person the several mar- 



MR. JOSEPH HANSON, THE HABERDASHER. 



523 



its of both his antecedents. Cheaper than the 

I clieapest, better, finer, more durable, than the 

best, nothing at all approaching his assortment 

of linen-drapery had, as he swore, and his head 

' shopman, Mr. Thomas Long, asseverated, ever 

I been seen before in the streets of Belford 

i Kesris ; and the oaths of the master and the 

I asseverations of the man, togrethcr with a very 

I grand display of fashions and finery, did really 

1 seem, in the first instance at least, to attract 

more customers than had of late visited those 

unfortunate premises. 

iMr. Joseph Hanson and Mr. Thomas Long 
were a pair admirably suited to the concern, 
and to one another. Each possessed pre-emi- 
nently the various requisites and qualifications 
in which the other happened to be deficient. 
Tall, slender, elderly, with a fine bald head, 
a mild countenance, a most insinuating address, 
and a general air of faded gentility, Mr. Thom- 
as Long was exactly the foreman to give re- 
spectability to his employer; whilst bold, flu- 
ent, rapid, loud, dashing in aspect and manner, 
with a great fund of animal spirits, and a prodi- 
gious stock of assurance and conceit, respect- 
ability was, to say the truth, the precise quali- 
fication which Mr. Joseph Hanson most 
needed. 

Then the good town of Belford being divid- 
ed, lilce most other country towns, into two 
prevailing factions, theological and political, 
the wortiiies whom I am attempting to de- 
scribe prudently endeavoured to catch all 
parties by embracing dilTerent sides; Mr. 
Joseph Hanson being a tory and high-church- 
man of the very first water, who showed his 
loyalty according to the most approved fashion, 
by abusing his Majesty's ministers as revolu- 
tionary, thwarting the town-council, getting 
ti|)sy at conservative dinners, and riding twen- 
ty miles to attend an eminent preacher who 
wielded in a neighbouring county all the thun- 
ders of orthodoxy; whilst the soft-spoken 
Mr. Thomas Long was a Dissenter and a radi- 
cal, who proved his allegiance to the house of 
Brunswick (for both claimed to be amongst 
the best wishers to the present dynasty and 
the reigning sovereign) by denouncing the 
government as weak and aristocratic, advoca- 
ting tiie abolition of the peerage, getting up 
an operative reform club, and going to chapel 
three times every Sunday. 

Tiiese measures succeeded so well, that the 
allotted six months (the general period of fail- 
ure in that concern) elapsed, and still found 
Mr. Joseph Hanson as flourishing as ever in 
manner, and apparently flourishing in trade; 
they stof)d him, too, in no small stead, in a 
matter which promised to be still more condu- 
cive to his prosperit}^ than buying and selling 
feminine gear, — in the grand matter (for Jo- 
seph jocosely professed to be a forlorn bache- 
lor upon the look-out for a wife) of a wealthy 
marriage. 

One of the most thrifty and thriving trades- 



men in the town of Belford, was old John 
Parsons, the tinman. His spacious shop, 
crowded with its glittering and rattling com- 
modities, pots, pans, kettles, meat-covers, in 
a word, the whole patterie de cuisine, was situ- 
ate in the narrow, inconvenient lane called 
Oriel Street, which I have already done myself 
the honour of introducing to the courteous read- 
er, standing betwixt a great chemist on one 
side, his windows filled with coloured jars, 
red, blue, and green, looking like painted 
glass, or like the fruit made of gems in Alad- 
din's garden, (I am as much taken myself with 
those jars in a chemist's window as ever was 
Miss Edgeworth's Rosamond,) and an emi- 
nent china warehouse on the other ; our tinman 
having the honour to be next-door neighbour 
to no less a lady than Mrs. Philadelphia Tyler. 
Many a thriving tradesman might be found in 
Oriel Street, and many a blooming damsel 
amongst the tradesmen's daughters ; but if 
the town gossip might be believed, the richest 
of all the rich shopkeepers was old John Par- 
sons, and the prettiest girl (even without refer- 
ence to her father's money-bags) was his fair 
daughter Harriet. 

John Parsons was one of those loud, violent, 
blustering, boisterous personages who always 
put me in mind of the description so often ap- 
pended to characters of that sort in the dra- 
matis personse of Beaumont and Fletcher's 
plays, where one constantly meets with Ernul- 
pho or Bertoldo, or some such Italianised ap- 
pellation, " an old angry gentleman." The 
" old angry gentleman" of the fine old drama- 
tists generally keeps the promise of the play- 
bills. He storms and rails during the whole 
five acts, scolding those the most whom he 
loves the best, making all around him uncom- 
fortable, and yet meaning fully to do right, and 
firmly convinced that he is himself the injured 
party : and after quarrelling with cause or 
without to the end of the comedy, makes 
friends all round at the conclusion; — a sort of 
person whose good intentions everybody ap- 
preciates, but from whose violence everybody 
that can is sure to get away. 

Now such men are just as common in the 
real work-a-day world as in the old drama ; and 
precisely such a man was John Parsons. 

His daughter was exactly the sort of crea- 
ture that such training was calculated to pro- 
duce; gentle, timid, shrinking, fond of her 
father, who indeed doted upon her, and 
would have sacrificed his whole substance, 
his right arm, his life, anything except his will 
or his humour, to give her a moment's plea- 
sure ; gratefully fond of her father, but yet 
more afraid than fond. 

The youngest and only surviving child of a 
large family, and brought up without a 
mother's care, since Mrs. Parsons had died in 
her infancy, there was a delicacy and fragility, 
a slenderness of form and transparency of com" 
plexion, which, added to her gentleness and 



524 



COUNTRY STORIES. 



modesty, gave an unexpected elegance to the 
tinman's daughter. A soft appealing voice, 
dove-like eyes, a smile rather sweet tlian gay, 
a constant desire to please, and a total uncon- 
sciousness of her own attractions, were 
amongst her chief characteristics. Some per- 
sons hold the theory that dissimilarity answers 
best in matrimony, and such persons would 
have found a most satisfactory contrast of ap- 
pearance, mind, and manner, between the fair 
Harriet and her dashing suitor. 

Besides this one great and distinguishing 
quality of assurance and vulgar pretension, 
which it is difficult to describe by any word 
shortof impudence, Mr. .Joseph Hanson was by 
no means calculated to please the eye of a dam- 
sel of seventeen, an age at which a man who 
owned to five-and-tliirty, and who looked and 
most probably was at least ten years farther ad- 
vanced on thejourney of life, would not fail to be 
set down as a confirmed old bachelor. He had, 
too, a large mouth, full of irregular teeth, a head 
of hair which bore a great resemblance to a wig, 
and a suspifion of a squint (for it did not quite 
amount to that odious deformity), which add- 
ed a most sinister expression to his counte- 
nance. Harriet Parsons could not abide him ; 
and I verily believe she would have disliked 
him just as much, though a certain Frederick 
Mallet had never been in existence. 

How herfather, a dissenter, a radical, and a 
steady tradesman of the old school, who hated 
puffs and puffery, and finery and fashion, 
came to be taken in by a man opposed to, him 
in religion and politics, in action and in speech, 
was a riddle that puzzled half the gossips in 
Belford. It happened through a mutual en- 
mity, often, (to tell an unpalatable trnth of 
poor human nature) a stronger bond of union 
than a mutual affection. 

Thus it fell out. 

Amongst the reforms carried into effect by 
the town-council, whereof John Parsons was 
a leading member, was the establishment of 
an efficient new police to replace tlie incapable 
old watchmen, who had hitherto been the sole 
guardians of life and property in our ancient 
borough. As far as the principle went, the 
liberal party were united and triumphant. 
They split, as liberals are apt to split, upon 
the rock of detail. It so happened that a 
turni)ike, belonging to one of the roads lead- 
ing into Belford, had been removed, by order 
of the commissioners, half a mile farther from 
the town; — half a mile indeed beyond the 
town boundary; and although there were only 
three houses, one a beer-shop, and the two 
others small tenements inhal)ited by labouring 
people, between the site of the old turnpike at 
the end of Prince's Street, and that of the new, 
at the King's Head Pond, our friend the tin- 
man, who was nothing if not crotchety, in- 
sisted with so much pertinacity upon the 
perambulation of the blue-coated officials ap- 
pointed for that beat, being extended aloncr 



the highway for the distance aforesaid, that 
the whole council were set together by the 
ears, and the measure had very nearly gone by 
the board in consequence. The imminence of 
the peril saved them. The danger of rein- 
stating the ancient Dogberrys of the watch, 
and still worse, of giving a triumph to the 
tories, brought the reformers to their senses — 
all except the man of tin, who, becoming only 
the more confirmed in his own opinion as ally 
after ally fell off from him, persisted in divid- 
ing the council six different times, and had the 
gratification of finding himself on each of the 
three last divisions, in a minority of one. 
He was about to bring forward the question 
upon a seventh occasion, when a hint as to the 
propriety in such case of moving a vote of 
censure against him for wasting the time of 
the board, caused him to secede from the 
council in a fury, and to quarrel with the 
whole municipal body, from the mayor down- 
ward. 

Now the mayor, a respectable and intelli- 
gent attorney, heretofore John Parsons's most 
intimate friend, happened to have been brought 
publicly and privately into collision with Mr. 
Joseph Hanson, who, delighted to find an oc- 
casion on which he might at once indulge his 
aversion to the civic dignitary, and promote 
the interest of his love-suit, was not content 
with denouncing the corporation de vive voix, 
but wrote three grandiloquent letters to the 
Belford Courant, in which he demonstrated 
that the welfare of the borough, and the safety 
of the constitution, depended upon the police 
parading regularly, by day and by night, 
along the high road to the King's Head Pond, 
and that none hut a pettifogging chief magis- 
trate, and an incapable town-council, corrupt 
tools of a corrupt administration, could have 
had the gratuitous audacity to cause the police- 
man to turn at the top of Prince's Street, 
thereby leaving the persons and property of 
his majesty's liege subjects unprotected and 
uncared for. He enlarged upon the fact of 
the tenements in question being occupied by 
agricultural labourers, a class over wliom, as 
he observed, the demagogues now in power 
delighted to tyrannize; and concluded his 
flourishing appeal to the conservatives of the 
borough, the county, and the empire at large, 
by a threat of getting up a petition against the 
council, and bringing the whole aiiair before 
the two Houses of Parliament. 

Although this precious epistle was signed 
Amiens Patriae, the writer was far too proud 
of his production to entrench hin)self ijchind 
the inglorious shield of a fictitious signature, 
and as the mayor, professionally indionant at 
tlie- epithet pettifogging, threatened both the 
editor of the Belford Courant and Mr. Joseph 
Hanson with an action for libel, it followed, as 
matter of course, that John Parsons not only 
thought the haberdasher the most able and 
honest man in the borough, but regarded him 



MR. JOSEPH HANSON, THE HABERDASHER. 



525 



as the champion, if not the martyr, of his 
cause, and one wl .a deserved everything that 
he had to hestow, even to the hand and portion 
of the pretty Harriet. 

AfFiiirs were in this posture, when one fine 
morniiiij the chief magistrate of Belford en- 
tered the tinman's shop. 

" Mr. Parsons," said the worthy dignitary, 
in a very conciliatory tone, " you may he as 
angry with me as you like, hut I find fiJom our 
good vicar that the fellow Hanson has applied 
to him for a license, and I cannot let you throw 
away my little friend Harriet without giving 
you warning, that a long and bitter repentance 
will follow such a union. There are emergen- 
cies in which it becomes a duty to throw aside 
professional niceties, and to sacrifice etiquette 
to the interests of an old friendship; and I 
tell you, as a prudent man, that I know of my 
own knowledge that this intended son-in-law 
of yours will be arrested before the wedding- 
day." 

" I '11 bail him," said John Parsons, stoutly. 

" He is not worth a farthing," quoth the 
chief magistrate. 

" I shall give him ten thousand pounds with 
my daughter," answered the man of pots and 
kettles. 

"I doubt if ten thousand pounds will pay 
his just debts," rejoined the mayor. 

"Then I'll give him twenty," res^)onded 
the tinman. 

" He has failed in five different places with- 
in the last five years," persisted the pertina- 
cious adviser; " has run away from his credit- 
ors. Heaven knows how often; has .taken the 
benefit of the Act time after time! You 
would not give your own sweet Harriet, the 
best and prettiest girl in the county, to an ad- 
venturer, the history of whose life is to be 
found in the Gazette and the Insolvent Court, 
and who is a high churchman and a tory to 
boot. Surely you would not fling away your 
daughter and your honest earnings upon a man 
of notorious bad character, with whom you 
have not an opinion or a prejudice in common] 
Just think what the other party will say!" 

"I'll tell you what, Mr. Mallet or Mr. 
Mayor, if you prefer the sound of your new 
dignity," broke out John Parsons, in a fury, 
" I shall do what I like with my money and 
my daughter, without consulting you, or car- 
ing what anybodj"^ may chance to say, whether 
whig or tory. For my part, I think there's 
little to choose between them. One side's as 
bad as the other. Tyrants in office and pa- 
triots out. If Hanson is a conservative and a 
churchman, his foreman is a radical and a dis- 
senter; and they neither of them pretend to 
dictate to their betters, which is more than I 
can say of some who call themselves reform- 
ers. Once for all, I tell you that he shall 
marry my Harriet, and that your nephew 
sha'n't : so now you may arrest him as soon 
as you like. I 'm not to be managed here. 



however you and your tools may carry matters 
at the Town Hall. An Englishman's house 
is his castle." 

"Well," said Mr, Mallet, "I am going. 
God knows I came out of old friendship to- 
wards yourself, and sincere aflfection for the 
dear girl your daughter. As to my nephew, 
besides that I firmly believe the young people 
like each other, I know him to be as steady a 
lad as ever drew a conveyance ; and with 
what his father has left him, and what I can 
give him, to say nothing of Ids professional 
prospects, he would be a fit match for Harriet 
as far as money goes. But if you are deter- 
mined — " 

"I am determined," roared John Parsons. 
" Before next week is out, Joseph Hanson 
shall be my son-in-law. And now, sir, I ad- 
vise you to go and drill your police." And 
the tinman retired from behind the counter into 
the interior of his dwelling, (for this colloquy 
had taken place in the shop,) banging the door 
behind him with a violence that really shook 
the house. 

" Poor pretty Harriet !" thought the com- 
passionate chief magistrate, "and poor Frede- 
rick too ! The end of next week ! This is 
only Monday; something may turn up in that 
time; we must make inquiries ; I had feared 
that it would have been earlier. My old 
techy friend here is just the man to have 
arranged the marriage one day, and had the 
ceremony performed the next. We must look 
about us." And full of such cogitations, the 
mayor returned to his habitation. 

On the Thursday week after this conversa- 
tion a coach drew up, about eight o'clock in 
the morning, at the gate of St. Stephen's 
churchyard, and Mr. Joseph Hanson, in all 
the gloss of bridal finery, newly clad from 
top to toe, smiling and smirking at every in- 
stant, jumped down, followed by John Par- 
sons, and prepared to hand out his reluctant 
bride elect, when Mr. Mallet, with a showy- 
looking middle-aged woman (a sort of femi- 
nine of Joseph himself) hanging upon his 
arm, accosted our friend the tinman. 

" Stop !" cried the mayor. 

"What for]" inquired John Parsons. "If 
it 's a debt, I 've already told you that I '11 be 
his bail." 

" It is a debt," responded the chief magis- 
trate ; "and one that luckily he must pay, 
and not you. Three years ago he married 
this lady at Liverpool. We have the certifi- 
cate and all the documents." 

"Yes, sir," added the injured fair one; 
"and I find that he has another wife in Dub- 
lin, and a third at Manchester. I have heard, 
too, that he ran away with a young lady to 
Scotland ; but that don't count, as he was 
under age." 

" Four wives !" ejaculated .Tohn Parsons, in 
a transport of astonishment and indigtiation. 
"Why the man is an absolute great Turk! 



526 



COUNTRY STORIES. 



But the thing's impossible. Come and an- 
swer for yourself, Joseph Hanson." 

And the tinman turned to look for his in- 
tended son-in-law ; bnt friofhtened at the sight 
of the fair claimant of his hand and person, 
the bridegroom had absconded, and John Par- 
sons and the mayor had nothing for it but to 
rejoin the pretty Harriet, smiling through her 
tears as she sate with her bridemaiden in the 
coach at the churchyard-gate. 

" Well ; it's a great escape! and we're for 
ever obliged to you, Mr. Mayor. Don't cry 
any more, Harriet. If Frederick was but 

here, why, in spite of the policeman but 

a week hence will do as well ; and I am be- 
ginning to be of Harriet's mind, that even if 
he had not had three or four wives, we should 
be well off to be fairly rid of Mr, Joseph Han- 
son, the puffing haberdasher." 



THE BEAUTY OF THE VILLAGE. 

Three years ago, Hannah Colson was, be- 
yond all manner of dispute, the prettiest girl 
in Aberleigh. It was a rare u"nion of face, 
form, complexion, and expression. Of that 
just height, which, although certainly tall, 
would yet hardly be called so, her figure 
united to its youthful roundness, and still 
more youthful lightness, an airy flexibility, a 
bounding grace, and, when in repose, a gentle 
dignity, which alternately reminded one of a 
fawn bounding through the forest, or a swan 
at rest upon the lake. A sculptor would have 
modelled her for the youngest of the Graces ; 
whilst a painter, caught by the bright colour- 
ing of that fair blooming face, the white fore- 
head so vividly contrasted by the masses of 
dark curls, the jet-black eyebrows, and long 
rich eyelashes which shaded her finely-cut 
grey eye, and the pearly teeth disclosed by 
tlie scarlet lips, whose every movement was 
an unconscious smile, would doubtless have 
selected her for the very goddess of youth. 
Beyond all question, Hannah Colson, at 
eighteen, was the beauty of Aberleigh, and, 
unfortunately, no inhabitant of that populous 
village was more thoroughly aware that she 
was so than the fair damsel herself. 

Her late father, good Master Colson, had 
been all his life a respectable and flourishing 
master bricklayer in the place. Many a man 
with less pretensions to the title would call 
himself a builder now-a-days, or, "by'rlady," 
an architect, and put forth a flaming card, 
vaunting his accomplishments in the mason's 
craft, his skill in plans and elevations, and his 
unparalleled dispatch and cheapness in carry- 
ing his designs into execution. But John 
Colson was no new-fangled personage. A 
plain honest tradesman was our bricklayer, 
and thoroughly of the old school ; one who 



did his duty to his employers with punctual 
industry, who was never above his calling, a 
good son, a good brother, a good husband, and 
an excellent father, who trained up a large 
family in the way they should go, and never 
entered a public-house in his life. 

The loss of this invaluable parent, about 
three years before, had been the only grief 
that Hannah Colson had known. But as her 
father,«although loving her with the mixture 
of pride and fondness, which her remarkable 
beauty, her delightful gaiety, and the accident 
of her being by many years the youngest of 
his children, rendered natural, if not excusa- 
ble, had yet been the only one about her, who 
had discernment to perceive, and authority to 
check her little ebullitions of vanity and self- 
will, she felt, as soon as the first natural tears 
were wiped away, that a restraint had been 
removed, and, scarcely knowing why, was too 
soon consoled for the greatest misfortune that 
could possibly have befallen one so danger- 
ously gifted. Her mother was a kind, good, 
gentle woman, who having by necessit}' 
worked hard in the early part of her life, still 
continued the practice, partly from inclina- 
tion, partly from a sense of duty, and partly 
from mere habit ; and amongst her many ex- 
cellent qualities had the Ailie Dinmont pro- 
pensity of giving all her children their own 
way,*especially this the blooming cadette of 
the family : and her eldest brother, a bachelor, 
— who, succeeding to his father's business, 
took his place as master of the house, retain- 
ing his surviving parent as its mistress, and 
his pretty sister as something between a play- 
thing and a pet; both in their several ways 
seemed vying with each other as to which 
should most thoroughly humour and indulge 
the lovely creature whom nature had already 
done her best or her worst to spoil to their 
hands. 

Her other brothers and sisters, married and 
dispersed over the country, had of course no 
authority, even if they had wished to assume 
anything like power over the graceful and 
charming young woman whom every one be- 
longing to her felt to he an object of pride 
and delight ; so that their presents, and ca- 
resses, and smiling invitations, aided in 
strengthening Hannah's impression, poor girl 
though she were, that her little world, the 
small horizon of her own secluded hamlet, 
was made for her, and for her only ; and if 
this persuasion had needed any additional 
confirmation, such confirmation would have 
been found in the universal admiration of the 
village beaux, and the envy, almost as gene- 
ral, of the village belles, — particularly in the 



* " Eh, poor things, what else have I to give them?'' 
This reply of Ailie Dinmont, and indeed her whole 
sweet character, short though it be, has always 
seemed to me the finest sketch in liie Waverley Ao- 
vels — finer even, because so mucli tenderer, than the 
bold and honest Jeannie Deans. 



THE BEAUTY OF THE VILLAGE, 



527 



iatter; the envy of rival beauties being, as 
everybody knows, of all flatteries the most 
piquant and seducing — in a word, the most 
genuine and real. 

The only person from whom Hannah Col- 
son ever heard that rare thing called truth, 
was her friend and school-fellow, Lucy Mea- 
dows, a young woman two or three years 
older than herself in actual age, and half a 
lifetime more advanced in the best fruits of 
mature age, in clearness of judgment, and 
steadiness of conduct. 

A greater contrast of manner and character 
than that exhibited between the light-headed 
and light-hearted beauty, and her mild and 
quiet companion, could hardly be imagined. 
Lucy was pretty too, very pretty ; but it was 
the calm, sedate, composed expression, the 
pure alabaster complexion, the soft dove-like 
eye, the general harmony and delicacy of fea- 
ture and of form that we so often observe in 
a feim\e Friend ; and her low gentle voice, 
her retiring deportment, and Quaker-like sim- 
plicity of dress, were in perfect accordance 
with that impression. Her clearness of in- 
tellect, also, and rectitude of understanding, 
were such as are often found amongst that in- 
telligent race of people; although there was 
an intuitive perception of character and mo- 
tive, a fineness of observation under that de- 
mure and modest exterior, that, if Lucy had 
ever in her life been ten miles from her native 
village, might have been called knowledge of 
the world. 

How she came by this quality, which some 
women seem to possess by instinct. Heaven 
only knows ! Her early gravity of' manner, 
and sedateness of mind, might be more easily 
accounted for. Poor Lucy was an orphan, 
and had from the age of fourteen been called 
upon to keep house for her only brother, a 
young man of seven or eight-and-twenty, well 
to do in the world, who, as the principal car- 
penter of Aberleigh, had had much intercourse 
with the Colsons in the way of business, and 
was on the most friendly terms with the whole 
family. 

With one branch of that family, James 
Meadows would fain have been upon terms 
nearer and dearer than those of friendship. 
Even before John Colson's death, his love for 
Hannah, although not openly avowed, had 
been the object of remark to the whole vil- 
lage; and it is certain that the fond and anx- 
ious father found his last moments soothed by 
the hope that the happiness and prosperity of 
his favourite child were secured by the at- 
tachment of one so excellent in character and 
respectable in situation. 

James Meadows was indeed a man to whom 
any father would have confided his dearest 
and loveliest daughter with untroubled con- 
fidence. He joined to the calm good sense 
and quiet observation that distinguished his 
sister, an inventive and constructive power, 



which, turned as it was to the purposes of his 
own trade, rendered him a most ingenious and 
dexterous mechanic; and which only needed 
the spur of emulation, or the still more active 
stimulus of personal ambition, to procure for 
him high distinction in any line to which his 
extraordinary faculty of invention and com- 
bination might be applied. 

Ambition, however, he had none. He was 
happily quite free from that tormenting task- 
master, who, next perhaps to praise, makes 
the severest demand on human faculty and 
human labour. To maintain in the spot where 
he was born, the character for honesty, inde- 
pendence, and industry, that his father had 
borne before him ; to support in credit and 
comfort the sister whom he loved so well, and 
one whom he loved still better, formed the 
safe and humble boundary of his wishes. But 
with the contrariety with which fortune so 
often seems to pursue those who do not follow 
her, his success far outstripped his moderate 
desires. The neighbouring gentlemen soon 
discovered his talent. Employment poured 
in upon him. His taste proved to be equal to 
his skill ; and from the ornamental out-door 
work — the Swiss cottages, and fancy dairies, 
the treillage and the rustic seats belonging to 
a great country place, — to the most delicate 
mouldings of the boudoir and the saloon, no- 
thing went well that wanted the guiding eye 
and finishing hand of James Meadows. The 
best workmen were proud to be employed by 
him ; the most respectable yeomen offered 
their sons as his apprentices ; and without 
any such design on his part, our village car- 
penter was in a fair way to become one of the 
wealthiest tradesmen in the county. 

His personal character and peculiarly mo- 
dest and respectful manners, contributed not a 
little to his popularity with his superiors. He 
was a fair, slender young man, with a pale 
complexion, a composed, but expressive, coun- 
tenance, a thoughtful, deep-set, grey eye, and 
a remarkably fine head, with a profusion of 
curling brown hair, which gave a distinguished 
air to his whole appearance ; so that he was 
constantly taken by strangers for a gentleman ; 
and the gentle propriety with which he was 
accustomed to correct the mistake, was such 
as seldom failed to heighten the estimation of 
the individual, whilst it set them right as to 
his station. Hannah Colson, with all her 
youthful charms, might think herself a lucky 
damsel in securing the affections of such a 
lover as this; and that she did actually think 
so was the persuasion of those who knew 
her best — of her mother, of her brother Wil- 
liam, and of Lucy Meadows; although the 
coy, fantastic beauty, shy as a ring-dove, wild 
as a fawn of the forest, was so far from con- 
fessing any return of affection, that, whilst 
suffering his attentions, and accepting his es- 
cort to the rural gaieties which beseemed her 
age, she would now profess, even while hang- 



528 



COUNTRY STORIES. 



ing on his arm, her intention of never marry- 
ing, and now coquet before his eyes with some 
passing admirer whom she had never seen 
before. She took good care, however, not to 
go too far in her coquetry, or to flirt twice 
with the same person ; and so contrived to 
temper her resolutions against matrimony 
with " nods and becks and wreathed smiles," 
that, modest as he was by nature, and that 
natural modesty enhanced by the diffidence 
■which belongs to a deep and ardent passion, 
•Tames Meadows himself saw no real cause 
for fear in the pretty petulance of his fair 
mistress, in a love of power so full of playful 
grace, that it seemed rather a charm than a 
fault, and in a blushing reluctance to change 
her maiden state, and lose her maiden freedoin, 
which bad, in bis eyes, all the attractions of 
youthful shamefacedness. That she would 
eventually be his own dear wife, James enter- 
tained no manner of doubt; and, pleased with 
all that pleased her, was not unwilling to 
prolong the happy days of courtship. 

In this humour Lucy had left him, when, 
towards the end of May, she had gone for the 
first time to spend a few weeks with some re- 
lations in London. Her cousins were kind 
and wealthy ; and, much pleased with the 
modest intelligence of their young kinswoman, 
they exerted themselves to render their bouse 
agreeable to her, and to show her the innu- 
merable sights of the Queen of Cities. So 
that her stay, being urged by .Tames, who, 
thoroughly unselfish, rejoiced to find his sister 
so well amused, was prolonged to the end of 
.Tuly, when, alarmed at the total cessation of 
letters from Hannah, and at the constrained 
and dispirited tone which she discovered, or 
fancied that she discovered, in her brother's, 
Lucy resolved to hasten home. 

He received her with his usual gentle kind- 
ness and his sweet and thoughtful smile; 
assured her that he was well; exerted him- 
self more than usual to talk, and waived away 
her anxious questions by extorting from her 
an account of her journey, and her residence, 
of all that she had seen, and of her own feel- 
ings on returning to her country home after so 
long a sojourn in the splendid and beautiful 
metropolis. He talked more than was usual 
with him ; and more gaily ; but still Lucy 
was dissatisfied. The hand that bad pressed 
tier's on alighting was cold as death ; the lip 
that had kissed her fair brow was pale and 
trembling; bis appetite was gone; and his 
frequent and ap])arently unconscious habit of 
pushing away the clustering curls from his 
forehead, proved, as plainly as words could 
have done, that there was pain in the throb- 
bing temples. The pulsation was even visi- 
ble ; but still he denied that he was ill, and 
declared that her notion of bis having grown 
thin and pale was nothing but a woman's 
fancy, — the fond whim of a fond sister. 

To escape from the subject he look her into 



the garden, — her own pretty flower-garden, 
divided by a wall covered with creepers from 
the larger plot of ground devoted to vegetables, 
and bounded on one side by buildings con- 
nected with his trade, and parted on the other 
from a well-stored timber-yard, by a beautiful 
rustic screen of fir and oak and birch, with 
the bark on, which, terminating in a graceful 
curve at the end next the house, and at that 
leading to the garden in a projecting gotbic 
porcb, — partly covered by climbing plants, 
partly broken by tall pyramidical hollyhocks, 
and iTiagnificent dahlias, and backed by a 
clump of tall elms, formed a most graceful 
veil to an unsightly object. This screen had 
been erected during Lucy's absence, and with- 
out her knowledge ; and her brother, smiling 
at the delight which she expressed, pointed 
out to her the splendid beauty of her flowers, 
and the luxuriant profusion of their growth. 

The old buildings matted with roses, honej'- 
suckles, and jessamines, broken only by the 
pretty out-door room which Lucy called her 
greeu-house ; the pile of variously-tinted ge- 
raniums in front of that prettiest room; the 
wall garlanded, covered, bidden with inter- 
woven myrtles, fuchsias, passion-flowers, cle- 
matis, and the silky blossoms of the grandi- 
flora pea ; the beds filled with dahlias, salvias, 
calceolarias, and carnations of every hue, 
with the rich purple and the pure white petu- 
nia, with the many-coloured marvel of Peru, 
with the enamelled blue of the Siberian lark- 
spur, with the richly-scented changeable lu- 
pine, with the glowing lavatera, the dark-eyed 
hybiscus, the pure and alabaster cup of the 
white a3notbera, the lilac clusters of the phlox, 
and the delicate blossom of the yellow sultan, 
most elegant amongst flowers; — all these, 
with a hundred other plants too long to name, 
and all their various greens, and the pet weed 
mignionette growing like grass in a meadow, 
and mingling its aromatic odour amongst the 
general fragrance — all this sweetness and 
beauty glowing in the evening sun, and breath- 
ing of freshness and of cool air, came with 
such a thrill of delight upon the poor village 
maiden ; who, in spite of her admiration of 
London, had languished in its heat and noise 
and dirt, for the calm and quiet, the green 
leaves and the bright flowers of her coujjtry 
home, that, from the very fulness of her heart, 
from joy and gratitude and tenderness and 
anxiety, she flung her arms round her brother's 
neck, and burst into tears. 

Lucy was usually so calm and self-com- 
manded, that such an ebullition of feeling 
from her astonished and affected James Mea- 
dows more than any words, however tender. 
He pressed her to his heart, and when, fol- 
lowing up the train of her own thoughts, — 
sure that this kind brother, who bad done so 
much to please her, was himself tmhappy, 
guessing, and longing, and yet fearing to 
know the cause, — when Lucy, agitated by 



THE BEAUTY OF THE VILLAGE, 



629 



such feelino^s, ventured to whisper " Han- 
nah T' her brother placing her gently on the 
steps leading to the green-house, and leaning 
himself against the open door, began in a low 
and subdued tone to pour out his whole heart 
to his sympathising auditress. The story was 
nearly such as she had been led to expect from 
the silence of one party, and the distress of 
the other. A rival — a most unworthy rival — 
had appeared upon the scene; and James 
Meadows, besides the fear of losing the love- 
ly creature whom he had loved so fondly, had 
the additional grief of believing that the man 
whose flatteries had at least gained from her 
a flattering hearing, was of all others the least 
likely to make her respectable and happy. — 
Much misery may be comprised in few words. 
Poor James's story was soon told. 

A young and gay Baronet had, as Lucy 
knew, taken the manor-house and manor of 
Aberleigh : and during her absence, a part of 
his retinue with a train of dogs and horses 
had established themselves in the mansion, in 
preparation for their master's arrival. Amongst 
these new comers, by far the most showy and 
important was the head-keeper, Edward Fo- 
rester, a fine-looking young man, with a tall, 
firm, upright figure, a clear dark complexion, 
bright black eyes, a smile alternately winning 
and scornful, and a prodigious fluency of 
speech, and readiness of compliment. He 
fell in love with Hannah at first sight, and 
declared his passion the same afternoon ; and, 
although discouraged by every one about her, 
never failed to parade before her mother's 
house two or three times a-day, mounted on 
his master's superb blood-horse, to waylay her 
in her walks, and to come across her in her 
visits. Go where she might, Hannah was 
sure to encounter Edward Forester; and this 
devotion from one whose personal attractions 
extorted as much admiration from the lasses, 
her companions, as she herself had been used 
to excite amongst the country lads, had in it, 
in spite of its ostentatious openness, a flattery 
that seemed irresistible. 

" I do not think she loves him, Lucy," said 
.Tames Meadows, sighingly; "indeed I am 
sure that she does not. She is dazzled by his 
showiness and his fluency, his horsemanship 
and his dancing; but love him she does not. 
It is fascination, such a fascination as leads a 
moth to flutter round a candle, or a bird to 
drop into the rattlesnake's mouth, — and never 
was flame more dangerous, or serpent more 
deadly. He is unworthy of her, Lucy, — tho- 
roughly unworthy. This man, who calls him- 
self devoted to a creature as innocent as she 
is lovely, — who pretends to feel a pure and 
genuine passion for this pure and too-believing 
girl, passes his evenings, his nights, "in drink- 
ing, in gambling, in debauchery of the lowest 
and most degrading nature. He is doubtless 
at this very instant at the wretched beer-shop 
at the corner of the common — the haunt of all 



that is wicked, and corrupter of all that is 
frail, 'The Foaming Tankard.' It is there, 
in the noble game of Four-Corners, that the 
man who aspires to the love of Hannah Col- 
son passes his hours. — Lucy, do you remem- 
ber the exquisite story of Phcebe Dawson, in 
Crabbe's Parish Register] — such as she was, 
will Hannah be. I could resign her. Heaven 
knows, grievous as the loss would be, to one 
whom she loved, and who would ensure her 
happiness. But to give her up to Edward 
Forester — the very thought is madness !" 

" Surely, brother, she cannot know that he 
is so unworthy ! surely, surely, when she is 
convinced that he is so, she will throw him 
off like an infected garment! I knov/ Hannah 
well. She would be protected from such an 
one as you describe, as well b)f pride as by 
purity. She cannot be aware of these pro- 
pensities." 

"She has been told of them repeatedly; 
but he denies the accusation, and sl.e rather 
believes his denial than the assertion of her 
best friends. Knowing Hannah as you do, 
Lucy, you cannot but remember the petulant 
self-will, the scorn of contradiction and oppo- 
sition, which used half to vex and half to 
amuse us in the charming spoilt child. We 
little dreamt how dangerous that fault, almost 
diverting in trifles, might become in the serious- 
business of life. Her mother and brother are 
my warm advocates, and the determined op- 
ponents of my rival ; and the; ^fore, to assert 
what she calls her independence and her dis- 
interestedness, (for with this sweet perverse 
creature the worldly prosperity which I valued, 
chiefly for her sake makes against me,) she 
will fling herself away on one wholly unwor- 
thy of her, one whom she does not even love, 
and with whom her whole life will be a scene 
of detjradation and misery." 

" Will he be to-night at the Foaming Tan- 
kard ]" 

" He is there every night." 

At this point of their conversation the bro- 
ther was called away ; and Lucy, after a little 
consideration, tied on her bonnet, and walked 
to Mrs. Colson's. 

Her welcome from William Colson and his 
mother was as cordial and hearty as ever, per- 
haps more so; Hannah's greetings were af- 
fectionate, but constrained. Not to receive 
Lucy kindly was impossible ; and yet her 
own internal consciousness rendered poor 
Lucy, next perhaps to her brother, the very 
last person whom she would have desired to 
see; and this uncomfortable feeling increased 
to a painful degree, when the fond sister, with 
some diminution of her customary gentleness, 
spoke to her openly of her conduct to James, 
and repeated with strong and earnest repre- 
hension, all that she had heard of the conduct 
and pursuits of her new admirer. 

" He frequent the Foaming Tankard ! He 
drink to intoxication ! He play for days and 



45 



3R 



530 



COUNTRY STORIES. 



nights at Four-Corners ! It is a vile slander ! 
I would answer for it with my life ! He told 
me this very day that he has never even en- 
tered that den of infamy." 

" I believe him to be there at this very 
hour," replied Lucy, calmly. And Hannah, 
excited to the highest point of anger and agi- 
tation, dared Lucy to the instant proof, invited 
her to go with her at once to the beer-house, 
and olTered to abandon all thjughts of Edward 
Forester if he proved to be there. Lucy, 
willing enough to place the fate of the cause 
on that issue, prepared to accompany her ; and 
the two girls were so engrossed by the impor- 
tance of their errand, that they did not even 
hear Mrs. Colson's terrified remonstrance, who 
vainly endeavoured to detain or recall them by 
assurances that small-pox of the confluent sort 
was in the house; and that she had heard only 
that very afternoon, that a young woman, 
vaccinated at the same time, and by tlie same 
person with her Hannah, lay dead in one of 
the rooms of the Foaming Tankard. 

Not listening to, not even hearing her 
mother, Hannah walked with the desperate 
speed of passion through the village street, 
up the winding hill, across the common, along 
the avenue; and reached in less time than 
seemed possible the open grove of oaks, in 
one corner of which this obnoxious beer-house, 
the torment and puzzle of the magistrates, 
and the pest of the parish, was situated. 
There was no sign of death or sickness about 
the place. The lights from the tap-room and 
the garden, along one side of which the alley 
for Four-Corners was erected, gleamed in the 
darknessof a moonless summer niglit between 
the trees; and even farther than the streaming 
light, pierced the loud oaths and louder laugh- 
ter, the shouts of triumph, and the yells of 
defeat, mixed with the dull heavy blows of 
the large wooden bowl, from the drunken 
gamesters in the alley. 

Hannah started as she heard one voice ; but, 
determined to proceed, she passed straight 
through the garden-gate, and rushed hastily on 
to the open shed where the players were as- 
sembled. There, stripped of his coat and 
waistcoat, in all the agony of an intoxicated 
gambler, stood Edward Forester, in the act of 
staking his gold-laced hat upon the next cast. 
He threw and lost; and casting from him 
with a furious oath the massive wooden ball, 
struck, in his blind frenzy, the lovely creature 
transfixed in silent horror at the side of tl.j 
allej', who fell with the blow, and was carried 
for dead into the Foaming Tankard. 



Hannah did not, however, die; although 
her left arm was broken, her shoulder disloca- 
ted, and much injury inflicted by the fall. 
She lived, and she still lives, but no longer as 
the Beauty of the Village. Her fine shape 
injured by the blov, and her fair face difigur- 



ed by the small-pox, she can no longer boast 
the surpassing loveliness v/hich obtained for 
her the title of the Rose of Aberleigh. And 
yet she has gained more than she has lost, 
even in mere attraction ; the vain coquettish 
girl is become a sweet and gentle v/oman ; 
gaiety has been replaced by sensibility, and 
the sauciness of conscious power, by the 
modest wish to please. In her long and dan- 
gerous illness, her slow and doubtful convales- 
cence, Hannah learned the difficult lesson to 
acknowledge and to amend her own faults ; 
and when, after many scruples on the score of 
her changed person and impaired health, she 
became the happy wife of James Meadows, 
she brought to him, in a corrected temper and 
purified heart, a dowry far more prec-ious in 
his mind than the transient beauty which had 
been her only charm in the eyes of Edward 
Forester. 



TOWN VERSUS COUNTRY. 

"I'm desperately afear'd, Sue, that that 
brother of thine will turn out a jackanapes," 
was the apostrophe of the good yeoman 
Michael Howe, to his pretty daughter Susan, 
as they were walking one fine afternoon in 
harvest through some narrow and richly-wood- 
ed lanes, which wound between the crofts of 
his farm of Rutherford West, situate in that 
out-of-the-way part of Berkshire, which is 
emphatically called "the Low Country," for 
no better rer.-son that I can discover than that 
it is the very hilliest part of the royal county. 
" I'm sadly afear'd, Sue, that he'll turn out a 
jackanapes!" — and the stout farmer brandish- 
ed the tall paddle which served him at once 
as a walking-stick and a weeding-hook, and 
began vigorously eradicating the huge thistles 
which grew by the roadside, as a mere vent 
for his vexation. " You'll see that he'll come 
back an arrant puppy," quoth Michael Howe. 

" Oh, father! don't say so," rejoined Susan ; 
" why should you think so hardly of poor 
William — our own dear William, whom we 
have not seen these three years ■? What 
earthly harm has he done?** 

" Harm, girl ! Look at his letters! You 
know you're ashamed yourself to take 'em of 
the postman. Pink paper, forsooth, and blue 
ink, and a seal with bits of make-believe gold 
speckled about in it like a ladybird's wings — 
I hate all make-believes, all shams; they're 
worse than poison ; — stinkingof some outland- 
ish scent, so that I'm forced to smoke a couple 
of pipes extra to get rid of the smell ; and 
latterly, as if this folly was not enough, he 
has crammed these precious scrawls into a sort 
of paper-bag, pasted together just as if o' pur- 
pose to make us pay double postage. Jack- 
anapes did I call him] He's a worse molly- 
cot than a woman," 



TOWN VERSUS COUNTRY. 



531 



" Dear father, all young' men will be foolish 
one way or another; and you know my uncle 
says, that William is wonderfully steady for so 
young- a man, and his master is so well pleased 
with him, that he is now foreman in his great 
concern. You must parden a little nonsense 
in a country youth, thrown suddenly into a 
shop in the gayest part of London, and with 
his godfather's legacy coming unexpectedly 
upon him, making him too rich for a journey- 
man tradesman. But he's coming- to see us 
now. He would have come six months ago, 
as soon as he got this money, if his master 
could have spared him ; and he'll be wiser be- 
fore he goes back to London." 

"Not he. Hang Lunnon ! Why did he 
go to Lunnon at all 1 Why could not he stop 
at Rutherford like his father and his father's 
father, and see to the farm ■? What business 
had he in a great shop ] — a man-mercer's they 
call it. What call had he to Lunnon, I say ? 
Tell me that. Miss Susan." 

" Why, dear father, you know very well 
that when Master George Arnot was so un- 
luckily obstinate about the affair of the water- 
course, and would go to law with you, and 
swore that instead of marrying William, poor 
Mary should be married to the rich maltster 
old Jacob Giles — William, who had loved 
Mary ever since they were children together, 
could not bear to stay in the country, and went 
off to my uncle, forbidding me ever to men- 
tion her name in a letter; and so " 

" Well ! well !" rejoined the father, some- 
what softened ; " but he need not have turned 
puj)py and coxcomb because he was crossed 
in love. Pshaw !" added the good farmer, 
giving a mighty tug with his paddle at a 
tough mullein which happened to stand in his 
way ; " I was crossed in love myself, in .my 
young days, but I did not run off and turn 
tailor. I made up plump to another wench — 
your poor mother, Susan, that's dead and 
gone — and carried her off like a man; mar- 
ried her in a month, girl; and that's what 
Will should have done. I 'm afear'd we shall 
find him a sad jackanapes. Jem Hathaway, 
the ganger, told me last market-day that he 
saw him one vSunday in the what-d'ye-ca!l't 
— the Park there, covered with rings, and 
gold chains, and fine velvets — all green and 
gold, like our great peacock. Well ! we shall 
soon see. He comes to-night, you say"? 'Tis 
not above six o'clock by the sun, and the 
Wantage coach don't come in till seven. 
Even if they lend him a horse and cart at 
the Nag's Head, he can't be here these two 
hours. So I shall just see the ten-acre field 
cleared, and be home time enough to shake 
him by the hand if he comes like a man, or 
to kick him out of doors if he looks like a 
dandy." And off strode the stout yeoman in 
his clouted shoes, his leather gaiters, and 
smock frock, and a beard (it was Friday) of 
six days' growth; looking altogether pro- 



digiously like a man who would keep his 
word. 

Susan, on her part, continued to thread the 
narrow winding lanes that led towards Want- 
age; walking leisurely along, and forming, as 
she went, half unconsciously, a nosegay of 
the wild-flowers of the season ; the delicate 
hare-bell, the lingering wood-vetch, the blue 
scabious, the heaths which clustered on the 
bank, the tall graceful lilac campanula, the 
snowy bells of the bindweed, the latest briar- 
rose, and that species of clematis, which, per- 
haps because it generally indicates the neigh- 
bourhood of houses, has won for itself the 
pretty name of the traveller's joy, whilst that 
loveliest of wild-flowers, whose name is now 
sentimentalized out of prettiness, the intensely 
blue forget-me-not, was there in rich profu- 
sion. 

Susan herself was not unlike her posy; 
sweet and delicate, and full of a certain pas- 
toral grace. Her light and airy figure suited 
well with a fair mild countenance, breaking 
into blushes and smiles when she spoke, and 
set off by bright ringlets of golden hair, parted 
on her white forehead, and hanging in long 
curls on her finely-rounded cheeks. Always 
neat but never fine, — gentle, cheerful, and mo- 
dest, it would be difficult to find a prettier 
specimen of an English farmer's daughter 
than Susan Howe. But just now the little 
damsel wore a look of care not usual to her 
fair and tranquil features ; she seemed, as she 
was, full of trouble. 

"Poor William!" so ran her thoughts, 
" my father would not even listen to his last 
letter because it poisoned him with musk. I 
wonder that William can like that disagree- 
able smell ! and he expects him to come down 
on the top of the coach, instead of which, he 
says that he means to purchase a — a — (even 
in her thoughts poor Susan could not master 
tiie word, and was obliged to have recourse to 
the musk-scented billet) britschka — ay, that's 
it! or a droschky ; I wonder what sort of 
things they are — an,l that he only visits us 
en passant in a tour, for which, town being so 
empty, and business slack, his employer has 
given him .leave, and in which he is to be ac- 
companied by his friend Monsieur Victor — j 
Victor — I can't make out his other name — an i 
eminent perfumer who lives next door. To ' 
think of bringing a Frenchman here, remem- i 
bering how my father hates the whole na- : 
tion ! Oh dear, dear ! And yet I know Wil- 
liam. I know why he went, and I do believe, | 
in spite of a little finery and foolishness, and i 
of all the britschkas, and droschkies, and Vic-! 
tors, into the bargain, that he'll be glad to get; 
home again. No place like home ! Even in j 
these silly notes, that feeling is always at the I 
bottom. Did not I hear a carriage before me ] j 
Yes ! — no ! — I can't tell. One takes every- i 
thing for the sound of wheels when one is} 
expecting a dear friend ! And if we can but 



532 



COUNTRY STORIES. 



get him to look as -he used to look, and to be 
what he used to be, he won't leave us again 
for all the fine shops in Regent vStreet, or all 
the britschkas and droschkies in Christendom. 
My father is getting- old now, an3 William 
ought to stay at home," thought the affec- 
tionate sister; "and I firmly believe that what 
he ought to do, he will do. Besides which — 
surely there is a carriage now." 

Just as Susan arrived at this point of her 
cogitations, that sound which had haunted her 
imagination all the afternoon, the sound of 
wheels rapidly advancing, became more and 
more audible, and was suddenly succeeded by 
a tremendous crash, mixed with men's voices 
— one of them her brother's — venting in two 
languages (for Monsieur Victor, whatever 
might be his proficiency in English, had re- 
course in this emergency to his native tongue) 
the different ejaculations of anger and aston- 
ishment which are pretty sure to accompany 
an overset; and on turning a corner of the 
lane, Susan caught her first sight of the 
britschka or droschky, whichever it might be, 
that had so much puzzled her simple appre- 
hension, in the shape of a heavy-looking open 
carriage garnished with head and apron, lying 
prostrate against a gate-post, of which the 
wheels had fallen foul. Her brother was fully 
occupied in disengaging the horses from the 
traces, in reprimanding his companion for his 
bad driving, which he declared had occasioned 
the accident, and in directing him to go for 
assistance to a cottage half a mile back on the 
road to Wantage, whilst he himself intimated 
his intention of proceeding for more help to 
the Farm; and the obedient Frenchman — 
who, notwithstanding the derangement which 
his coitfure might naturally be expected to 
have experienced in his tumble, looked, Su- 
san thought, as if his hair were put in paper 
every night and pomatumed every morning, 
and as if his whole dapper person were sa- 
turated with his own finest essences, a sort 
of travelling perfumer's shop, a peripatetic 
pouncet-box — walked off in the direction in- 
dicated, with an air of habitual submission, 
which showed pretty plainly that, whether as 
proprietor of the unlucky britschka, or from 
his own force of character, William was con- 
sidered as the principal director of the present 
expedition. 

Having sent his comrade off, William 
Howe, leaving his steedsqnietly browsing by 
the way-side, bent his steps towards home. 
Susan advanced rapidly to meet him; and in 
a few seconds the brother and sister were in 
each other's arms ; and, after most affec- 
tionate greetings, they sat down by mutual 
consent upon a piece of felled timber which 
lay upon the bank — the lane on one side being 
bounded by an old coppice — and began to ask 
each other the tliousand questions so interest- 
ing to the children of one house who have 
been long parted. 



Seldom surely has the rough and rugged 
bark of an unhewed elm had the honour of 
supporting so perfect an exquisite. Jem Hath- 
away, the exciseman, had in nothing exagge- 
rated the magnificence of our young Lon- 
doner. From shoes which looked as if they 
had come from Paris in the ambassador's bag, 
to the curled head and the whiskered and 
mustachioed countenance, (for the hat which 
should have been the crown of the finery was 
wanting — probably in consequence of the re- 
cent overturn,) from top to toe he looked fit 
for a ball at Almack's, or a fete at Bridge- 
water House; and, oh! how unsuited to the 
old-fashioned homestead at Rutherford West ! 
His lower appointments, hose and trousers, 
were of the finest woven silk ; his coat was 
claret colour, of the latest cut ; his waistcoat 
— talk of the great peacock! he would have i 
seemed dingy and dusky beside such a splen- i 
dour of colour ! — his waistcoat literally daz- , 
zled poor Susan's eyes; and his rings, and i 
chains, and studs, and brooches, seemed to | 
the wondering girl almost sufficient to stock 
a jeweller's shop. j 

In spite of all this nonsense, it w-as clear t"? 
her, from every look and word, that she wai 
not mistaken in believing William unchanged 
in mind and disposition, and that there was a 
warm and a kind heart beating under the 
finery. Moreover, she felt that if the un- 
seemly magnificence could once be thuown 
aside, the whiskers and mustachios cleared 
away, and his fine manly person reinstated in 
the rustic costume in which she had been ac- 
customed to see him, her brother would then 
appear greatly improved in face and figure, — 
taller, more vigorous, and with an expression 
of intelligence and frankness delightful to be- 
hold. But how to get quit of the finery, and 
the Frenchman, and the britschka] Or how 
reconcile her father to iniquities so far sur 
passing even the smell of musk "? 

William, on his part, regarded his sister 
with unqualified admiration. He had left a 
laughing blooming girl, he found a delicate 
and lovely young woman, all the more lovely 
for the tears that mingled with her smiles, 
true tokens of a most pure affection. 

"And you really are glad to see me, Susy"! 
And my father is well ] And here is the old 
place, looking just as it used to do; house, 
and ricks, and barn-yard, not quite" in sight, 
but one feels that one shall see them at the 
next turning — the great coppice right opposite, 
looking thicker and greener than ever! how 
often we have gone nutting in that coppice! — 
the tall holly at the gate, with the woodbine 
climbing up, and twisting its sweet garlands 
round the very topmost spray like a coronet ; 
— many a time and often have 1 climbed the 
holly to twine the flaunting wreath round your 
straw-bonnet. Miss Susy ! And here, on the 
other side of the hedge, is the very field 
where Hector and Harebell ran their famous 



TOWN VERSUS COUNTRY. 



533 



course, and wave their hare fifty turns before 
they killed her, without ever letting her gjet 
out of the stubble. These were pleasant 
days, Susy, after all !" 

" Happy days, dear William !" 

" And we shall go nutting again, shall we 
not?" 

" Surely, dear brother ! Only" And 

Susan suddenly stopped. 

"Only what. Miss Susy?" 

" Only I don't see how you can possibly oro 
into the copse in this dress. Think how the 
brambles would prick and tear, and how that 
chain would catch in the hazel stems ! and as 
♦o climbing the holly-tree in that fine tight 
coat, or beating the stubbles for a hare in those 
delicate thin shoes, why the thing is out of 
the question. And I really don't believe," 
continued Susan, finding it easier to go on 
than to begin, "T really don't believe that 
either Hector or Harebell would know you, if 
they saw you so decked out." 

William laughed outright. 

" I don't mean to go co\irsing in these 
shoes, I assure you, Susy. This is an even- 
ing dress. I have a shooting-jacket and all 
thereunto belonging in the britschka. which 
will not puzzle either Harebell or Hector, 
because it's just what they have been used to 
see me wear." 

" Put it on, then, I beseech you !" exclaim- 
ed Susy; " put it on directly !" 

"Why, I am not going coursing this even- 
ing." 

" No — but my father ! — Oh, dear William ! 
if you did but know how he hates finery, and 
foreigners, and britschkas! Oh, dear William, 
send off the French gentleman and the out- 
landish carriage — run into the coppice and put 
on the shooting-dress!" 

" Oh, Susan !" began William ; but vSusan 
having once summoned up courage sufficient 
to put her remonstrances into words, followed 
up the attack with an earnestness that did not 
admit a moment's interruption. 

" My father hates finery even more than 
Harebell or Hector would do. You know 
his country notions, dear William ; and I 
think tliat latterly he has hated everything 
that looks Londonish and new-fangled worse 
than ever. We are old-fashioned people at 
Rutherford. There's your pretty old friend, 
Mary Arnott, can't abide gewgaws any more 
than my father." 

" M<iry Arnott ! You mean Mrs. Giles. 
What do I care for her likes and dislikes 1" 
exclaimed William, haughtily. 

" I mean Mary Arnott, and not Mrs. Giles, 
and you do care for her likes and dislikes a 
great deal," replied his sister, with some arch- 
ness. " Poor Mary, when the week before 
that fixed foi the wedding arrived, felt that 



she could not marry Master Jacob Giles ; so 
she found an opportunity of speaking to him 
alone, and told him the truth. I even believe, 
although I have no warrant for saying so, that 
she confessed she could not love him because 
she loved another. Master Giles behaved like 
a wise man, and told her father it would be 
very wrong to force her inclinations. He be- 
haved kindly as well as wisely, for he endea- 
voured to reconcile all parties, and put matters 
in train for the wedding that had hindered his. 
This at that time Master Arnott would not 
hear of, and therefore we did not tell you that 
the marriage which you took for granted had 
gone off. Till about three months ago, that 
odious lawsuit was in full action, and Master 
Arnott as violently set against my father as* 
ever. Then, however, he was taken ill, and, 
upon his deathlfed, he sent for his old friend, 
begged his pardon, and a])pointed him guardian 
to Mary. And there she is at home — for she 
would not come to meet you — but there she 
is, hoping to find you just what you were 
when you went away, and hating Frenchmen, 
and britschkas, and finery, and the smell of 
musk, just as if she were my father's daugh- 
ter in good earnest. And, now, dear William, 
I know what has been passing in your mind 
quite as well as if hearts were -peep-shows, 
and one could see to the bottom of them at 
the rate of a penny a look. I know that you 
went away for love of Mary, and flung your- 
self into the finery of London to try to get rid 
of the thought of her, and came down with 
all this nonsense of britschkas, and whiskers, 
and waistcoats, and rings, just to show her 
what a beau she had lost in losing you — Did 
not you, now? Well! don't stand squeezing 
my hand, but go and meet your French friend, 
who has got a man, I see, to help to pick up 
the fallen equipage. Go and get rid of him," 
quoth Susan. 

"How can II" exclaimed William, in 
laughing perplexity. 

" Give him the britschka !" responded his 
sister, " and send them off together as fiist as 
may be. That will be a magnificent farewell. 
And then take your portmanteau into the 
copse, and change all this trumpery for the 
shooting-jacket and its belongings; and then 
come back and let me trim these whiskers as 
closely as scissors can trim them, and then 
we'll go to the farm, to gladden the hearts of 
Harebell, Hector, my dear father, and — some- 
body else ; and it will net be that somebody's 
fault if ever you go to London again, or get 
into a britschka, of put on a chain, or a ring, 
or write with blue ink upon pink paper, as long 
as you live. Now go and dismiss the French- 
man," added Susan, laughing, " and we '11 
walk home together the happiest brother and 
sister in Christendom." 



45* 



534 



COUNTRY STORIES. 



THE WIDOW'S DOG. 

One of the most beautiful spots in the north 
of Hampshire — a part of the country wliich, 
from its winding green lanes, with tiie trees 
meeting overhead like a cradle, its winding 
roads between coppices, with wide turfy mar- 
gents on either side, as if left on purpose for 
the picturesque and frequent gipsy camp, its 
I abundance of hedge-row timber, and its exten- 
sive tracts of woodland, seems as if the fields 
I were just dug out of the forest, as might have 
happened in the days of William Rufus — one 
of the loveliest scenes in this lovely county 
is the Great Pond at Ashley End. 

Ashley End is itself a romantic and beau- 
tiful village, straggling down a steep hill to a 
clear and narrow running stream, which crosses 
the road in the bottom, crossed in its turn by 
: a picturesque wooden bridge, and then wind- 
ing with equal abruptness up the opposite ac- 
clivity, so that the scattered cottages, sepa- 
rated from each other by long strips of garden 
ground, the little country inn, and two or three 
old-fashioned tenements of somewhat higher 
pretensions, surrounded by their own moss- 
grown orchards, seemed to be completely shut 
out from this bustling world, buried in the 
sloping meadows so deeply green, and the 
; hanging woods so rich in their various tinting, 
I along which the slender wreaths of smoke 
I from the old clustered chimneys went smiling 
peacefully in the pleasant autumn air. So 
profound was the tranquillity, that the slender 
streamlet which gushed along the valley, fol- 
lowing its natural windings, and glittering in 
the noonday sun like a thread of silver, seemed 
to the unfrequent visiters of that remote ham- 
let the only trace of life and motion in the pic- 
ture. 

The source of this pretty brook was un- 
doubtedly the Great Pond, although there was 
no other road to it than by climbing the steep 
hill beyond the village, and then turning sud- 
denly to the right, and descending by a deep 
cart-track, which led between wild banks 
covered with heath and feathery broom, gar- 
landed with bramble and briar roses, and gay 
with the purple heath-flower and the delicate 
harebell,* to a scene even more beautiful and 
more solitary than the hamlet itself. 

* One of the pleasantest moments that I-have ever 
known, was that of the introduction of an acrom- 
plisheil young American to the common harebell, 
upon the very spot which 1 have attempted to de- 
scribe. He had never seen that Enghsh wild-flower, 
consecrated by the poetry of" our common language, 
was struck even more than I expected by its delicate 
beauty, placed it in his biition-hole, and repeated with 
enthusiasm the charming lines of Scott, from the Lady 
of the Lake : — 

" For me," — she stooped, and, looking roinid, 
Plucked a blue harel)ell from the ground, — 
" I'Or me, whose meniorv scaroe conveys 
An image of more splendid days, 



It was a small clear lake almost embosomed 
in trees, across which an einbankment, formed 
for the purpose of a decoy for the wildfowl 
with which it abounded, led into a wood which 
covered the opposite hill ; an old forest-like 
wood, where the noble oaks, whose boughs 
almost dipped into the water, were surrounded 
by their sylvan accompaniments of birch, and 
holly, and hawthorn, where the tall trees met 
over the straggling paths, and waved across 
the grassy dells and turfy brakes with which 
it was interspersed. One low-browed cottage 
stood in a little meadow — it might almost be 
called a little orchard — ^just at the bottom of 
the winding road that led to the Great Pond : 
the cottage of the widow King. 

Independently of its beautiful situation, 
there was much that was at once picturesque 
and comfortable about the cottage itself, with 
its irregularity of outline, its gable-ends and 
jatting-out chimneys, its thatched roof and 
pent-house windows. A little yard, with a 
small building which just held an old donkey- 
chaise and an old donkey, a still older cow, 
and a few pens for geese and chickens, lay on 
one side of the house; in front, a flower court, 
surrounded by a mossy paling; a larger plot 
for vegetables behind; and, stretching down 
to the Great Pond on the side oj)posite the 
yard, was the greenest of all possible mea- 
dows, which, as I have before said, two noble 
walnut and mulberry trees, and a few aged 
pears and apples, clustered near the dwelling, 
almost converted into that pleasantest appanage 
of country life, an orchard. 

Notwithstanding, however, the exceeding 
neatness of the flower-court, and the little gar- 
den filled with beds of strawberries, and la- 
vender, and old-fashioned flowers, stocks, car- 
nations, roses, pinks ; and in spite of the cot- 



This little flower, that loves the lea, 
May well my simple emblem be; 
It drinks heaven's dew as blithe as rose 
That in the King's own garden grows, 
And when J plai'e it in my hair, 
Allan, a bard, is bound to swear 
He ne'er saw coronet so fair." 

Still greater was the delight with which another 
American recognised that blossom of a thousand as- 
sociations — the flower sacred to Milton and Shak- 
speare — the English primrose. He bent his knee to 
the ground in gathering a bunch, with a reverential 
expression which J shall not easily torget, as if the 
flower were to him an emlxxiiment of the great poets 
by whom it has been consecrated to fame ; and he 
also had the good taste not to be ashamed of his own 
enthusiasm. 1 have had the pleasure of exporting, 
this spring, to my friend Miss Sedgwick, (to whose 
family one of my visiters belongs,) roots and seeds of 
these wild flowers, of the common violet, the cinvsli|), 
and the ivy, another of our iiuligenous plants vvlmh 
our Transatlantic brethren want, and with which .Mr. 
'I'heodore Sedgwick was especially delighted. It will 
he a real distinction to be the introduciress of these 
plants into that Berkshire village of A'ew England, 
where Miss Sedgwick, surrounded by relatives wor- 
thy of her Hi talent and in character, passes her sum- 
mers. 



THE WIDOW'S DOG. 



535 



tage itself being not only always covered with 
climbing shrubs, woodbine, jessamine, clema- 
tis, and musk-roses, and in one southern nook 
a magnificent tree-like fuchsia, but the old 
chimney, actually garlanded with delicate 
creepers, the maurandia, and the lotus spermus, 
whose pink and ])urple bells, peeping out from 
between their elegant foliage, and mingling 
with the bolder blossoms and darker leaves of 
the passion-flower, give such a wreatliy and 
airy grace to the humblest building;* in spite 
of this luxuriance of natural beauty, and of 
the evident care bestowed upon the cultivation 
of the beds, and the training of the climbing 
plants, we yet felt, we could hardly tell why, 
but yet we instinctively felt, that the moss- 
grown thatch, the mouldering paling, the 
hoary apple-trees, in a word, the evidences of 
decay visible around the place, were but types 
of the fading fortunes of the inmates. 

And such was really the case. The widow 
King had known better days. Her husband 
had been the head keeper, her only son head 
gardener, of the lord of the manor; but both 
were dead ; and she, with an orphan grand- 
child, a thoughtful boy of eight or nine years 
old, now gained a scanty subsistence from the 
produce of their little dairy, their few poultry, 
their honey, (have I not said that a row of 
bee-hives held their station on the sunny side 
of the garden ?) and the fruit and flowers 
which little Tom and the old donkey carried 
in their season to Belford every market-day. 

Besides these, their accustomed sources of 
income, Mrs. King and Tom neglected no 
means of earning an honest penny. They 
stripped the downy spikes of the bulrushes to 
stuff cushions and pillows, and wove the 
rushes themselves into mats. Poor Tom was 
as handy as a girl ; and in the long winter 
evenings he would plait the straw hats in 
which he went to Belford market, and knit 
the stockings, which, kept rather for show 
than for use, were just assumed to go to 
church on Sundays, and then laid aside for the 
week. So exact was their economy. 

*I know nothing so pretty as the manner in which 
creeping plains inierwreaili themselves one with an- 
other. We have at this moment a wall quite covered 
with honeysuckles, fuclisias, roses, clematis, passion- 
flowers, myrtles, scoba;a, acrima carpis, Iotas spermus, 
and maurandia Barcjayana, in which two long sprays 
of the last-mentioned climbers have jutted out from 
the wall, and entwined themselves together like the 
handle of an aiiUque basket. The rich prolusion of 
leaves, those of the lotus spermus, comparatively 
rounded and dim, soft in texture and colour, with a 
darker patch in the middle, like the leaf of the old 
gum geranium; those of the maurandia, so bright, and 
shining, and sharply outlined — the stalks equally 
graceful in their varied green, and the roseate bells 
of the one contrasting and harmonizing so finely with 
the rich violet flowers of the other, might really form 
a study lor a painter. 1 never saw anything more 
graceful in quaint and cunning art than this bit of 
simple nature. But nature often takes a litncy to out- 
vie her skilful and ambitious handmaiden, and is al- 
ways certain to succeed in the competition. 

45* 



The only extravagance in which Mrs. King 
indulged herself was keeping a pet spaniel, 
the descendant of a breed for which her hus- 
band had been famous, and which was so 
great a favourite, that it ranked next to Tom 
in her affections, and next to his grandmother 
in Tom's. The first time that I ever saw 
them, this pretty dog had brought her kind 
mistress into no small trouble. 

W'e had been taking a drive through these 
beautiful lanes, never more beautiful than 
when the richly tinted autumnal foliage con- 
trasts with the deep emerald hue of the autum- 
nal herbage, and were admiring the fine effect 
of the majestic oaks, whose lower branches 
almost touched the clear water which reflected 
so brightly the bright blue sky, when Mrs. 
King, who was well known to my father, ad- 
vanced to the gate of her little court, and mo- 
destly requested to speak with him. 

The group in front of the cottage was one 
which it was impossible to contemplate with- 
out strong interest. The poor widow, in her 
neat crimped cap, her well-worn mourning 
gown, her apron and handkerchief, coarse, in- 
deed, and of cheap material, but delicately 
clean, her grey hair parted on her brow, and 
her pale intelligent countenance, stood leaning 
against the doorway, holding in one thin trem- 
bling hand a letter newly opened, and in the 
other her spectacles, which she had been fain 
to take off, half hoping that they had played 
her false, and that the ill-omened epistle would 
not be found to contain what had so grieved 
her. Tom, a fine rosy boy, stout and manly 
for bis years, sat on the ground with Chloe 
in his arms, giving vent to a most unmanly fit 
of crying; and Chloe, a dog worthy of Edwin 
Landseer's pencil, a large and beautiful spa- 
niel, of the scarce old English breed, brown 
and white, with shining wavy hair feathering 
her thighs and legs, and clustering into curls 
towards her tail and forehead, and upon the 
long glossy imagnificent ears which gave so 
much richness to her fine expressive counte- 
nance, looked at him wistfully, with eyes that 
expressed the fullest sympathy in his affliction, 
and stooped to lick his hand, and nestled her 
head in his bosom, as if trying, as far as her 
caresses had the power, to soothe and comfort 
him. 

"And so, sir," continued Mrs. King, who 
had been telling her little story to my father, 
whilst r had been admiring her pet, " this Mr. 
Poulton, the tax-gatherer, because I refused to 
give him our Chloe, whom my boy is so fond 
of that he shares his ineals with her, poor fel- 
low, has laid an information against us for 
keeping a sporting dog — I don't know what 
the proper word is — and has had us surcharg- 
ed ; and the first that I ever beard of it is 
by this letter, from which I find that I iriust 
pay I don't know how much money by Satur- 
day next, or else my goods will be seized and 
sold. And I have but just managed to pay 



536 



COUNTRY STORIES. 



my rent, and where to get a farthing I can't 
tell. I dare say he would let us off now if I 
would but give him Chloe; but that I can't 
find in my heart to do. He's a hard man, and 
a bad dog-master. I've all along been afraid 
that we must part with Chloe, now that slie's 
growing up like, because of our living so near 
the preserves — " 

"Oh, grandmother!" — interrupted Tom, — 
"poor Chloe !" 

" But I can't give her to him. Don't cry 
so, Tom ! I'd sooner have my little goods 
sold, and lie upon the boards. I should not 
mind parting with her if she were taken good 
care of, but I never will give her to him." 

" Is this the first you have heard of the 
matter]" inquired my father; " you ought to 
have had notice in time to appeal." 

" I never heard a word till to-day." 

" Poulton seems to say that he sent a letter, 
nevertheless, and offers to prove the sending, 
if need be; it's not in our division, not even 
in our county, and I am afraid that in this 
matter of the surcharge I can do nothing," 
observed my father; " though I have no doubt 
but it's a rascally trick to come by the dog. 
She 's a pretty creature," continued he, stoop- 
ing down to pat her, and examining her head 
and mouth with the air of a connoisseur in 
canine affairs, " a very fine creature. How 
old is she?" 

" Not quite a twelvemonth, sir. She was 
pupped on the sixteenth of last October, grand- 
mother's birthday, of all the days in the year," 
said Tom, somewhat comforted by his visiter's 
evident sympathy. 

"The sixteenth of October! Then Mr. 
Poulton may bid good-bye to his surcharge ; 
for unless she was six months old on the fifth 
of April she cannot be taxed for this year — 
so this letter is so much waste paper. I '11 
write this very night to the chairman of the 
commissioners, and manage the matter for 
you. And I'll also write to Master Poulton, 
and let him know that I'll acquaint the board 
if he gives you any further trouble. You 're 
sure that you can prove the day she was pup- 
ped ]" continued his worship, higiily delight- 
ed. " Very lucky ! You '11 have nothing to 
pay for her till next half-year, and then I 'm 
afraid that this fellow, Poulton, will insist 
upon her being entered as a sporting dog, 
which is fourteen shillings. But that 's a fu- 
ture concern. As to the surcharge, I '11 take 
f;are of that. A beautiful creature, is she not, 
jVIary 1 Very lucky that we happened to drive 
this way." And witii kind adieus to Tom 
and his grandmother, who were as grateful as 
people could be, we departed. 

About a week after, Tom and Chloe, in 
their turn, appeared at our cottage. All had 
gone riglit in the matter of the surcharge. 
The commissioners had decided in Mrs. King's 
favour, and Mr. Poulton iiad been forced to 
succumb. But the grandmother had consider- 



ed the dan-ger of offending their good land- 
lord, Sir John, by keeping a sporting dog so 
near his coverts, and also the difficulty of pay- 
ing the tax; and both she and Tom had made 
up their minds to offer Chloe to my father. 
He had admired her, and everybody said that 
he was as good a dog-master as Mr. Poulton 
was a bad one; and he came sometimes 
coursing to Ashley End, and then perhaps he 
would let them both see Chloe ; " for grand- 
mother," said Tom, " though she seemed 
somehow ashamed to confess as much, was at 
the bottom of her heart pretty nigh as fond of 
her as he was himself. Indeed, he did not 
know who could help being fond of Cliloe, 
she had so many pretty ways." And Tom, 
making manful battle against the tears that 
would start into his eyes, almost as full of af- 
fection as the eyes of Chloe herself, and hug- 
ging his beautiful pet, who seemed upon her 
part to have a presentiment of the evil that 
awaited her, sate down as requested in the 
hall, whilst my father considered his propo- 
sition. 

Upon the whole, it seemed to us kindest to 
the parties concerned, the widow King, Tom, 
and Chloe, to accept the gift. Sir John was 
a kind man, and a good landlord, but he was 
also a keen sportsman ; and it was quite cer- 
tain that he would have no great taste for a 
dog of such high sporting blood close to his 
best preserves; the keeper also would proba- 
bly seize hold of such a neighbour as a scape- 
goat, in case of any deficiency in the number 
of hares and pheasants ; and then their great 
enemy, Mr. Poulton, might avail himself of 
some technical deficiency to bring Mrs. King 
within the clutch of a surcharge. There might 
not always be an oversight in that Shy lock's 
bond, nor a wise judge, young or old, to de- 
tect it if there were. So that, upon due con- 
sideration, my father (determined, of course, 
to make a proper return for the present) agreed 
to consider Chloe as his own property; and 
Tom, having seen her very comfortably in- 
stalled in clean dry straw in a warm stable, 
and fed in a manner which gave a satisfactory 
specimen of her future diet, and being himself 
regaled with plum-cake and cherry brandy, 
(a liquor of which he had, he said, heard much 
talk, and which proved, as my father had au- 
gured, exceedingly cheering and consolatory i 
in the moment of affliction,) departed in much 
better spirits than could have been expected | 
after such a separation. I myself, duly ap- 
preciating the merits of Chloe, was a little 
jealous for my own noble Dash, whom she re- 1 
sembled, with a slight inferiority of size and 
colouring; much such a resemblance as Viola, | 
I suppose, bore to Sebastian. But upon being j 
reminded of the affinity between the two dogs, 
(for Dash came originally from Ashley End 
kennel, and was, as nearly as we could make 
cut, granduncle to Chloe,) and of our singu- 
lar (rood fortune in having two such beautiful 



THE WIDOW'S DOG. 



537 



spaniels vtnder one roof, my objections were 
entirely removed. 

Under the same roof they did not seem 
likely to continue. When sent vifter to the 
stable the next morning, Chloe was missincr. 
Everybody declared that the door had not been 
opened, and Dick, wlio had her in charjje, 
vowed that the key had never been out of his 
pocket. But accusations and affirmations 
were equally useless — the bird was flown. 
Of course she had returned to Ashley End. 
And upon beins' sent for to her old abode, 
Tom was found preparing to bring her to 
Aberleigh ; and Mrs. King suggested, that, 
having been accustomed to live with them, 
she would, perhaps, sooner get accustomed to 
the kitchen fireside than to a stable, however 
comfortable. 

The suggestion was followed. A mat was 
placed by the side of the kitchen fire; much 
pains were taken to coax the shy stranger; 
(Dick, who loved and understood dogs, de- 
voting himself to the task of making himself 
agreeable to this gentle and beautiful crea- 
ture;) and she seemed so far reconciled as to 
suffer his caresses, to lap a little milk when 
sure that nobody saw her, and even to bridle 
with instinctive coquetry, when Dash, head 
and tail up, advanced with a sort of stately and 
conscious courtesy to examine into the claims 
of the new-comer. For the first evening all 
seemed promising ; but on the next morning, 
nobody knew how or when, Chloe eloped to 
her old quarters. 

Again she was fetched back ; this time to 
the parlour: and again she ran away. Then 
she was tied up, and she gnawed the string; 
chained up, and she slipped the collar; and 
we began to think, that unless we could find 
some good home for her at a distance, there 
v/as nothing for it but to return her altogether 
to Mrs. King, when a letter from a friend at 
Bath, gave a new aspect to Chloe's affairs. 

The letter was from a dear friend of mine — 
a young married lady, with an invalid hus- 
band, and one lovely little girl, a damsel of 
some two j-^ears old, commonly called " Pretty 
May." They wanted a pet dog to live in the 
parlour, and walk out with mother and daugh- 
ter — not a cross yelping Blenheim spaniel, 
(those troublesome little creatures spoil every- 
body's manners who is so unlucky as to pos- 
sess them, the first five minutes of every 
morning call being invariably devoted to si- 
lencing the lapdog and apologising to the vis- 
iter,) — not a ])igmy Blenheim, but a lanje no- 
ble animal, something, in short, as like as 
might be to Dash, with whom Mrs. Keating 
had a personal acquaintance, and for whom, 
in common with most of his acquaintances, 
she entertained a very decided partiality: I do 
not believe that there is a dog in England who 
has more friends than my Dash. A spaniel 
was wanted at Bath like my Dash : and what 
spaniel could be more like Dash than Chloe? 

3S 



A distant home was wanted for Chloe: and 
what home could open a brighter prospect of 
canine felicity than to be the pet of Mrs. Keat- 
ing, and the playmate of Pretty May 1 It 
seemed one of those startling coincidences 
which amuse one by their singular fitness and 
propriety, and make one believe that there is 
more in the exploded doctrine of sympathies 
than can be found in our philosophy. 

So, upon the matter being explained to her, 
thought Mrs. King; and writing duly to an- 
nounce the arrival of Chloe, she was deposit- 
ed, with a quantity of soft hay, in a large 
hamper, and conveyed into Belford by my fa- 
ther himself, who would entrust to none other 
the office of delivering her to the coachman, 
and charging that very civil member of a very 
civil body of men to have especial care of the 
pretty creature, who was parted with for no 
other fault than an excess of affection and 
fidelity to her first kind protectors. 

Nothing could exceed the brilliancy of her 
reception. Pretty May, the sweet smiling 
child of a sweet smilins mother, had been 
kept up a full hour after her usual time to 
welcome the stranger, and was so charmed 
with this her first living toy, that it was diffi- 
cult to get her to bed. She divided her own 
supper with poor Chloe, hungry after her long 
journey; rolled with her upon the Turkey 
carpet, and at last fell asleep with her arms 
clasped round her new pet's neck, and her 
bright face, coloured like lilies and roses, 
flung across her body; Chloe enduring these 
caresses with a careful, quiet gentleness, 
which immediately won for her the hearts of 
the lovely mother, of the fond father, (for to 
an accomplished and right-minded man, in 
delicate health, what a treasure is a little prat- 
tling girl, his only one I) of two grandmothers, 
of three or four young aunts, and of the whole 
tribe of nursery attendants. Never was debut 
so successful, as Chloe's first appearance in 
Camden Place. 

As her new dog had been Pretty May's last 
thought at night, so was it her first on awak- 
ening. He shared her breakfast as he had 
shared her supper ; and immediately after 
breakfast, mother and daughter, attended by 
nursery-maid and footman, sallied forth to 
provide proper luxuries for Chloe's accommo- 
dation. First they purchased a sheepskin 
rug; then a splendid porcelain trough for wa- 
ter, and a porcelain dish to match, for food ; 
then a spaniel basket, duly lined, and stufTed, 
and curtained — a splendid ))iece of canine up- 
holstery ; then a necklace-like collar with sil- 
ver bells, which was left to have the address 
engraved upon the clasp; and then May, find- 
ing herself in the vicinity of a hosier and a 
shoemaker, bethought herself of a want which 
undoubtedly had not occurred to any other of 
her party, and holding up her own pretty little 
foot, demanded "tilk tocks and boo thoose for 
Tloe." 



538 



COUNTRY STORIES. 



For two days did Chloe endure the petting 
and the luxuries. On the third slie disappear- 
ed. Great was the consternation in Camden 
Place. Pretty May cried as she had never 
been known to cry before; and papa, mamma, 
grandmammas, aunts, nursery and house- 
maids, fretted and wondered, wondered and 
fretted, and vented their distress in every va- 
riety of exclamation, from the refined lansruage 
of the dravvinir-room to the patois of a Somer- 
setshire kitchen. Rewards were offered, and 
handbills dispersed over the town. She was 
cried, and she was advertised ; and at last, 
yfiviuff up every hope of her recovery, Mrs. 
Keating wrote to me. 

It happened that we received the letter on 
one of those soft November days, which some- 
times intervene between the rough winds of 
October and the crisp frosts of Christmas, and 
which, although too dirty under foot to be 
quite pleasant for walking, are yet, during the 
few hours that the sun is above the horizon, 
mild enough for an open carriage in our shady 
lanes, strewed as they are at that period with 
the yellow leaves of the elm, whilst the hedge- 
rows are still rich with the tawny foliage of 
the oak, and the rich colouring of the haw- 
thorn and the bramble. It was such weather 
as the Americans generally enjoy at this sea- 
son, and call by the pretty name of the Indian 
summer. And we resolved to avail ourselves 
of the fineness of the day to drive to Ashley 
End, and inform Mrs. King and Tom (who 
we felt ought to know) of the loss of Chloe, 
and our fear, according with Mrs. Keating's, 
tliat she had been stolen; adding our persua- 
sion, which was also that of Mrs. Keating, 
that, fall into whatever hands she might, she 
was too beautiful and valuable not to ensure 
good usage. 

On the way we were overtaken by the good 
widow's landlord, returning from hunting, in 
his red coat and top-boots, who was also 
bound to Ashley End. As he rode chatting 
by the side of the carriage, we could not for- 
bear telling him our present errand, and the 
whole story of poor Chloe. How often, witli- 
out being particularly uncharitable in judging 
of our neighbours, we have the gratification 
of finding them even better than we had sup- 
posed ! He blamed us for not having thought 
well enough of him to put the whole affair 
into his management from the first, and ex- 
claimed against us for fearing that he would 
compare the preserves and the pheasant-shoot- 
ing with sucli an attachmetit as had subsisted 
bi-lween his good old tenant and her faithful 
dog. " By Jove !" cried he, "I would have 
paid the tax myself rather than they should 
have been parted. But it's too late to talk 
of that now, for, of course, the dog is stolen. 
Eighty miles is too far even for a spaniel to 
find its way hack ! Carried by coach, too! 
I would give twenty pounds willingly to re- 
place her with old Dame King and Master 



Tom. By the way, we must see what can be 
done for that boy — he 's a fine spanking fel- 
low. We must consult his grandmother. 
The descendant of two faithful servants has 
an hereditary claim to all that can be done for 
him. How could you imagine that I should 
be thinking of these coverts? — I, that am as 
great a dog-lover as Dame King herself! I 
have a great mind to be very angry with you." 
These words, spoken in the good sports- 
man's earnest, hearty, joyous, kindly voice, 
{that ought to have given an assurance of his 
kindly nature, — I have a religious faith in 
voices,) these words brought us within sight 
of Ashley End, and there, in front of the cot- 
tage, we saw a group which fixed our attention 
at once : Chloe, her own identical self — poor, 
dear Chloe, apparently just arrived, dirty, 
weary, jaded, wet, lying in Tom's arms as he 
sat on the ground, feeding her with the bacon 
and cabbage, his own and his grandmother's 
dinner, all the contents of the platter; and 
she, too happy to eat, wagging her tail as if 
she would wag it off, now licking Mrs. 
King's hands as the good old dame leant over 
her, the tears streaming from her eyes : now 
kissing Tom's honest face, who broke into 
loud laughter for very joy, and, with looks 
that spoke as plain as ever looks did speak, 
" Here I am come home again to those whom 
I love best — to those who best love me!" 
Poor dear Chloe ! Even we whom she left, 
sympathised with her fidelity. Poor dear 
Chloe ! there we found her, and there, I need 
not, I hope, sajs we left her, one of the hap- 
piest of living creatures. 



THE LOST DAHLIA. 

If to have " had losses" be, as affirmed by 
Dogberry, in one of Shakspeare's most charm- 
ing plays, and corroborated by Sir Walter 
Scott in one of his most charming romances 
— (those two names do well in juxtaposition, 
the great Englishman ! the great Scotsman !) 
— If to have "had losses" be a main proof 
of credit and respectability, then am I one of 
the most responsible persons in the whole 
county of Berks. To say nothing of the 
graver matters which figure in a banker's 
book, and make, iii these days of- pounds, 
shillings, and pence, so large a part of the 
domestic tragedy of life — putting wholly 
aside all the grander transitions of proj)erty 
in house and land, of money on mortgage, 
and money in the funds — (and yet I might 
put in my claim to no trilling amount of ill 
luck in that way also, if I had a mind to try 
my hand at a dismal story) — counting for 
nought all weightier grievances, there is not 
a lad)^ within twenty miles who can produce 
so large a list of small losses as my mifor- 
tunate self. 



THE LOST DAHLIA. 



539 



From the day when, a tiny damsel of some 
four years old, I first had a pocket-handker- 
chief to lose, down to this very niorht — 1 will 
not say how many years after — when, as 1 
have just discovered, I have most certainly 
lost from my pficket the new cambric kerchief 
wliich I deposited therein a little before din- 
ner, scarcely a week has passed without some 
part of my croods and chattels being returned 
missing. Gloves, muifs, parasols, reticules, 
have each of them a provoking knack of fall- 
ing from my hands ; boas glide from my 
neck, rings slip from my fingers, the bow has 
vanished from my cap, the veil from my bon- 
net, the sandal from my foot, the brooch from 
my collar, and the collar from my brooch. 
The trinket which I liked best, a jewelled pin, 
the first gift of a dear friend, (luckily the 
friendship is not necessarily appended to the 
token,) dropped from my shawl in the midst 
of the high road; and of shawls themselves, 
there is no end to the loss. Tlie two prettiest 
that ever I had in my life, one a splendid 
specimen of Glasgow manufacture — a scarlet 
hardly to be distinguished from Cashmere — 
the other a lighter and cheaper fabric, white 
in the centre, with a delicate sprig, and a bor- 
der harmoniously compounded of the deepest 
blue, the brightest orange, and the richest 
brown, disappeared in two successive sum- 
mers and winters, in the very bloom of their 
novelty, from the folds of the phaeton, in 
which ihey had been deposited for safety — 
fairly blown overboard ! If 1 left things 
about, they were lost. If I put them away, 
they were lost. They were lost in the drawers 
— they were lost out. And if for a miracle I 
had them safe under lock and key, why, then, 
I lost my keys ! I was certainly the most 
unlucky person under the sun. If there was 
nothing else to lose, I was fain to lose my- 
self — I mean my way ; bewildered in these 
Aberleigh lanes of ours, or in the woodland 
recesses of the Penge, as if haunted by that 
fairy, Robin Goodfellow, who led Hermiaand 
Helena such a dance in the Midsummer 
Night's Dream. Alas ! that there should be 
no Fairies now-a-days, or rather, no true be- 
lievers in Fairies, to help us to bear the bur- 
then of our own mortal carelessness. 

It was not quite all carelessness, though ! 
Some ill luck did mingle with a great deal of 
mismanagement, as the "one poor happ'ortli 
of bread " with the huge gallon of sack in the 
bill of which Poins picked Falstaff''s pocket 
when he was asleep behind the arras. Things 
belonging to me, or tilings thati cared for, did 
contrive to get lost, -wiihout my having any 
hand in the matter. For instance, if out of 
the variety of " talking birds," starlings, jack- 
daws, and magpies, which my father deliglUs 
to entertain, any one particularly diverting or 
accomplished, more than usually coaxing and 
mischievous, happened to attract my attention, 
and to pay me the compliment of following at 



my heels, or perching upon my shoulder, the 
gentleman was sure to hop off. My favourite 
mare. Pearl, the pretty docile creature which 
draws my little phaeton, has such a talent for 
leaping, that she is no sooner turned out in 
either of our meadows, than she disappears. 
And Dash himself, paragon of spaniels, pet 
of pets, beauty of beauties, has only one 
shade of imperfection — would be thoroughly 
faultless, if it were not for a slight tendency 
to run away. He is regularly lost four or 
five times every winter, and has been oftener 
cried through the streets of Belford, and ad- 
vertised in the county newspapers, than com- 
ports with a dog of his dignity. Now, these 
mischances clearly belong to that class of 
accidents commonly called casualties, and are 
quite unconnected with any infirmity of tem- 
perament on my part. I cannot help Pearl's 
proficiency in jumping, nor Dash's propensity 
to wander through the country ; neither had I 
any hand in the loss which has given its title 
to this paper, and which, after so much pre- 
vious dallying, lam at length about to narrate. 
The autumn before last, that is to say, above 
a year ago, the boast and glory of my little 
garden was a dahlia called the Phcebus. 
How it came there, nobody very distinctly 
knew, nor where it came from, nor how we 
came by it, nor how it came by its own most 
appropriate name. Neither the lad who tends 
our flowers, nor my father, the person chiefly 
concerned in procuring them, nor I myself, 
who more even than my father or John take 
delight and pride in their beauty, could recol- 
lect who gave us this most splendid plant, or 
who first instructed us as to the style and 
title by which it was known. Certes never 
was blossom fillier named. Regular as the 
sun's face in an almanac, it had a tint of 
golden scarlet, of ruddy yellow, which realized 
Shakspeare's gorgeous expression of " flame 
coloured." The sky at sunset sometimes puts 
on such a hue, or a fire at Christmas when it 
burns red as well as bright. The blossom 
was dazzling to look upon. It seemed as if 
there were light in the leaves, like that colour- 
ed lamp of a flower, the Oriental Poppy. 
Phffibus was not too glorious a name for that 
dahlia. The Golden-haired Apollo might be 
proud of such an emblem. It was worthy of 
the god of day ; — a very Phoenix of floral 
beauty. 

p]very dahlia-fancier who came into our 
garden, or who had an opportunity of seeing 
a bloom elsewhere; and, sooth to say, we 
were rather ostentatious in our display ; John 
put it into stands, and jars, and baskets, and 
dishes; Dick stuck it into Dash's collar, his 
own button-hole, and Pearl's bridle; my 
father presented it to such lady visiters as he 
deliohted to honour; and I, who have the 
habit of dangling a flower, generally a sweet 
one, caught myself more than once rejecting 
the spicy clove and the- starry jessamine, the 



540 



COUNTRY STORIES. 



blossomed myrtle and the tuberose, my old 
fragrant favourites, for this scentless (but tri- 
umphant) beauty; everybody who beheld the 

Phoebus beo-cred for a plant or a cutting ; and 

^ • • • 1 1 • 

we, p-enerous m our ostentation, willing to re- 
deem the vice by the virtue, promised as many 
plants and cuttinos as we could reasonably 
imagine the root might be made to produce* 
— perhaps rather more ; and half the dahlia- 
growers round rejoiced over the glories of the 
gorgeous flower, and speculated, as the wont 
is now, upon seedling after seedling to the 
twentieth generation. 

Alas for the vanity of human expectations ! 
February came, the twenty-second of Febru- 
ary, the very St. Valentine of dahlias, when 
the roots which have been buried in the 
ground during the winter are disinterred, and 
placed in a hotbed to put forth their first shoots 
previous to the grand operations of potting 
and dividing them. Of course, the first ob- 
ject of search in the choicest corner of the 
nicely-labelled hoard, was the Phcebus : but 
no Phcebus was forthcoming; root and label 
had vanished bodily ! There was, to be sure, 
a dahlia without a label, which we would 
gladly have transformed into the missing 
treasure ; but, as we speedily discovered a 
label without a dahlia, it was but too obvious 
that they belonged to each other. Until last 
year we might have Tiad plenty of the consola- 
tion which results from such divorces of the 
name from the thing; for our labels, some- 
times written upon parchment, sometimes upon 
leather, sometimes upon wood, as each mate- 
rial happened to be recommended by gardening 
authorities, and fastened on with packthread, 
or whip-cord, or silk twist, had generally 
parted company from the roots, and frequently 
become utterly illegible, producing a state of 
confusion which most undoubtedly we never 
expected to regret : but this year we had fol- 
lowed the one perfect system of labels of un- 
glazed china, highly varnished after writing 
on them, and fastened on by wire; and it had 
answered so completely, that one, and one 
only, had broken from its moorings. No 
hope could be gathered from that quarter. 
The Phcebus was gone. So much was clear; 
and our loss being fully ascertained, we all 
began, as the custom is, to divert our grief 
and exercise our ingenuity by ditferent guesses 
as to the fate of the vanished treasure. 

My father, although certain that he had 
written the label, and wired the root, had his 
misgivings about the place in which it had 



*It is wonderful how many plants may, by dint of 
forcing, and cuuiiig and fi>rcing again, be extracted 
from one root. But llie experiment is not always safe. 
Nature sometimes avenges herself for the encroach- 
ments of art, by weakening the progeny. 'I'he Napo- 
leon Dahlia, fijr instance, the finest of last year's 
seedlings, being over-propagated, this season has hardly 
prochiced one perfect bloom, even in the hands of the 
most skilful cultivators. 



been deposited, and half suspected that it had 
slipt in amongst a basket which he had sent as 
a present to Ireland; I myself, judging from 
a similar accident which had once happened 
to a choice hyacinth bulb, partly thought that 
one or other of us might have put it for care 
and safety in some snug corner, that it would 
be six months before it turned up ; John, im- 
pressed with a high notion of the money- 
value of the property, and estimating it some- 
thing as a keeper of the regalia inight estimate 
the iflost precious of the crown jewels, boldly 
aflinned that it was stolen ; and Dick, who 
had just had a demele with the cook, upon 
the score of her refusal to dress a beef-steak 
for a sick greyhound, asserted, between jest 
and earnest, that that hard-hearted oflicial had 
either ignorantly or maliciously boiled the 
root for a Jerusalem artichoke, and that we, 
who stood lamenting over our regretted Phoe- 
bus, had actually eaten it, dished up with 
white sauce. John turned pale at the thought. 
The beautiful story of the Falcon, in Boccac- 
cio, which the young knight killed to regale 
his mistress, or the still more tragical history 
of Couci, who minced his rival's heart, and 
served it up to his wife, could not have affected 
him more deeply. We grieved over our lost 
dahlia, as if it had been a thing of life. 

Grieving, however, would not repair our 
loss ; and we determined, as the only chance 
of becoming again possessed of this beautiful 
flower, to visit, as soon as the dahlia season 
began, all the celebrated collections in the 
neighbourhood, especially all those from which 
there was any chance of our having procured 
the root which had so mysteriously vanished. 

Early in September, I set forth on my voy- 
age ."f discovery — my voyages, I ought to 
say ; for every day I and my pony-phaeton 
made our way to whatever garden within our 
reach bore a sufficiently high character to be 
suspected of harbouring the good Dahlia 
Phffibus. 

Monday we called at LadyA.'s; Tuesday 
at General B.'s ; Wednesday at Sir John C.'s; 
Thursday at Mrs. D.'s ; Friday at Lord E.'s ; 
and Saturday at Mrs. F.'s. We might as 
well have staid at home; not a Phffibus had 
they, or any thing like one. 

We then visited the nurseries, from Brown's, 
at Slough, a princely establishment, worthy 
of its regal neighbourhood, to the pretty rural 
gardens at South Warnborough, not forgetting 
our own most intelligent and obliging nursery- 
inan, Mr. Sutton of Heading — (Belford Regis, 
I mean) — whose collection of flowers of all 
sorts is amongst the most choice and select 
that I have ever known. Hundreds of mag- 
nificent blossoms did we see in our progress, 
but not the blossom we wanted. 

There was no lack, heaven knows, of dahlias 
of the desired colour. Besides a score of 
" Orange Perfections," bearing the names of 
their respective growers, we were introduced 



THE LOST DAHLIA. 



541 



'i to four Princes of Orange, three Kings of 
Holland, two Williams the Third, and one 
Lord Roden.* We were even shown a bloom 
called the Phcgbus, about as like to our Phoe- 
bus " as I to Hercules." But the true Phosbus, 
" the real Simon Pure," was as far to seek as 
ever. 

Learnedly did I descant with the learned in 
dahlias over the merits of my lost beauty. 
" It was a cupped flower, Mr. Sutton," quoth 
I, to my agreeable and sympathising listener; 
(gardeners are a most cultivated and gentle- 
manly race ;) " a cupped dahlia, of the genu- 
ine metropolitan shape; large as the Criterion, 
regular as the Springfield Rival, perfect as 
Dodd's Mary, with a long bloom stalk like 
those good old flowers, the Countess of Liver- 
pool and the Widnall's Perfection. And such 
a free blower, and so true ! I am quite sure 
that there is not so good a dahlia this year. I 
prefer it to ' Corinne,' over and over." And 
Mr. Sutton assented and condoled, and I was 
as near to being comforted as anybody could 
be, who had lost such a flower as the Phoe- 
bus. 

After so many vain researches, most persons 
would have abandoned the pursuit in despair. 
>But despair is not in my nature. I have a 
comfortable share of the quality which the 
possessor is wont to call perseverance — whilst 
the uncivil world is apt to designate it by the 
name of obstinacy — and do not easily give in. 
Then the chase, however fruitless, led, like 
other chases, into beautiful scenery, and formed 
an excuse for my visiting or revisiting many 
of the prettiest places in the county. 

Two of the most remarkable spots in the 
neighbourhood are, as it happens, famous for 
their collections of dahlias — Strathfield-saye, 
the seat of the Duke of Wellington, and the 
ruins of Reading Abbey. 

Nothing can well be prettier than the drive 
to Strathfield-saye, passing, as we do, through 
a great part of Heckfield Heath, f a tract of 



*The nomenclature of dahlias is a curious sign of 
the times. It rivals in oddity that of the Racing 
Calendar. Next to the peerage, Shakspeare and 
Homer seem to be the cliief sources whence they 
have derived their appellations. Thus we have 
Hectors and Diomedes of all colours, a very black 
Othello, and a very fair Desdemona. One beautiful 
blossom, which seems like a while ground thickly 
rouged with carmine, is called " the Honourable Mrs. 
Harris ;" and it is droll to observe how punctiliously 
the working gardeners retain the dignified prefix iin 
speaking of the flower. I heard the other day of a 
serious dahlia-grower who had called his seedlings 
after his favourite preachers, so that we shall have 
the Reverend Edward Sk)-and-so, and the Reverend 
John Such-an-one, fraternizing with the profiine 
Ariels and Imogenes, the Giaours and Medoras of the 
old catalogue. So much the better. Floriculture is 
amongst the most innocent and humanizing of all 
pleasures, and everything which tends to diffuse such 
pursuits amongst those who have too few amusements, 
is a point gained for happiness and for virtue. 

t It may be interesting to the lovers of literature to 
bear that my accomplished friend JVIrs. Trollops was 

46 



wild woodland, a forest, or rather a chase, full 
of fine sylvan beauty — thickets of fern and 
holly, and hawthorn and birch, surmounted by 
oaks and beeches, and interspersed with lawny 
glades and deep pools, letting light into the 
picture. Nothing can be prettier than the ap- 
proach to the duke's lodge. And the entrance 
to the demesne, through a deep dell dark with 
magnificent firs, from which we emerge into 
a finely wooded park of the richest verdure, is 
also striking and impressive. But the dis- 
tinctive feature of the place (for the mansion, 
merely a comfortable and convenient noble- 
man's house, hardly responds to the fame of 
its owner) is the grand avenue of noble elms, 
three quarters of a mile long, which leads to 
the front door. It is difficult to iinagine any- 
thing which more completely realises the jio- 
etical fancy, that the pillars and arches of a 
Gothic cathedral were borrowed from the in- 
terlacing of the branches of trees planted at 
stated intervals, than this avenue, in which 
Nature has so completely succeeded in out- 
rivalling her handmaiden Art, that not a sin- 
gle trunk, hardly even a bough or a twig, ap- 
pears to mar the grand regularity of the design 
as a piece of perspective. No cathedral aisle 
was ever more perfect; and the eflfect, under 
every variety of aspect, the magical light and 
shadow of the cold white moonshine, the cold 
green light of a cloudy day, and the glancing 
sunbeams which pierce through the leafy um- 
brage in the bright summer noon, are such as 
no words can convey. Separately considered, 
each tree (and the north of Hampshire is cele- 
brated for the size and shape of its elms) is a 
model of stately growth, and they are now 
just at perfection, probably about a hundred 
and thirty years old. There is scarcely per- 
haps in the kingdom such another avenue. 

On one side of this noble approach is the 
garden, where, under the care of the skilful 
and excellent gardener, Mr. Cooper, so many 
magnificent dahlias are raised, but where, 
alas! the Phoebus was not; and between that 
and the mansion is the sunny, shady paddock, 
with its rich pasture and its roomy stable, 
where, for so many years, Copenhagen, the 
charger who carried the Duke at Waterloo, 
formed so great an object of attraction to the 
visiters of Strathfield-saye. :j: Then came the 
house itself, and then I returned home. 



"raised," as her friends the Americans would say, 
upon this spot. Her father, the Rev. William Milton, 
himself a very clever man, and an able mechanician 
and engineer, held the living of Heckfield for many 
years. 

t Copenhagen — (f had the honour of naming one 
of Mr. Cooper's dahlias after him — a sort of dai/ dah- 
lia, if I may be permitied the expression) — Copenha- 
gen was a most interesting horse. He died last year 
at the age of twenty-seven. He was therefore in his 
prime on the day of Waterloo, when the duke (then 
and still a man of iron) rode him for seventeen hours 
and a half, without dismounting. When his Grace 
got ofi; he patted him, and the horse kicked, to the 
great delight of his brave rider, as it proved that he 



542 



COUNTRY STORIES. 



Well ! this was one beautiful and fruitless 
drive. The ruins of Reading Abbey formed 
another as fruitless, and still more beautiful. 

Whether in the "palmy state" of the faith 
of Rome, the pillared aisles of the Abbey 
church migrht have vied in grandeur with the 
avenue at Stralhfield-saye, 1 can hardl}^ say ; 
but certainly, as they stand, the venerable 
arched gateway, the rock-like masses of wall, 
the crumblincr cloisters, and the exquisite fin- 
ish of the surbases of the columns and otiier 
fragments, fresh as if chiseled yesterday, 
which are reappearing in the excavations now 
making, there is an interest which leaves the 
grandeur of life, palaces and their pageantry, 
parks and their adornments, all grandeur ex- 
cept the indestructible grandeur of nature, at 
an immeasurable distance. The place was a 
history. Centuries passed before us as we 
thought of the magnificent monastery, the 
third in size and splendour in England, with 
its area of thirty acres between the walls — 
and gazed upon it now ! 

And yet, even now, how beautiful ! Trees 
of every growth mingling with those grey 
ruins, creepers wreathing their fantastic gar- 
lands around the mouldering arches, gorgeous 
flowers flourishing in the midst of that decay ! 
I almost forgot my search for the dear Phce- 
bus, as I rambled with my friend, Mr. Malone, 
the gardener, a man who w-ould in any station 
be remarkable for acuteness and acquirement, 
amongst the august remains of the venerable 
abbey, with the history of which he was as 
conversant as with his own immediate profes- 
sion. There was no speaking of smaller ob- 
jects in the presence of the mighty past! — 
Vide note at ike end of this article. 



was not beaten by that tremendous day's work. After 
his return, this paddock was assigned lo him, in which 
he passed the rest of his hfe in the most perfect com- 
fort that can be imagined; fed twice a-day, (latserly 
upon oats broken for him,) with a comfortable stable 
to retire to, and a rich pasture in which to range. The 
late amiable duchess used regularly to feed him with 
bread, and this kindness had given him the habit, (es- 
pecially after her death,) of approaching every lady 
with the most confiding familiarity. He had been a 
fine animal, of middle size and a chestnut colour, but 
latterly he exhibited an intere.sting specimen of natu- 
ral decay, in a state as nearly that of nature as can 
well be found in a civilized country. He had lost an 
eye from age, and had become lean and feeble, and, 
in the manner in which he approached even a casual 
visiter, there was something of the demand of sym- 
pathy, the appeal to human kindness, which one has 
so often observed from a very old dog towards his 
master. IVwr Copenhagen, who, when alive, furnished 
so many reliques from his mane and tail to enthusi- 
astic young ladies, who had his hair set in brooches 
and rings, was, after being interred with military ho- 
nours, dug up by some miscreant, (never, I believe, 
discovered,) and one of his hoofs cut off, it is to be 
presumed, for a memorial, although one that would 
hardly go in the compass of a ring. A very fine por- 
trait of Copenhagen has been executed by my young 
friend Edmund llavell, a youth of seventeen, whose 
getiius as an animal painter will certainly place him 
second only to Landseer. 



Gradually chilled by so much unsuccess, 
the ardour of my pursuit began to a ; ite. I 
began to admit the merits of other dahlias of 
divers colours, and actually caught myself 
committing the inconstancy of considering 
which of the four Princes of Orange 1 should 
bespeak for next year. Time, in short, was 
beginning to play his part as the great com- 
forter of human afflictions, and the poor Phoe- 
bus seemed as likely to be forgotten as a last 
year's bonnet, or a last week's newspaper — 
when, happening to walk with my father to 
look at a field of his, a pretty bit of upland 
pasture about a mile off", I was struck, in one 
corner where the manure for dressing had been 
deposited, and a heap of earth and dung still 
remained, to be spread, I suppose, next spring, 
with some tall plant surmounted with bright 
flowers. Could it be? — was it possible'? — 
did my eyes play me false? — No; there it 
was, upon a dunghill — the object of all my re- 
searches and latnentations, the identical Phce- 
bus ! the lost dahlia ! 



Note. — By far the most interesting object in our 
neighbourhood has always seemed to me the rock-like 
ruins of Reading Abbey, themselves a history; all the 
more interesting because, until lately, that, the most 
important part of these remauis has become the pro- 
perly of my friend, Mr. Wlieble, the present High 
SherifTof Berks, whose researches have drawn some 
attention to the subject, these venerable relics of an 
earlier day, situate close to a wealthy and |X)pulous 
town, not forty miles from London, and actually within 
sight of the great road from Bath and Bristol to the 
metrofjolis, have seemed utterly unnoticed and un- 
known. Here and there, indeed, some fiinciful vir- 
tuoso, like Marshal Conway, (best known as the friend 
and correspondent of Horace VVal[K)le,) has evinced 
his passion for antiquity by the desire of appropriating 
what he admired, and has dragged away whole 
masses of the walls to assist in his fiintastical doings 
at Henley and elsewhere, — or a set of Cioths and Van- 
dals, the county magistrates of fifty years ago (sure am 
I that their successors would not have dreamed of such 
a desecration) have pitched upon the outskirts of the 
old monastery for the erection of their huge, staring, 
glaring gaol and Bridewell, with all its miserable as- 
sociations of wretchedness and crime, — or an educa- 
tion committee, with equal bad taste in a different 
way (they really seem to have imagined that they had 
done a fine thing) have run up a roof of red tiles 
within the walls of the refectory, and moved the 
children of a national school, upon Dr. Bell's system, 
into the noble hall, where kings had signed edicts 
and parliaments framed laws. This last nuisance 
has been abated. The children have now a school- 
room of their own, far better adapted to its object, 
more healthful and more comfortable, and the Abbey 
is left to the silence and solitude which best beseem 
the recollections and associations attendant on this 
stupendous structure. 

Reading Abbey was founded by Henry the First, 
in the beginning of the year 1121, and dedicated to 
the honour of the Virgin Mary and St. John, as ap- 
pears by the charter granted four years afterwards: — 
vide Dugdale's Moiiasticon ; "for my soul's health, 
and the souls of King William my fiuher, of my son 
William, of Queen Matilda my mother, of Queen 
Matilda my wife, and of all my predecessors and suc- 
cessors." 

The charter then goes on to recite the immense pos- 



THE LOST DAHLIA. 



543 



sessions and regal privileges bestowed upon the mo- 
nastery at Reading and its ceils at Leominster and at 
Cholsey. 

It grants them a mint, with the privilege of striking 
money. 

It exempts tHem from all taxes, imposts, or contri- 
butions whatsoever, and from all levies of men for 
wars or other services. 

It gives " the abbot and his monks full power to try 
all offences commiiled withni or without the borough, 
in the highways, and all oilier places, whether by 
their own servants or strangers, with all causes which 
can or may arise with socca* and sacca,t tol, and 
lheam,t and infangentheft,^^ and outfangentheft.H and 
ham socna.H withui the borough and without the bo- 
rough, in the roads and footpaths, and in all places, 
and with all causes which do or may arise. 

" And the abbot and his monks shall hold courts of 
justice for trials of assaults, thefts, and murders, for 
the shedding of blood, and breaches of the peace, in 
the same manner that belongs to the royal authority," 
&c. &c. 

Then follows a paragraph which we insert in honour 
of the accomplished founder. It is worthy of Alfred. 

" But this also we determine and appoint to be lor 
over observed, that seeing the Abbot of Radynge 
hath no revenues but what are in common with his 
brethren; therefore, whoever by devise, consent, and 
canonical election shall be made abbot, shall not be- 
stow the alms of the monastery on his lay kindred or 
any others, but reserve them for the entertainment of 
the poor and strangers." 

And William of Malmesbury certifies that this part 
of the charter was so well observed, that there was 
always more expended upon strangers than upon the 
inhabitants, " the monks being," as he asserts, "great 
examples of piety." 

The charter concludes with a strenuous recommen- 
dation to all succeeding kings to continue the above 
privileges and immuniiies to the monastery, and with 
this remarkable malison, the fear of which Beau- 
clerc's burly successor, Henry, the eighth of that 
name, most assuredly had not before his eyes, when 
he hanged the abbot and knocked down the walls. 

" But if any one shall knowingly presume to in- 
fringe, diminish, or alter this our fiaundalion charter, 
may the great God of all withdraw and eradicate him 
and his posterity, and may he remain without any in- 
heritance, in misery and hunger," &c. 

The extent and magnificence of the monastery were 
commensurate with the high privileges granted by 
the royal founder, and with the station of the superior, 
who ranked as third amongst the mitred abbots of 
England : next after the abbots of Glastenbury and 
St. Alban's. 

A space of thirty acres was comprised within the 
outer walls; and though a considerable part of this 
was devoted to the inner and outer courts, the clois- 
ters, and the gardens, yet the building itself was stu- 
pendous in size and in strength. 1 have seen decayed 
specimens of gothic R"chitecture which bear more 
striking traces of lightness and ornament, but none 
that ever seemed so calculated for duration, so prodi- 
gally massive and solid. The great hall, whose noble 
proportions are eighty feet in length, forty in width, 
and forty to the centre of the arched stone ceilmg, 



* Socca, ths place or precinct wherein the liberty of 
court was exercised. 

fSacca, a liberty granted by the kin;? to try and judge 
causes, and to receive the forfeitures arisinjf from them. 

t Theam, a privilege to take and keep bondsmen, vil- 
lains, and serfs, with their generations, one after another. 

§ Infnnp:entheft, a liberty to try and jadje a thief taken 
within the jurisdiction of the manor or boronj,'h. 

||OLitfanu;entheft, the same privileje to try any thief 
taken out of the jurisdiction of the manor or borough. 

IT Ham Socna, the levying a tine on the disturbers of 
the king's peace. 

— 



had walls six feet thick, coated with freestone, and 
filled up with flints and stones, cemented with a mor- 
tar as durable as the materials themselves. This was 
the width of all the walls,Hnner as well as outer, and 
seems to be only a fair sample of the general propor- 
tions of the apartments. The foundations under ground 
were seven feet deep and twelve wide ; and the ex- 
cavations making in the church, of which many of the 
surbases of the columns, bits of stainsti glass and 
other ornamental parts, remain as fresh as if only fin- 
ished yesterday, prove that ihe execution of this mag- 
nificent pile was as perfect and beautiful as the design 
was stupendous and grand. Sir Henry Englefield 
.says, (Archffilogia,) every form of Saxon moulding, 
and many never seen before, may be found in the 
stones dispersed through the town. 

Everything belonging to these magnificent monks 
seems to have been conducted with this union of large- 
nes* and finish. They appear to have brought for 
their use, from the river Kennett, a canal called the 
Holy (or Hallowed) Brook, from Coley, an elevated 
spot nearly two miles from the Abbey, conducting it 
by a descent so equal and gradual, that it moved the 
Abbey mills (which still exist) with the same regu- 
larity in the m.ost parching droughts or the wildest 
floods, even taking the precautions of paving it with 
brick, and arching it in great part over, during its pa.s- 
sage through the town. And having thus provided 
themselves with soft water, and with the constant as- 
surance of grinding their corn through every season, 
however unfavourable, they provided themselves 
with the luxury of spring water from the conduit, a 
celebrated spring rising on a hill on another side of 
Reading, and at least a mile from the abode of the 
lord abbot. This water was brought to the monastery 
in pipes, and from a discovery made accidentally by 
some labourers who were excavating a sawpit in a 
bank on the south side of the Kenneit, in the middle 
of the last century, it appears to have passed nnder 
the Kennett. The story is told in JVlann's history of 
Reading. — "They" (the men employed at the sawpil) 
"found a leaden pipe, about two inches in diameter, 
lying in the direction of the conduit, and passing un- 
der the river towards the Abbey, part of which, from 
its situation under the water, they were obliged to 
leave. The rest was sold for old lead." Coates also 
brings undoubted teslimony to prove that the conduit 
spring supplied the Abbey, and that the water was 
brought under the Kennett. 

Certainly, as the river runs between the conduit 
and the Abbey, the pipe must have gone under or 
over it ; but the fact is worth mentioning as curious 
in itself, and as tending to prove, in these days, when 
we are a little apt, if not to overvalue our own do- 
ings, at least to undervalue those of our ancestors, 
that, not rnerely in architecture, (lor in that grandest 
art we are pigmies indeed, compared to those great 
masters whose names are lost, though their works, in 
spite of a thousand foes, seem indestructible,) that not 
in architecture only, but in tunnel-making, we might 
take lessons from those old-fashioned personages the 
monks. 

From the period of its consecration, we find the 
name of Reading Abbey occurring frequently in all 
the histories of the times. Parliamenis and councils 
were holden there; legates received; traitors execu- 
ted ; kings, queens, and princes buried in the holy 
precincts. Speed mentions, picturesquely, King Henry 
and his Queen "who lay there veiled and crowned." 
Bishops were consecrated, joustings celebrated, knights 
dubbed, and money coined. 

One incident which has reference to the Abboj', 
related by Slowe, is so romantic that I cannot refrain 
from giving the story. It would make a fine dramatic 
scene — almost a drama. 

" In 11G7, a single combat was foucht at Reading, 
between Robert de Monlford, appellant, and Henry 
de Essex, defendant ; the occasion of which was as 
follows. In an engagement- which Henry the Second 



544 



COUNTRY STORIES. 



had with the Welsh, in 1157, some of his nobles, who 
had been detached with a considerable part of the 
army, were cut off by an ambuscade ; those who es- 
caped, thinking the king Vvas also surrounded, told 
every one they met that he was either taken or slain. 

"The news of this imaginary disaster put to flight 
the greatest part of the surviving army. Among the 
rest, Henry de Essex, hereditary standard-bearer to 
the kings of England, threw away the royal banner, 
and fled. For this act of cowardice he was challenged 
by Robert de Montford as a traitor. Essex denied the 
charge, declaring he was fully persuaded that the 
king was slain or taken; which probably would have 
happened, if Roger, Earl of Clare, had not brought 
up a body of troops, and, by displaying again the 
roval standard, encouraged the soldiers ; by which 
means he preserved the remainder of the army. 

"The king ordered this quarrel to be decided by 
single combat; and the two knights met at Reading, 
on the 8th of April, on an island,* near the Abbey, 
the king being present in person, with many of the 
nobility and other spectators. Montford began the 
combat with great fury, and Essex, having endured 
this violent attack for some time, at length turning 
into rage, took upon himself the part of a challenger 
and not of a defender. He fell after receiving many 
wounds; and the king, supposing him slain, at the 
retjuest of several noblemen, his relations, gave per- 
mission to the monks to inter the body, commanding 
that no further violence should be offered to it. The 
monks took up the vanquished knight, and carried 
him into the Abbey, where he revived. When he 
recovered from his wounds, he was received into the 
community and assumed the habit of the order, his 
lands being forfeited to the king." 

Such was the Abbey from its foundation to the 
Reformation ; succeeding Monarchs augmenting its 
demesnes and revenues by magnificent gifts, and 
confirming by successive charters the privileges and 
immunities enjoyed by the abbot and monks; for al- 
though the superior had various country-houses and 
parks, and was a spiritual peer of the highest rank, 
there yet appears, from many of the rules which have 
come down to us, one especially, in which no member 
of the community could absent himself for a night 
without first obtaining permission from every individ- 
ual monk in the convent, sufficient reason to believe 
that the internal government of the house was not 
altogether monarchial, but that it partook somewhat 
of the mixed form of the English constitution, and 
that the commons, if we may so term the brethren of 
the order, had some voice in the management of its 
concerns. 

Upon the whole, the rule of the monks of Reading 
over their vassals, the burghers, and their feudal 
tenants in the villages round, to say nothing of their 
dependent cells at Leominster and at Cholsey, seems 
to have been mild, benevolent, and charitable. Rich 
landlords are, generally speaking, kind landlords; it 
is those who are themselves pushed for money who 
become hard creditors in return; and besides the 
wealth that flowed into the good borough from the 
trains of knights and nobles who attended the parlia- 
ments and councils held in the .'\bbey, the fiilhers of 
the community were not only zealous protectors of 
their vassals against the aggressions so common in 
that age of violence, but they furnished alms to the 
poor, shelter to the houseless, and medical aid to the 
sick, from their own resources. Traces of their power 
and their charity, as well as of the mannera of the 



* Tradition aspigns as the place of this combat a beau- 
tiful green islaiiil nearly surrounded with willows, in the 
midst of tlio Thames, to the east of Caversbani bridge. 
A more beautiful spot could not have been devised for 
such a cnniliat. It «iis in sif;lit of the Abbey, and of the 
remarkable chapel erected in the centre of the bridge, of 
wtiich the fuundatiou still remains, surmounted by a 
modern house. 



times, meet us' constantly in the incidental allusions 
to the Abbey in our old historians and topographers; 
thus, for instance, amongst the hospitals attached to 
the foundation, mention is made of a house fijr lepers 
at Erleigh. 

That the town flourished under their guardian care, 
is suflieiently proved, by the fact that Speed's map,t 
taken a comparatively short period after the Reforma- 
tion, might alrtiost have pa.«sed for a plan of Reading 
forty years ago, so little had the old town increased (it 
has made a huge spring in the present century) during 
the long period that intervened between Elizabeth 
and George the Third. 

The palmy days of the church of Rome in this 
country were, however, numbered, and upon none of 
the great monastic establishments did the slorm of the 
Reformation burst with more unsparing violence than 
upon the fated Abbey of Reading. 

In September, 1539, John London, one of the com- 
missioners for visiting and suppressing religious houses, 
arrived at Reading, and notwithstanding the submission 
of Hugh, the then abbot, which appears to have been 
implicit, he was hanged and quartered with two of 
his monks at one of the gates of the monastery, on 
the 14th of November fijllowing. 

The work of destruction then commenced. No 
particulars of the demolition of the Abbey have come 
down to us; but it is clear that the magnificent church 
was levelled at once, partly, perhaps, for the sake of 
the valuable materials, and partly to prevent the peo- 
ple, attached by habit to the splendid ceremonies of 
the Catholic worship, from clinging to the cherished 
associations connected with the spot. 

The site of the monastery itself remained with the 
crown, and a part of the house was converted into a 
royal residence, visited more than once by Elizabeth, 
and mentioned by Camden. But the enormous pos- 
sessions of the Abbey granted to one favourite and 
another, were slowly frittered away, while what re- 
mained of the house itself was nearly destroyed in the 
siege of Reading during the civil wars. 

Every twenty years has brought afresh diminution, 
until little now remains, except the shell of the refec- 
tory, and of one or two other large detached buildings 
more or less entire, parts of the cloisters, and large 
rock-like fragments of the grey walls, denuded of the 
cut free-stone by which they were coated, some up- 
right, some leaning against each other, and some 
pitched violently into the earth, as if by a tremendous 
convulsion of nature. But in the very absence of 
artificial ornament, in the massiveness and vastness 
of these remains, there is something singularly im- 
pressive and majestic. They have about them much 
of the hoary grandeur, the wild and naked desolation 
which characterize Stonehenge. And as the paltry 
modern buildings which disfigured them are gradually 
disappearing, there is every reason to hojie, from the 
excellent taste of the present proprietor, that as soon 
as the excavations which have brought to light so 
much that is curious and beautiful shall be completed, 
they may be left to the great artist Nature, so that we 
may, in a few years, see our once-famous Abbey more 
august and beautiful than it has been at any period 
since the days of its pristine magnificence;- rescued, 
as far as is now possible, from the din and bustle of 



tVery curious is this old map of "Redding." The 
vacant spaces representing fields round the town being 
illustrated by certain curious representations of trees 
and animals particularly unlike, such as a cow in the 
act of being milked, (the sex of the milking figure is 
doubtful, the dress being equally unsuitable to man or 
woman, girl or boy,) two horses fighting, with sheep 
grazing, and another creature w iiicli may stand for a pig 
or an ox at discretion, standiii!.' at ease in a meadow. It 
is remarkable that each of llnse animals would make 
three or four of the trees, under whnli it is supposed to 
stand, and is very much bigirer and taller than any church 
in the place. Those old artists had strange notions of 
perspective and proportion. 



HONOR O'CALLAGHAN. 



545 



this work-a-day world, and rising like the stately ruins 
of Netley, or rather like the tall grey cliffs of some 
sylvan solitude, from the fine elastic turf, a natural 
carpet, the green elder bush and the young ash tree 
growing amongst the mouldering niches, the ivy and 
the wall-flower waving from above, and the bright, 
clear river flowing silently along, adorning and reflect- 
ing a scene which is at once a picture and a history. 



HONOR O'CALLAGHAN. 

Times are altered since Gray spoke of the 
yountj Etonians as a set of dirty boys playing 
at cricket. There are no such things as boys 
to be met with now, either at Eton or else- 
where ; they are all men from ten years old 
upwards. Dirt also hath vanished bodily, to 
be replaced by finery. An aristocratic spirit, 
an aristocracy not of rank but of money, pos- 
sesses the place, and an enlightened young 
gentleman of my acquaintance, who, when 
somewhere about the ripe age of eleven, con- 
jured his mother "not to come to see him 
until she had got her new carriage, lest he 
should be quizzed by the rest of the men," 
was perhaps no unfair representative of the 
mass of his school-fellows. There are, of 
course, exceptions to this rule. The sons of 
the old nobility, too much accustomed to 
splendour in its grander forms, and too sul-e 
of their own station to care about such mat- 
ters, and the few finer spirits, whose ambition 
even in boyhood soars to far higher and holier 
aims, are, generally speaking, alike exempt 
from these vulgar cravings after petty distinc- 
tions. And for the rest of the small people, 
why " winter and rough weather," and that 
most excellent schoolmaster, the world, will 
not fail, sooner or later, to bring them to wiser 
thoughts. 

In the meanwhile, as according to our 
homely proverb, "for every gander there's a 
goose," so there are not wanting in London 
and its environs " establishments," (the good 
old name of boarding-school being altogether 
done away with,) where young ladies are 
trained up in a love of fashion and finery, and 
a reverence for the outward symbols of wealth, 
which cannot fail to render them worthy com- 
peers of the young gentlemen their contempo- 
raries. I have known a little girl, (fit mate 
for the above-mentioned amateur of new car- 
riages,) who complained that her mamma call- 
ed upon her, attended only by one footman; 
and it is certain, that the position of a new- 
comer in one of these houses of education will 
not fail to be materially influenced by such 
considerations as the situation of her father's 
town residence, or the name of her mother's 
milliner. At so early a period does the ex- 
clusiveness which more or les? pervades the 
whole current of English society make its 
appearance amongst our female youth. 

Even in the comparatively rational and old- 



fashioned seminary in which I was brought 
tip, we were not quite free from these vanities. 
We, too, had our high castes and our low 
castes, and (alas ! for her and for ourselves !) 
we counted among our number one v/ho in her 
loneliness and desolation might almost be 
called a Pariah — or if that be too strong an 
illustration, who was at least, in more senses 
than one, the Cinderella of the school. 

Honor O'Callaghan was, as her name im- 
ports, an Irish girl. She had been placed un- 
der the care of Mrs. Sherwood before she was 
five years old, her father being designated, in 
an introductory letter which he brought in his 
hand, as a barrister from Dublin, of ancient 
family, of considerable ability, and the very 
highest honour. The friend, however, who 
had given him this excellent character, had, 
unfortunately, died a very short time after poor 
Honor's arrival ; and of Mr. O'Callaghan, 
nothing had ever been heard after the first 
half-year, when he sent the amount of the bill 
in a draft, which, when due, proved to be dis- 
honoured. The worst part of this communi- 
cation, however unsatisfactory in its nature, 
was, that it was final. All inquiries, whether 
in Dublin or elsewhere, proved unavailing; 
Mr. O'Callaghan had disappeared ; our un- 
lucky governante found herself saddled with 
the board, clothing, and education, the present 
care, and future destiny, of a little girl, for 
whom she felt about as much affection as was 
felt by the overseers of Aberleigh towards their 
involuntary protege, Jesse CliiTe. Nay, in say- 
ing this, I ain probably giving our worthy 
governess credit for somewhat milder feelings 
upon this subject than she actually entertained ; 
the overseers in question, accustomed to such 
circumstances, harbouring no stronger senti- 
ment than a cold, passive indifference towards 
the parish boy, whilst she, good sort of woman 
as in general she was, did certainly upon this 
occasion cherish something very like an active 
aversion to the little intruder. 

The fact is, that Mrs. vSherwood, who had 
been much captivated by Mr. O'Callaghan's 
showy, off-hand inanner, his civilities, and his 
flatteries, felt, for the first time in her life, that 
she had been taken in; and being a peculiarly 
prudent, cautious personage, of the slow, 
sluggish, btagnant temperament, which those 
who possess it are apt to account a virtue, and 
to hold in scorn their more excitable and im- 
pressible neighbours, found herself touched in 
the very point of honour, piqued, aggrieved, 
mortified ; and denouncing the father as the 
greatest deceiver that ever trod the earth, 
could not help transferring some part of her 
hatred to the innocent child. She was really 
a good sort of woman, as I have said before, 
and every no'." and then her conscience twitch- 
ed her, and she struggled hard to seem kind 
and to be so : but it would not do. There the 
feeling was, and the more she struggled against 
it, the stronger, I verily believe, it became. 



46* 



3T 



546 



COUNTRY STORIES. 



Tryinof to conquer a deep-rooted aversion, is 
something lilve trampling upon camomile: 
the harder you tread it down the more it flou- 
rishes. 

Under these evil auspices, the poor little 
Irish girl grew up amongst us. Not ill-used 
certainly, for she \"as fed and taught as we 
were; and some forty shillings a year more 
expended upon the trifles, gloves, and shoes, 
and ribbons, which make the diflference be- 
tween nicety and shabbiness in female dress, 
would have brought her apparel upon an 
equality with ours. Ill-used she was not ; to 
be sure, teachers and masters seemed to con- 
sider it a duty to reprimand her for such faults 
as would have passed unnoticed in another ; 
and if there were any noise amongst us, she, 
by far the quietest and most silent person in 
the house, was, as a matter of course, accused 
of making it. vStill she was not what would 
be commonly called ill-treated ; although her 
young heart was withered and blighted, and 
her spirit crushed and broken by the chilling 
indifference, or the harsh unkindness which 
surrounded her on every side. 

Nothing, indeed, could come in stronger 
contrast than the position of the young Irish 
girl, and that of her English companions. A 
stranger, almost a foreigner amongst us, with 
no home but that great school-room ; no com- 
forts, no indulgences, no knick-knacks, no mo- 
ney, nothing but the sheer, bare, naked neces- 
saries of a school-girl's life; no dear family 
to think of and to go to; no fond father to 
come to see her ; no brothers and sisters ; no 
kindred ; no friends. It was a loneliness, a 
desolation, which, especially at breaking-up 
times, when all her school-fellows w^ent joy- 
fully away each to her happy home, and she 
was left the solitary and neglected inhabitant 
of the deserted mansion, must have pressed 
upon her very heart. The heaviest tasks of 
the half-year must have been pleasure and en- 
joyment compared with the dreariness of those 
lonesome holidays. 

And yet she was almost as lonely when we 
were all assembled. Childhood is, for the 
most part, generous and sympathising; and 
there were many amongst us who, interested 
by her deserted situation, would have been 
her friends. But Honor was one of those flow- 
ers which will only open in the bright sun- 
shine. Never did marigold under a cloudy 
sky shut up her heart more closely than Honor 
O'Callaghan. In a word, Honor had really 
one of the many faults ascribed to her by Mrs. 
Sherwood, and her teachers, and masters — 
that fault so natural and so pardonable in ad- 
versity — she was proud. 

National and family pride blended with the 
personal feeling. Young as she was when 
she left Ireland, she had caught from the old 
nurse who had had the care of her infancy, 
rude legends of the ancient greatness of her 
country, and of the regal grandeur of the 



O'Connors, her maternal ancestors ; and over 
such dim traces of Cathleen's legends as float- 
ed in her memory, fragments wild, shadowy, 
and indistinct, as the recollections of a dream, 
did the poor Irish girl love to brood. Visions 
of long-past splendour possessed her wholly, 
and the half-unconscious reveries in which she 
had the habit of indulging, gave a tinge of ro- 
mance and enthusiasm to her character, as pe- 
culiar as her story. 

Everything connected with her country had 
for her an indescribable charm. It was won- 
derful how, with the apparently scanty means 
of acquiring knowledge which the common 
school histories afforded, together with here 
and there a stray book borrowed for her by her 
young companions from their home libraries, 
and questions answered from the same source, 
she had contrived to collect her abundant and 
accurate information, as to its early annals and 
present position. Her antiquarian lore was 
perhaps a little tinged, as such antiquarianism 
is apt to be, by the colouring of a warm ima- 
gination ; but still it was a remarkable exem- 
plification of the power of an ardent mind to 
ascertain and combine facts upon a favourite 
subject under apparently insuperable difficul- 
ties. Unless in pursuing her historical inqui- 
ries, she did not often speak upon the subject. 
Her enthusiasm was too deep and too concen- 
trated for words. But she was Irish to the 
heart's core, and had even retained, one can 
hardly tell how, the slight accent which in a 
sweet-toned female voice is so pretty. 

In her appearance, also, there were many of 
the characteristics of her countrywomen. The 
roundness of form and clearness of complexion, 
the result of good nurture and ])ure blood 
which are often found in those who have been 
nursed in an Irish cabin, the abundant wavy 
hair and the deep-set grey eye. The face, in 
spite of some irregularity of feature, would 
have been i)retty, decidedly pretty, if the 
owner had been happy ; but the expression 
was too abstracted, too thoughtful, too melan- 
choly for childhood or even for youth. She 
was like a rose, shut up in a room, whose pale 
blossoms have hardly felt the touch of the 
glorious sunshine or the blessed air. A daisy 
of the field, a common, simple, cheerful-look- 
ing daisy, would be pleasanter to gaze upon 
than the blighted queen of flowers. 

Her figure was, however, decidedly beau- 
tiful. Not merely tall, but pliant, elastic, and 
graceful in no ordinary degree. She was 
not generally remarkable for accomplishment. 
How could she, in the total absence of the 
most powerful, as well as the most amiable 
motives to exertion 1 She had no one to 
|)lease ; no one to watch her progress, to re- 
joice in her success, to lament her failure. In 
many branches of education she had not ad- 
vanced beyond mediocrity, but her dancing 
was perfection ; or rather it would have been 
so, if to her other graces she had added the 



HONOR O'CALLAGHAN. 



547 



charm of gaiety. But that want, as our French 
j dancinor-master used to observe, was so uni- 
versal in this country, that the wonder would 
have been to see any younor lady, whose face 
in a cotillion (for it was before the days of 
quadrilles') did not look as if she was follow- 
incT a funeral. 

Such at thirteen I found Honor O'Callanrhan, 
when I, a damsel some three years youncrer, 
was first placed at Mrs. Sherwood's ; such five 
years afterwards I left her, when I quitted the 
school. 

Calling there the followino^ sprinor, accom- 
panied by my good godfather, we again saw 
Honor silent and pensive as ever. The old 
gentleman was much struck with her figure 
and her melancholy. "Fine girl that!" ob- 
served he to me : " looks as if she was in love 
though," added he, putting his finger to his 
nose with a knowing nod, as was usual with 
him upon occasions of that kind. I, for my 
part, in whom a passion for literature was just 
beginning to develope itself, had a theory of 
my own upon the subject, and regarded her 
with unwonted respect in consequence. Her 
abstraction appeared to me exactly that of an 
author when contemplating some great work, 
and I had no doubt but she would turn out a 
poetess. Both conjectures were characteristic, 
and both, as it happened, wrong. 

Upon my next visit to London, I found that 
a great change had happened in Honor's 
destiny. Her father, whom she had been 
fond of investing with the disfnity of a rebels 
but who had, according to Mrs. Sherwood's 
more reasonable suspicion, been a reckless, 
extravagant, thoughtless person, whose follies 
had been visited upon himself and his family, 
with the evil consequences of crimes, had died 
in America; and his sister, the richly-jointured 
widow of a baronet, of old Milesian blood, 
who during his life had been inexorable to his 
entreaties to befriend the poor girl, left as it 
were in pledge at a London boarding-school, 
had relented upon hearing of his death, had 
come to England, settled all pecuniary matters 
to the full satisfaction of the astonished and 
delighted governess, and finally carried Honor 
back with her to Dublin. 

From this time we lost sight altogether of 
our old companion. With her school-fellows 
she had never formed even the common school 
intimacies, and to Mrs. Sherwood and her 
functionaries she owed no obligation except 
that of money, which was now discharged. 
The only debt of gratitude which she had 
ever acknowledged, was to the old French 
teacher, who, although she never got nearer 
the pronunciation or the orthography of her 
name than Mademoiselle I'Ocalle, had yet, in 
the overflowing benevolence of her temper, 
taken such notice of the deserted child, as 
amidst the general neglect might pass for 
kindness. But she had returned to France. 
For no one else did Honor profess the slight- 



est interest. Accordingly, she left the house 
where she had passed nearly all her life, 
without expressing any desire to hear again 
of its inmates, and never wrote a line to any 
of them. 

We did hear of her, however, occasionally. 
Rumours reached us, vague and distant, and 
more conflicting even than distant rumours are 
wont to be. She was distinguished at the vice- 
regal court, a beauty and a wit; she was mar- 
ried to a nobleman of the highest rank ; she was 
a nun of the order of Mercy; she was dead. 

And as years glided on, as the old school 
passed into other hands, and the band of youth- 
ful companions became more and more dis- 
persed, one of the latter opinions began to gain 
ground among us, when two or three chanced 
to meet, and to talk of old school-fellows. If 
she had been alive and in the great world, 
surely some of us should have heard of her. 
Her having been a Catliolic, rendered her 
taking the veil not improbable ; and to a per- 
son of her enthusiastic temper, the duties of 
the sisters of Mercy would have peculiar 
charms. 

As one of that most useful and most bene- 
volent order, or as actually dead, we were 
therefore content to consider her, until, in the 
lapse of years and the changes of destiny, we 
had ceased to think of her at all. 

The second of this present month of May 
was a busy and a noisy day in my garden. 
All the world knows what a spring this has 
been. The famous black spring commemora- 
ted by Gilbert W^hite can hardly have been 
more thoroughly ungenial, more fatal to man 
or beast, to leaf and flower, than this most 
miserable season, this winter of long days, 
when the sun shines as if in mockery, giving 
little more heat than his cold sister the moon, 
and the bitter north-east produces at one and 
the same moment the incongruous annoyances 
of biting cold and suffocating dust. Never 
was such a season. The swallows, nightin- 
gales, and cuckoos, were a fortnight after 
their usual time. I wonder what they thought 
of it, pretty creatures, and how they made up 
their minds to come at all ! — and the sloe blos- 
som, the black thorn winter as the common 
people call it, which generally makes its ap- 
pearance early in March, along with the first 
violets, did not whiten the hedges this year 
until full two months later.* In short, every- 
body knows that this has been a most villan- 
ous season, and deserves all the ill that can 



* It is extraordinary, how some flowers seem to 
obey the season, whilst others are influenced by the 
weather. The hawthorn, certainly nearly akin to the 
sloe blossoms, is this year rather forwarder, if any- 
thing, than in common years; and the frilillary, 
always a May flower, is painting the water meadows 
at this moment in company with " the blackthorn 
winter;" or rather is nearly over, whilst its consin- 
german, the tulip, is scarcely showing for bloom in 
the warmest exposures and most sheltered borders of 
the garden. 



548 



COUNTRY STORIES. 



possibly be said of it. But the second of May 
held forth a promise which, according to a 
very usual trick of English weather, it has not 
kept; and was so mild and srnilinor and gra- 
cious, that, without being quite so foolish as 
to indulge in any romantic and visionary ex- 
pectation of ever seeing summer again, we 
were yet silly enough to be cheered by the 
thought that spring was coming at last in good 
earnest. 

In a word, it was that pleasant rarity a 
fine day; and it was also a day of considera- 
ble stir, as I shall attempt to describe here- 
after, in my small territories. 

In the street too, and in the house, there 
was as much noise and bustle as one would 
well desire to hear in our village. 

The first of May is Belford Great Fair, 
where horses and cows are sold, and men 
meet gravely to transact grave business; and 
the second of May is Belford Little Fair, 
where boys and girls of all ages, women and 
children of all ranks, flock into the town, to 
buy ribbons and dolls and balls and ginger- 
bread, to eat cakes and suck oranges, to stare 
at the shows, and gaze at the wild beasts, and 
to follow merrily the merry business called 
pleasure. 

Carts and carriages, horse-people and foot- 
people, were flocking to the fair; unsold cows 
and horses, with their weary drivers, and 
labouring men who, having made a night as 
well as a day of it, began to think it time to 
find their way home, were coming from it ; 
Punch was being exhibited at one end of the 
street, a barrel-organ, surmounted by a most 
accomplished monkey, was playing at the 
other; a half-tipsy horse-dealer was galloping 
up and down the road, showing off an un- 
broken forest pony, who threatened every 
moment to throw him and break his neck ; a 
hawker was walking up the street crying 
Greenacre's last dying speech, who was hang- 
ed that morning at Newgate, and as all the 
world knows, made none; and the highway 
in front of our house was well-nigh blocked 
up by three or four carriages waiting for dif- 
ferent sets of visiters, and by a gang of gipsies 
who stood clustered round the gate, waiting 
with great anxiety the issue of an investiga- 
tion going on in the hall, where one of their 
gang was under examination upon a question 
of stealing a goose. Witnesses, constables, 
and other officials were loitering in the court, 
and dogs were barking, women chattering, 
boys blowing horns, and babies squalling 
through all. It was as pretty a scene of crowd 
and din and bustle as one shall see in a sum- 
mer's day. The fair itself was calm and 
quiet in comparison ; the complication of dis- 
cordant sounds in Hogarth's Enraged Musician 
was nothing to it. 

Within my g,.rden the genius of noise was 
equally trium|thant. An ingenious device, 



contrived and executed by a most kind and in- 
genious friend, for the purpose of sheltering 
the pyramid of geraniums in front of my 
greenhouse, — consisting of a wooden roof, 
drawn by pulleys up and down a high, strong 
post, something like the mast of a ship,* had 
given way ; and another most kind friend had 
arrived with the requisite machinery, blocks 
and ropes, and tackle of all sorts, to replace it 
upon an improved construction. With him 
came a tall blacksmith, a short carpenter, and 
a stout collar-maker, with hammers, nails, 
chisels, and tools of all sorts, enough to build 
a house; ladders of all heights and sizes, two 
or three gaping apprentices, who stood about 
in the way, John willing to lend his aid in be- 
half of his flowers, and master Dick with his 
hands in his pockets looking on. The short 
carpenter perched himself upon one ladder, the 
tall blacksmith on another; my good friend, 
Mr. Lawson, mounted to the mast-head ; and 
such a clatter ensued of hammers and voices 
— (for it was exactly one of those fancy jobs 
where every one feels privileged to advise and 
find fault) — such clashing of opinions and con- 
ceptions and suggestions as would go to the 
building a county town. 

Whilst this was going forward in middle 
air, I and my company were doing our best to 
furnish forth the chorus below. It so happened 
that two sets of my visiters were scientific 
botanists, the one party holding the Linnsean 
system, the others disciples of Jussieu ; and 
the garden being a most natural place for such 
a discussion, a war of hard words ensued, 
which would have done honour to the Tower 
of Babel. " Tetradynamia," exclaimed one 
set; " Monocotyledones," thundered the other; 
whilst a third friend, a skilful florist, but no 
botanist, unconsciously out-long-worded both 
of them, by telling me that the name of a new 
annual was " Leptosiphon androsaceus." 

Never was such a confusion of noises ! The 
house door opened, and my father's strong 
clear voice was heard in tones of warning. 
" Woman, how can you swear to this goose]" 
W'hilst the respondent squeaked out in some- 
thing between a scream and a cry, " Please 
yourworship, the poor bird having a-laid all 
his eggs, we had marked un, and so — " What 
farther she would have said being drowned in 
a prodigious clatter occasioned by the down- 
fall of the ladder that supported the tall black- 
smith, which, striking against that whereon 
was placed the short carpenter, overset that 
climbing machine also, and the clamour inci- 

*This descriplion does not sound prettily, but the 
real eflbnt is exceedingly grancful: the appearance of 
the dark canopy siispomled over the pile of bright 
flowers at a considerable hcislit, has something about 
it not merely picturesque but oriental; and that a 
gentleman's contrivance should succeed at all points, 
as if he had been a real carpenter, instead of an earl's 
son and a captain in the navy, is a fact quite unparal- 
leled in the annals of invention. 



HONOR O'GALLAGHAN. 



549 



dent to such a calamity overpowered all minor 
noises. 

In the meanwhile I became aware that a 
fourth party of visiters had entered tlie warden, 
my excellent neigrhbonr, Miss Mortimer, and 
three other ladies, whom she introduced as 
Mrs. and the Misses Dobbs; and the botanists 
ftnd florists havinor departed, and the disaster 
at the mast beingr repaired, quiet was so far 
restored, that I ushered my cruests into the 
greenhouse, with something like a hope that 
we should he able to hear each other speak. 

Mrs. Dobbs was about the largrest woman I 
had ever seen in my life, fat, fair, and fifty, 
with a broad rosy countenance, beaming- with 
good-humour and contentment, and with a 
general look of affluence over her whole com- 
fortable person. fShe spoke in a loud voice 
which made itself heard over the remaining 
din in the garden and out, and with a patois 
between Scotch and Irish, which puzzled me, 
until I found from her discourse that she was 
the widow of a linen manufacturer, in the 
neighbourhood of Belfast. 

" Ay," quoth she, with the most open- 
hearted familiarity, "times are changed for the 
better with me since you and I parted in Ca- 
dogan Place. Poor Mr. Dobbs left me and 

those two girls a fortune of Why, I 

verily believe," continued she, interrupting 
herself, " that you don't knov/ me !" 

"Honor!" said one of the young ladies 
to the other, "only look at this butterfly !" 

Honor! Was it, could it be, Honor O'Cal- 
laghan, the slight, pale, romantic visionary, so 
proud, so reserved, so abstracted, so elegant, 
and so melancholy? Had thirty years of the 
coarse realities of life transformed that pensive 
a^nd delicate damsel into the comely, hearty, 
and to say the truth, somewhat vulgar dame 
whom I saw before me? Was such a change 
possihle] 

" Married a nobleman !" exclaimed she 
when I told her the reports respecting herself. 
"Taken the veil ! No, indeed ! I have been 
a far humbler and happier woman. It is very 
strangfo, though, that during my Cinderella- 
like life at school, I used always in my day- 
dreams to make my story end like that of the 
heroine of the fairy tale; and it is still stran- 
ger, that both rumours were within a very lit- 
tle of coming true, — for when I got to Ireland, 
which, so far as I was concerned, turned out 
a verv different place from what I expected, I 
found myself shut up in an old castle, fifty 
times more dreary and melancholy than ever 
was our oreat school-room in the holidays, 
with my aunt setting her heart upon marrying 
me to an old lord, who might, for age and in- 
firmities, havepassed for my great-grandfather; 
and I really, in my perplexity, had serious 
thoughts of turning nun to get rid of my suit- 
or; but then I was allowed to go into the 
north upon a visit, and fell in with my late 
excellent husband, who obtained Lady O'Ha- 



ra's consent to the match by the offer of taking 
me without a portion ; and ever since," con- 
tinued she, "I have been a very common-place 
and a very happy woman. Mr. Dobbs was a 
man who had made his own fortune, and all 
he asked of me was, to lay aside my airs and 
graces, and live with him in his own homely, 
old-fashioned way amongst his own old peo- 
ple, (kind people they were !) his looms, and 
his bleachino-grounds ; so that my heart was 
opened, and I grew fat and comfortable, and 
merry and hearty, as different from the foolish, 
romantic girl whom you remember, as plain 
honest prose is from the silly thing called po- 
etry. I don't believe that I have ever once 
thought of my old castles in the air for these 
five-and-twenty years. It is very odd, though," 
added she, with a frankness which was really 
like thinking aloud, "that I always did con- 
trive in my visions that my history should 
conclude like that of Cinderella. To be sure, 
things are much better as they are, but it is 
an odd thing, nevertheless. Well ! perhaps 
my daughters ....!" 

And as they are rich and pretty, and good- 
natured, although much more in the style of 
the present Honor than the past, it is by no 
means improbable that the vision which was 
evidently glittering before the fond mother's 
eyes, may be realized. At all events, my old 
friend is, as she says herself, a happy woman 
— in all probability, happier than if the Cin- 
derella day-dream had actually come to pass 
in her own comely person. But the transition ! 
After all, there are rural transformations in 
this every-day world, which beat the doings 
of fairy-land all to nothing; and the change 
of the pumpkin into a chariot, and the mice 
into horses, was not to be compared for a mo- 
ment with the transmourification of Honor 
O'Callasfhan into Mrs. Dobbs. 



AUNT DEBORAH. 

A GROSSER old woman than Mrs. Deborah 
Thornby was certainly not to be found in the 
whole village of Hilton. Worth, in country 
phrase, a power of money, and living (to bor- 
row another rustic expression) upon her means, 
the exercise of her extraordinary faculty for 
grumbling and scolding seemed the sole occu- 
pation of her existence, her only pursuit, 
solace, and amusement ; and really it would 
have been a great pity to have deprived the 
poor woman of a pastime so consolatory to 
herself, and which did harm to nobody: her 
family consisting only of an old labourer, to 
guard the house, take care of her horse, her 
cow, and her chaise and cart, and work in the 
garden, who was, happily for his comfort, 
stone deaf, and could not hear her vituperation, 
and of a parish girl of twelve, to do the in- 
door work, who had been so used to be scold- 



550 



COUNTRY STORIES. 



ed all her life, that she minded the noise no 
more than a miller minds the clack of his 
mill, or than people who live in a churchyard 
mind the sound of the church-bells, and would 
probably, from long; habit, have felt some miss 
of the sound had it ceased, of vthich, bj"^ the 
way, there was small danger, so long as Mrs. 
Deborah continued in this life. Her crossness 
was so far innocent that it hurt nobody except 
herself. But she was also cross-grained, and 
that evil quality is unluckily apt to injure 
other people; and did so very materially in 
the present instance. 

Mrs. Deborah was the only daughter of old 
Simon Thoruby, of Chalcott great farm; she 
had had one brother, who having married the 
rosy-cheeked daughter of the parish clerk, a 
girl witb no portion except her modesty, her 
good-nature, and her prettiness, had been dis- 
carded by his fatber, and after trying various 
ways to gain a living, and failing in all, had 
finally died broken-hearted, leaving the unfor- 
tunate clerk"'s daughter, rosy-cheeked no long- 
er, and one little boy, to the tender mercy of 
his family. Old Simon showed none. He 
drove his son's widow from the door as he 
had before driven off his son ; and when he 
also died, an event which occurred within a 
year or two, bequeathed all his property to his 
daughter Deborah. 

This bequest was exceedingly agreeable to 
Mrs. Deborah, (for she was already of an age 
to assume that title,) who valued money, not 
certainly for the comforts and luxuries which 
it may be the means of procuring, nor even 
for its own sake, as the phrase goes, but for 
that which, to a woman of her temper, was 
perhaps the highest that she was capable of 
enjoying, the power which wealth confers over 
all who are connected with or dependent on its 
possessor. 

The principal subjects of her despotic do- 
minion were the young widow and her boy, 
whom she placed in a cottage near her own 
house, and with whose comfort and happiness 
she dallied pretty much as a cat plays with 
the mouse which she has got into her clutches, 
and lets go only to catch again, or an angler 
with the trout which he has fairly hooked, and 
merely sulfers to struggle in the stream until 
it is sufhciently exhausted to bring to land. 
She did not mean to be cruel, but she could 
not help it; so her poor mice were mocked 
with the semblance of liberty, although sur- 
rounded by restraints; and the awful paw 
seemingly sheathed in velvet, whilst they 
were in reality never out of reach of the hor- 
rors of the pat. 

It sometimes, however, happens that the 
little mouse makes her escape from madam 
pussy at tlie very moment when she seems to 
have the unlucky trembler aclually williin her 
claws; and so it occurred in the present in- 
stance. 

The dwelling to which Mrs. Deborah retired 



after the death of her father, was exceedinorly 
romantic and beautiful in point of situation. 
It was a small but picturesque farm-house, on 
the very banks of the Loddon, a small branch 
of which, diverging from the parent stream, 
and crossed by a pretty foot-bridge, swept 
round the homestead, the orchard and garden, 
and went winding along the water meadows 
in a thousand glittering meanders, until it was 
lost in the rich woodlands which foriried the 
back-ground of the picture. In the month of 
May, when the orchard was full of its rosy 
and pearly blossoms, a forest of lovely bloom, 
the meadows yellow with cowslips, and the 
clear brimming river, bordered by the golden 
tufts of the water ranunculus, and garlanded 
by the snowy flowers of the hawthorn and the 
wild-cherry, the thin wreath of smoke curling 
from the tall, old-fashioned chimneys of the 
pretty irregular building, with its porch, and 
its bay-windows, and gable-ends full of light 
and shadow, — in that month of beauty it 
would be difficult to imagine a more beautiful 
or a more English landscape. 

On the other side of the narrow winding 
road, parted from Mrs. Deborah's demesne by 
a long low bridge of many arches, stood a lit- 
tle rustic mill, and its small low-browed cot- 
tage, with its own varied back-ground of gar- 
den and fruit-trees arid thickly-wooded mea- 
dows, extending in long perspective, a smiling 
verdant valley of many miles. 

Now Chalcott mill, reckoned by evefybody 
else the prettiest point in her prospect, was to 
Mrs. Deborah not merel}' an eye-sore, but a 
heart-sore, not on its own account; cantanker- 
ous as she was, she had no quarrel with the 
innocent buildings, but for the sake of its in- 
habitants. 

Honest John Stokes, the miller, was her 
cousin-german. People did say that some 
forty years before there had been question of 
a marriage between the parties ; and really 
they both denied the thing with so much ve- 
hemence and fury, that one should almost be 
tempted to believe there was some truth in the 
report. Certain it is, that if they had been 
that wretched thing a mismatched couple, and 
had gone on snarling together ail their lives, 
they could not have hated each (jther more 
zealously. One shall not often meet with 
anything so perfect in its way as that aversion. 
It was none of your silent hatreds that never 
come to words; nor of your civil hatreds, that 
veil themselves under smooth phrases and 
smiling looks. Their ill-will was frank, 
open, and above-board. They could not af- 
ford to come to an absolute breach, because it 
would have deprived them of the pleasure of 
quarrelling; and in spite of the frequent com- 
plaints they were wont to make of their near 
neighbourhood, I am convinced that they de- 
rived no small gratification from the opportu- 
nities which it afforded them of saying disa- 
ofreeable thino;s to each other. 



AUNT DEBORAH. 



551 



And yet Mr. John vStokes was a well-mean- 
ing man, and Mrs. Deborah Thornby was not 
an ill-meaning woman. But she was, as I 
have said before, cross in the grain ; and he — 
why he was one of those plain-dealing per- 
sonages who will speak their whole mind, 
and who pique themselves upon that sort of 
sincerity which is comprised in telling to an- 
other all the ill that they have ever lieard, or 
thought, or imagined concerning him, in re- 
peating as if it were a point of duty, all the 
harm that one neighbour says of another, and 
in denouncing, as if it were a sin, whatever 
the unlucky person whom they address may 
happen to do, or to leave undone. 

" I am none of your palavering chaps, to 
flummer over an old vixen for the sake of her 
strong-box. I hate such falseness. I speak 
the truth and care for no man," quoth John 
Stokes. 

And accordino-ly John Stokes never saw 
Mrs. Deborah Thornby but he saluted her, 
pretty much as his mastiff accosted her fa- 
vourite cat ; erected his bristles, looked at her 
with savage, bloodshot eyes, showed his teeth, 
and vented a sound something between a snarl 
and a growl ; whilst she, (like the four-footed 
tabby,) set up her back and spit at him in re- 
turn. 

They met often, as 1 have said, for the en- 
joyment of quarrelling; and as whatever he 
advised she was pretty sure not to do, it is 
probable that his remonstrances in favour of 
her friendless relations served to confirm her 
in the small tyranny which she exercised to- 
wards them. 

Such being the state of feeling between 
these two jangling cousins, it may be imagined 
with what indignation Mrs. Deborah found 
John Stokes, upon tlie death of his wife, re- 
moving her widowed sister-in-law from the 
cottage in which she had placed her, and 
bringing her home to the mill, to officiate as 
his housekeeper, and take charge of a lovely 
little girl, his only child. She vowed one of 
those vows of anger which I fear are oftener 
kept than the vows of love, to strike both 
mother and son out of her will, (by the way, 
she had a superstitious horror of that disa- 
greeable ceremony, and even the temptation 
of choosing new legatees whenever the old 
displeased her, had not been sufficient to in- 
duce her to make one, — the threat did as well,) 
and never to speak to either of them again as 
long as she lived. 

She proclaimed this resolution at the rate of 
twelve times an hour, (that is to say, once in 
five minutes,) every day for a fortnight; and 
in spite of her well-known caprice, there 
seemed for once in her life reason to believe 
that she would keep her word. 

Those prudent and sagacious persons who 
are so good as to take the superintendence of 
other people's affairs, and to tell by the look 
of the foot where the shoe pinches and where 



it does not, all united in blaming the poor wi- 
dow for withdrawing herself and her son from 
Mrs. Deborah's protection. But besides that 
no human being can adequately estimate the 
misery of leading a life of dependence upon 
one to whom scolding was as the air she 
breathed, without it she must die, a penurious 
dependence too, which supplied grudgingly 
the humblest wants, and yet would not permit 
the exertions by which she would joyfully 
have endeavoured to support herself; — besides 
the temptation to exchange Mrs. Deborah's 
incessant maundering for the miller's rough 
kindness, and her scanty fare for the coarse 
plenty of his board, — besides these homely 
but natural temptations — hardly to be ade- 
quately allowed for by those who have passed 
their lives amidst smiling kindness and luxu- 
rious abundance ; besides these motives she 
had a stronger and dearer in her desire to 
rescue her boy from the dangers of an en- 
forced and miserable idleness, and to put him 
in the way of earning his bread by honest in- 
dustry. 

Through the interest of his grandfather the 
parish clerk, the little Edward had been early 
placed in the Hilton free school, where he had 
acquitted hiujself so much to the satisfaction 
of the master, that at twelve years old he was 
the head boy on the foundation, and took pre- 
cedence of the other nine-and-twenty wearers 
of the full-skirted blue coats, leathern belts, 
and tasseled caps, in the various arts of read- 
ing, writing, cyphering, and mensuration. He 
could flourish a swan without ever taking his 
pen from the paper. Nay, there is little doubt 
but from long habit he could have flourished 
it blindfold, like the man who had so often 
modelled the wit of Ferney in breadcrums, 
that he could produce little busts of Voltaire 
with his hands under the table; he had not 
his equal in Practice or the Rule of Three, 
and his piece, when sent round at Christmas, 
was the admiration of the whole parish. 

Unfortunately, his arrival at this pre-emi- 
nence was also the signal of his dismissal 
from the free school. He returned home to 
his mother, and as Mrs. Deborah, although 
hourly complaining of the expense of sup- 
porting a great lubberly boy in idleness, re- 
fused to apprentice him to any trade, and even 
forbade his finding employment in helping her 
deaf man of all work to cultivate her garden, 
which the poor lad, naturally industrious and 
active, begfjed her permission to do, his mo- 
ther, considering that no uncertain expectations 
of money at the death of his kinswoman could 
counterbalance the certain evil of dragging on 
his days in penury and indolence during her 
life, wisely determined to betake herself to the 
mill, and accept John Stokes's offer of sending 
Edward to a friend in town, for the purpose 
of being placed with a civil engineer: — a 
destination with which the boy himself — a 
fine intelligent youth, by the way, tall and 



552 



COUNTRY STORIES. 



manly, with black eyes that talked and laugh- 
ed, and curlinff dark hair, — was delighted in 
every point of view. lie lonoed for a profes- 
sion for which he had a decided turn ; he 
loujofed to see the world as personified by the 
city of cities, the unparagoned London ; and 
he lonij-ed more than either to get away from 
Aunt Deborah, the storm of whose vituperation 
seemed ringing in his ears so long as lie con- 
tinued within sight of her dwelling. One 
would think the clack of the mill and the 
prattle of his pretty cousin Cicely might have 
drowned it, but it did not. Nothing short of 
leaving the spinster fifty miles behind, and 
setting the great city between him and her, 
could efface the impression. 

" I hope I am not ungrateful," thought Ed- 
ward to himself, as he was trudging London- 
ward after taking a tender leave of all at the 
mill ; " I hope I am not ungrateful. I do not 
think I am, for I would give my right arm, 
ay, or my life, if it would serve master John 
Stokes or please dear Cissy, But really I do 
hope never to come within hearing of Aunt 
Deborah again, she storms so. I wonder 
whether all old women are so cross. I don't 
think my mother will be, nor Cissy. I am 
sure Cissy won't. Poor aunt Deborah ! I 
suppose she can't help it." And with this 
indulgent conclusion, Edward wended on his 
way. 

Aunt Deborah's mood was by no means so 
pacific. She staid at home fretting, fuming, 
and chafing, and storming herself hoarse — 
which, as the people at the mill took care to 
keep out of earshot, was all so much good 
scolding thrown away. The state of things 
since Edward's departure had been so decisive, 
that even John Stokes thought it wiser to keep 
himself aloof for a time ; and although they 
pretty well guessed that she would take mea- 
sures to put. in effect her threat of disinherit- 
ance, the first outward demonstration came in 
the shape of a young man (gentleman I sup- 
pose he called himself — ay, there is no doubt 
but be wrote himself Esquire) who attended 
her to church a few Sundays after, and was 
admitted to the honour of sitting in the same 
pew. 

Nothing could be more unlike our friend 
Edward than the stranger. Fair, freckled, 
light-haired, light-eyed, with invisible eye- 
brows and eye-lashes, insignificant in feature, 
pert and perking in expression, and in figure 
so dwarfed and stunted, that though in point 
of age he had evidently attained his full 
growth, (if one may use the expression to 
such a he-doll,) Robert at fifteen would have 
made two of him, — such was the new favour- 
ite. So far as appearance went, for certain 
Mrs. Deborah had not changed for the better. 

Gradually it oozed out, as, somehow or 
other, news, like water, will find a vent, how- 
ever small the cranny, — by slow dcgrcos it 
came to be understood that Mrs. Deborah's 



visiter was a certain Mr. Adolphus Lynfield, 
clerk to an attorney of no great note in the 
good town of Belford Regis, and nearly re- 
lated, as he affirmed, to the Thornby family. 

Upon hearing these tidings, John Stokes, 
the son of old Simon Thornby's sister, marched 
across the road, and finding the door upon the 
latch, entered unannounced into the presence 
of his enemy. 

" I think it my duty to let you know, cousin 
Deborah, that this here chap's an impostor — 
a sham — and that you are a fool," was his 
conciliatory opening. " Search the register. 
The Thornbys have been yeomen of this pa- 
rish ever since the time of Elizabeth — more 
shame to you for forcing the last of the race 
to seek his bread elsewhere; and if you can 
find such a name as Lynfield amongst 'em 
I '11 give you leave to turn me into a pettifog- 
ging lawyer — that's all. Saunderses, and 
Symondses, and Stokeses, and Mays, you '11 
find in plenty, but never a Lynfield. Lynfield, 
quotha ! it sounds like a made-up name in a 
story-book ! And as for 'Dolphus, why there 
never was anything like it in all the genera- 
tion, except my good old great-aunt Dolly, 
and that stood for Dorothy. All our names 
have been christian-like and English, Toms, 
and Jacks, and Jems, and Bills, and Sams, 
and Neds — poor fellow ! None of your out- 
landish 'Dolphuses, Dang it, I believe the 
foolish woman likes the chap the better for 
having a name she can't speak ! Remember, 
I warn you he's a sham!" And off strode 
the honest miller, leaving Mrs. Deborah too 
angry for reply, and confirmed both in her 
prejudice and prepossession by the natural 
effect of that spirit of contradiction which 
formed so large an ingredient in her composi- 
tion, and was not wholly wanting in that of 
John Stokes. 

Years passed away, and in spite of frequent 
ebbs and flows, the tide of Mrs. Deborah's 
favour continued to set towards Mr. Adolj)hus 
Lynfield. Once or twice indeed, report had 
said that he was fairly discarded, but the very 
a])pearance of the good miller, anxious to im- 
prove the opportunity for his protege, had 
been sufficient to determine his cousin to re- 
instate Mr. Adolphus in her good graces. 
Whether she really liked him is doubtful. 
He entertained too good an opinion of himself 
to be very successful in gaining that of other 
people. 

That the gentleman was not deficient in 
"left-handed wisdom," was proved pretty 
clearly by most of his actions ; for instance, 
when routed by the downright miller from the 
position which he had taken up of a near 
kinsman by the father's side, he, like an able 
tactician, wheeled about and called cousins 
with Mrs. Deborah's mother; and as that 
good lady happened to have borne the very 
general, almost universal, name of Smith, 
which is next to anonymous, even John Stokes 



AUNT DE BORAH. 



553 



could not dislodo-e him from thnt entrench- 
ment. But he was not always so dexterous. 
Cunnintj in him lacked the crowning- perfection 
of hidiniritselfunderthe appearance of honesty. 
His art never looked like nature. It stared 
you in the face, and could not deceive the 
dullest observer. His very flattery liad a tone 
of falseness that a'ffronted the person flattered ; 
and Mrs. Deborah, in particular, who did not 
want for shrewdness, found it so distasteful, 
that she would certainly have discarded him 
upon that one ground of offence, had not her 
love of power been unconsciously propitiated 
by the perception of the efforts which he made, 
and the degradation to which he submitted, in 
the vain attempt to please her. She liked the 
homafje offered to " /es beaux yeux de sa cas- 
sette,^^ prptty much as a young- beauty likes 
the devotion extorted by her charms, and for 
the sake of the incense tolerated the worship- 
per. 

Nevertheless there were moments when the 
conceit which I have mentioned as the leading 
characteristic of Mr. Adolphus Lynfield had 
well-nigh banished him from Chalcott. Piquing 
himself on the variety and extent of his 
knowledge, the universality of his genius, he 
of course paid the penalty of other universal 
geniuses, by being in no small degree super- 
ficial. Not content with understanding every 
trade better than those who had followed it all 
their lives, he had a most unlucky propensitj' 
to put his devices into execution, and as his 
information was, for the most part, picked up 
from the column headed " varieties," in the 
county newspaper, where of course -there is 
some chaff mingled with the grain, and as the 
figments in question were generally understood 
and imperfectly recollected, it is really sur- 
prising that the young gentleman did not oc- 
casion more mischief than actually occurred 
by the quips and quiddities which he delighted 
to put in practice whenever he met with any 
one simple enough to permit the exercise of 
his talents. 

Some damage he did effect by his experi- 
ments, as Mrs. Deborah found to her cost. 
He killed a bed of old-fashioned spice cloves, 
the pride of her heart, by salting the ground 
to get rid of the worms. Her broods of geese 
also, and of turkeys, fell victims to a new and 
infallible mode of feeding, which was to 
make them twice as fat in half the time. 
Somehow or other, they all died under the 
operation. So did half a score of fine apple- 
trees, under an improved method of grafting; 
whilst a magnificent brown Bury pear, that 
covered one end of the house, perished of the 
grand discovery of severing the bark to in- 
crease the crop. He lamed Mrs. Deborah's 
old horse by doctoring him for a prick in 
shoeing, and ruined her favourite cow, the 
best milch cow in the county, by a most 
needless attempt to increase her milk. 

Now these mischances and misdemeanours, 



ay, or the half of them, would undoubtedly 
have occasioned Mr. Adolphus's dismission, 
and the recall of poor Edward, every account 
of whom was in the highest degree favoura- 
ble, had the worthy miller been able to refrain 
from lecturing his cousin upon her neglect 
of the one, and her partiality for the other. It 
was really astonishing that John Stokes, a 
man of sagacity in all other respects, never 
could understand that scolding was of all de- 
visable processes the least likely to succeed 
in carrying his j)oint with one who was such 
a proficient in that accomplishment, that if 
the old penalty for female scolds, the ducking- 
stool, had continued in fashion, she would 
have stood an excellent chance of attaining to 
that distinction. But so it was. The same 
blood coursed through their veins, and his 
tempestuous good-will and her fiery anger 
took the same form of violence and passion. 

Nothing but these lectures cou/d have kept 
Mrs. Deborah constant in the train of such a 
trumpery, jiggeting, fidgety little personage 
as Mr. Adolphus, — the more especially as her 
heart was assailed in its better and softer parts, 
by the quiet respectfulness of Mrs. Thornby's 
demeanour, who never forgot that she had ex- 
perienced her protection in the hour of need, 
and by the irresistible good-nature of Cicely, 
a smiling, rosy, sunny-looking creature, whose 
onljf vocation in this world seemed to be the 
trying to make everybody as happy as herself. 

Mrs. Deborah (with such a humanizing 
taste, she could not, in spite of her cantanker- 
ous temper, be all bad) loved flowers: and 
Cicely, a rover of the woods and fields from 
early childhood, and no despicable practical 
gardener, took care to keep her beaupols con- 
stantly supplied from the first snowdrop to the 
last china-rose. Nothing was too large for 
Cicely's good-will, nothing too small. Huge 
chimney jars of lilacs, laburnums, horse-chest- 
nuts, peonies, and the golden and gorgeous 
double-furze; china jugs filled with magnifi- 
cent double stocks, and rich wallflowers,* 
with their bitter-sweet odour, like the taste of 
orange marmalade, pinks, sweet-peas, and 

* Few flowere, (and ahuost all look best when ar- 
rangeii each sort in its separate vase.) — few look so 
well totrether as the four sorts of double vvallliiuvers. 
The common dark, (the old bloody warrior — I have a 
love for those graphic names — words which paiiil)the 
common dark, the common yellow, llie newer and 
more intensely coloured dark, and that new golp co 
lour still so rare, which is in tint, ibrm. growth, hardi 
ness, and profusion, one of the most vahiable acquisi 
tions to the flovier-garden. When placed together m 
a jar, the brighter blossoms seem to stand out from 
those of deeper hue, with exactly the sort of relief, 
the harmonious combination of light and shade, thnt 
one sometimes sees in the rich gilt carving of an old 
flower-wreathed jiicture-franie; or, belter still, it might 
seem a pot of flowers chased in gold, by Eenvenuto 
Cellini, in which the workmanship outvalued tho 
metal. Many beaiij-wts are gayer, many sweeter, but 
this is the richest, both lor scent and colour, that I 
have ever seen. 



47 



3U 



554 



COUNTRY STORIES. 



mignonette, from her own little garden, or 
woodland posies that might beseem the hand 
of the faerie queen, composed of those gems 
of flowers, the scarlet pimpernel, and the blue 
anagallis, the rosy star of the wild geranium, 
with its aromatic crimson-tipped leaves, the 
snowy star of the white ocliil, and that third 
starry flower the yellow loose-strife, the milk 
vetch, purple, or pink, or cream coloured, 
backed by moss-like leaves and lilac blossoms 
of the lousevvort, and overhung by the fragrant 
bells and cool green leaves of the lily of the 
valley. It would puzzle the gardener to sur- 
pass the elegance and delicacy of such a 
nosegay. 

Offerings, like these did our miller's maiden 
delight to bring at all seasons, and under all 
circumstances, whether of peace or war be- 
tween the heads of the two opjiosite houses ; 
and wiienever there chanced to be a lull in the 
storm, she availed herself of the opportunity to 
add to her simple tribute a dish of eels from 
the mill-stream, or perch from the river. — 
That the thought of Edward (" dear Edward," 
as she always called him,) might not add 
somewhat of alacrity to her attentions to his 
wayward aunt, I will not venture to deny, but 
she would have done the same if Edward had 
not been in existence, from the mere effect of 
her own peace-making spirit, and a generosity 
of nature which found more pleasure in giving 
than in possessing. A sweet and happy 
creature was Cicely; it was difficult even for 
Mrs. Deborah to resist her gentle voice and 
artless smiles. 

Affairs were in this posture between the 
belligerents, sometimes war to the knife, some- 
times a truce under favour of Cissy's white 
flag, when one October evening, John Stokes 
entered the dwelling of his kinswoman to in- 
form her that Edward's apprenticeship had 
been some time at an end, that he had come of 
age about a month ago, and that his master, 
for whom he had continued to work, was so 
j satisfied of his talents, industry, and integrity, 
I that he had offered to take him into partnership 
I for a sum incredibly moderate, considering the 
advantages which such a connexion would 
ensure. 

"Yon have more than the money wanted in 
the Belford Bank, money that ought to have 
been his," quoth John Stokes, "besides all 
your properly in land and houses and the 
fund; and if you did advance this sum, which 
all the world knows is only a small part of 
what should have belonged to him in right of 
his fallier, it would be as safe as if it was in 
the Bank of England, and the interest paid 
half-yearly. You ought to give it him out 
and out; but of course you vvon't even lend 
it," pursiu'd this judicious negotiator; "you 
keep all your money for that precious chap, 
Mr. 'Dolphns, to make ducks and drakes with 
after you are dead ; a fine jig he'll dance over 
your grave. You know, 1 suppose, that we've 



got the fellow in a cleft stick about that peti- 
tion the other day 1 He persuaded old Jacob, 
who's as deaf as a post, to put his mark to it, 
and when he was gone, Jacob came to me (I'm 
the only man in the parish who can make him 
hear) to ask what it was about. So upon my 
explaining the matter, Jacob found he had got 
into the wrong box. But as the chap had 
taken away his petition, and Jacob could not 
scratch out his name, what does he do but set 
his mark to ours o' t'other side; and we've 
wrote all about it to Sir Robert to explain to 
the Parliament, lest seeing Jacob's name both 
ways like, they should think 'twas he, poor 
fellow, that meant to humbug 'em. A pretty 
figure Mr. 'Dolphus '11 cut when the stor}'' 
comes to be told in the House of Commons ! 
But that's not the worst. He took the petition 
to the workhouse, and meeting with little Fan 
Ropley, who had been taught to write at our 
charity-school, and is quick at her pen, he 
makes her sign her name at full length, and 
then strikes a dot over the e to turn it into 
Francis, and persuade the great folk up at 
Lunnun, that little Fan's a grown-up man. If 
that chap won't come some day to be trans- 
ported for forgery, my name's not John Stokes ! 
Well, dame, will you let Ned have the money 1 
Yes or no ?" 

That Mrs. Deborah should have suffered the 
good miller to proceed with his haranoue with- 
out interruption, can only be accounted for on 
the score of the loudness of tone on which 
he piqued himself with so much justice. 
When she did take up the word, her reply 
made up in volubility and virulence for any 
deficiency in sound, concluding by a formal re- 
nunciation of her nephew, and a command to 
his zealous advocate never again to appear 
within her doors. Upon which, honest John 
vowed he never would, and departed. 

Two or three days after this quarrel, Mr. 
Adolphus having arrived, as happened not un- 
frequently, to spend the afternoon at Chalcott, 
persuaded his hostess to accompany him to 
see a pond drawn at the Hall, to which, as the 
daughter of one of Sir Robert's old tenants, 
she would undoubtedly have the right of 
entree; and Mrs. Deborah assented to his re- 
quest, partly because the weather was fine, 
and the distance short, partly, it may be, from 
a lurking desire to take her chance as a by- 
stander of a dish of fish ; they who need such 
windfalls least, being commonly those who 
are most desirous to put themselves in their ' 
way. 1 

Mr. Adolphus Lynfield's reasons were ob- | 
vious enougii. Besides the eiinui of a tete-a- j 
tete, all flattery on one side, and contradiction | 
on the other, he was naturally of the fidgety, I 
restless temperament which hates to be long 
confined to one place or one occupation, and 
can never hear of a gathering of people, what- ! 
ever might be the occasion, without longing to ' 
find himself amons'St them. 



AUNT DEBORAH. 



555 



Moreover, he had, or professed to have, a 
passion for field sports of every description ; 
and havinjr that very season contrived, with 
his usual curious infelicity, to o-et into as 
many scrapes in shootino as shall last most 
sportsmen their whole lives — having shot a 
spaniel instead of a hare, a keeper instead of 
a partridge, and his own foot instead of a 
pheasant, and finally, having been taken up for 
a poacher, althoutrh wholly innocent of the 
death of any !)ird that ever wore feathers, — 
after all these woeful experiences, (to say no- 
thing of mischances in anglintr which might 
put to shame those of our friend Mr. Thomp- 
son,) he found himself particularly well dis- 
posed to a diversion which appeared to com- 
bine in most choice union the appearance of 
sporting, wliich he considered essential to liis 
reputation, with a most happy exemption from 
the usual sporting- requisites, exertion or skill. 
All that he would have to do would be to look 
on and talk, — to throw out a hint here and a 
suggestion there, and find fault with every 
thing and everybody, like a man who under- 
stood what was going forward. 

The weather was most propitious ; a bright 
breezy sunny October day, with light snowy 
clouds, chased by a keen crisp wind across 
the deep blue heavens, — and the beautiful 
park, tlieturf of an emerald green, contrasting 
with the brown fern and tawny woods, rival- 
ling in richness and briglitness the vivid hues 
of the autumnal sky. Nothing could exceed 
the gorgeous tinting of the magnificent trees, 
which, whether in detached clumps or forest- 
like masses, fi)rmed the pride and glory of the 
place. The oak still retaining its dark and 
heavy verdure; the elm letting fall a shower 
of yellow leaves, that tinged the ground be- 
neath ; the deep orange of the horse-chestnut, 
the beecli varying from ruddy gold to greenish 
brown ; and above all, the shining green of 
the hoily, and the rich purplish red of the old 
thorns, those hoary thorns, the growth of cen- 
turies, gave to this old English gentleman's 
seat mucli of the variety and beauty of tlie 
American backwoods. The house, a stately 
ancient mansion, from the porch of which you 
might expect to see Sir Roger de Coverley 
issue, stood half-way up a gentle hill, finely 
backed by woods of great extent;; and tlie 
pond, which was the object of the visit, was 
within sigiit of the windows, but so skilfully 
veiled by trees, as to appear of much greater 
extent than it really was. 

The master and mistress of the Hall, with 
llieir pretty daughters, were absent .on a tour: 
— Is any English country family ever at home 
in the month of October, in these days of 
fashionable enterprise] They were gone to 
visit the temples of Thebes or the ruins of 
Carthage, the Fountains of the Nile or the 
Falls of Niagara, St. vSophia or the Kremlin, 
or some such pretty little excursion, which 
ladies and gentlemen now talk of as familiar- 



ly " as maids of puppy dogs." They were 
away. But enough of the household remain- 
ed at Chalcott, to compose, with a few visit- 
ers, a sufficiently numerous and animated 
group. 

The first person whom Mrs. Deborah espied, 
(and it is remarkable that we always see first 
those whom we had rather not see at all,) was 
her old enemy the miller, — a fisherman of so 
much experience and celebrity, that his pre- 
sence might have been reckoned upon as cer- 
tain — busily engaged, together with some 
half-dozen stout and active coadjutors, in 
dragging the net ashore, amidst a chorus of 
exclamations and cautions from the various 
assistants, and the breathless expectation of 
the spectators on the bank, amongst whom 
were Mrs. Thornby and Cicely, accompanied 
by a tall, atiiletic young man of dark com- 
plexion, with peculiarly bright eyes and curl- 
ing hair, whom his aunt immediately recog- 
nised as Edward. 

" How improved he is !" was the thought 
that flashed across her mind, as with an air of 
respectful alacrity he stepped forward to meet 
her; but the miller, in tugging at his nets, 
happened to look towards them, and ashamed 
that he of all men should see her change of 
feeling, she turned away abruptly, without 
acknowledging his salutation, and walked off 
to the other side with her attendant, Mr. Adol- 
phus. 

"Drat the perverse old jade!" exclaimed 
John Stokes, involuntarily, as he gave a 
mighty tug, which brought half the net ashore. 

" She 's heavy, my good sir !" observed the 
pompous butler, conceiving that the honest 
miller's exclamation had reference to the 
sport; "only see how full she is ! We shall 
have a magnificent haul !" 

And the spectators, male and female, crowd- 
ed round, and the fishermen exerted themselves 
so efficiently, that in two minutes the net was 
on dry land. 

" Nothing but weeds and rubbish !" ejacu- 
lated the disappointed butler, a peculiarly 
blank look taking the place of his usual self- 
importance. " What can have become of the 
fish r' 

" The net has been improperly drawn," ob- 
served Mr. Adolphus; "I myself saw four 
or five large carp just before it was dragged 
ashore !" 

" Better fling you in, master 'Dolphus, by 
way of bait !" ejaculated our friend the miller; 
" I 've seen jacks in this pond that would 
make no more bones of swallowing a leg or 
an arm of such an atomy as you, if they did 
not have a try at the whole body, than a shark 
would of bolting down launch in the show. 
As to carp, everybody that ever fished a pond 
knows their tricks. Catch them in a net if 
you can. They swim round and round, just 
to let you look at 'em, and then they drop 
plump into the mud, and lie as still and as 



536 



COUNTRY STORIES. 



close as so many stones. But conne, Mr. 
Tomkins," continued honest .Tohn, addressing 
the butler, "we'll try again. I'm minded 
that we shall have better luck this time. Here 
are some brave large tench, which never move 
till the water is disturbed ; we shall have a 
good chance for them as well as for the jacks. 
Now, steady there, you in the boat. Throw 
her in, boys, and mind you don't draw too 
fast!" So to work they all went again. 

All was proceeding prosperously, and the 
net, evidently well filled with fish, was drag- 
ging slowly to land, when John Stokes shout- 
ed suddenly from the other side of the pond — 
" Danof it, if that unlucky chap, master 'Dol- 
})has there, has not got hold of the top of the 
net! He'll pull it over. See, that great jack 
has got out already. Take the net from him, 
Tom ! He '11 let all the fish loose, and tumble 
in himself, and the water at that part is deep 
enouoh to drown twenty sucii manikins. 
Not that I think drowning likely to be his 
fate, — witness that petition business," mutter- 
ed John to himself in a sort of parenthesis. 
" Let go, I say, or you will be in. Let go, 
can't ye]" added he, in his loudest tone. 

And with the word, Mr. Adolphus, still 
struggling to retain his hold of the net, lost 
his balance and fell in, and catching at the 
person next him, who happened to be Mrs. 
Deborah, with the hope of saving himself, 
dragged her in after him. 

Both sank, and amidst the confusion that 
ensued, the shrieks and sobs of the women, 
the oaths and exclamations of the men, the 
danger was so imminent that both might have 
been drowned, had not Edward Thornby, has- 
tily flinging off his coat and hat, plunged in 
and rescued Mrs. Deborah, wiiilst good John 
Stokes, rnnniuQ; round the head of the pond as 
nimbly as a boy, did the saine kind office for 
his prime aversion, the attorney's clerk. What 
a sound kernel is sometimes hidden under a 
rouoh and rugged rind I 

Mr. Adolphus, more frightened than hurt, 
and with so much of the conceit washed out 
of him by his involuntary cold bath, that it 
might be accounted one of the most fortunate 
accidents in his life, was conveyed to the 
hall ; but her own house being almost equally 
near, Mrs. Deborah was at once taken home, 
and put comfortably to bed in her own chamber. 

About two hours afterwards, the whole of 
the miller's family, Mrs. Thornby still pallid 
and trembling, Cicely smiling through her 
tears, and her father as blunt and free-spoken 
as ever, were assembled round the homely 
couch of their maiden cousin. 

" I tell you I must have the lawyer fetched 
directly. I can't sleep till I have made my 
will ;" said Mrs. Deborah. 



"Better not," responded John Stokes; 
" you'll want it altered to-morrow." 

" What's that you say, cousin John 1" in- 
quired the spinster. 

" That if you make your will to night, you'll 
change your mind to-morrow," reiterated John 
Stokes. " Ned's going to be married to my 
Cicely," added he, "and that yon mayn't like, 
or if you did like it this week, you migiit not 
like it next. So you'd better let matters rest 
as they are." 

" You're a provoking man, John Stokes," 
said his cousin — "a very provoking obstinate 
man. But I'll convince you for once. Take 
that key, Mrs. Thornby," quoth she, raising 
herself in bed, and fumbling in an immense 
pair of pockets for a small old-fashioned key, 
" and open the 'scrutoire, and give me the pen 
and ink, and the old narrow brown book, that 
you'll find at the top. Not like his marrying 
Cicely! Why I always have loved that 
child — don't cry. Cissy! — and have always 
had cause, for she has been a kind little crea- 
ture to me. Those dahlias came from her,. and 
the sweet posy," pursued Mrs. Deborah, point- 
ing to a nosegay of autumn flowers, the old 
fragrant monthly rose, mignonette, heliotrope, 
cloves, and jessamine, which stood by the bed- 
side. " Ay, that's the book, Mrs. Thornby ; 
and there. Cissy," continued Aunt Deborah, 
filling up the check, with a sum far larger than 
that required for the partnership — "there. 
Cissy, is your marriage portion. Don't cry 
so, child !" said she, as the affectionate girl 
hung round her neck in a passion of grateful 
tears — " don't cry, but find out Edward, and 
send for the lawyer, for I'm determined to 
settle my affairs to-night. And now, John 
Stokes, I know I've been a cross old woman, 
but " 

"Cousin Deborah," interrupted John, seiz- 
ing her withered hand with a grip like a smith's 
vice, — " Cousin Deborah, thou hast acted no- 
bly, and I beg ih}^ pardon once for all. God 
bless thee ! — Dang it," added the honest miller 
to himself, "I do verily believe that this 
squabbling has been mainly my fault, and that 
if I had not been so provoking she would not 
have been so contrary. Well, she has made 
us all happy, and we must try to make her 
happy, in return. If we did not, we should 
deserve to be soused in the fish-pond along 
with that unhappy chap. Master 'Dolphus. 
For my part," continued the good yeoman, 
forming with great earnestness a solemn resolu- 
tion — "for my part, I've fully made up my 
mind never to contradict her again, say what 
she will. No, not if she 533^3 black's while ! 
It's contradiction that makes women contrary; 
it sets their backs up, like. I'll never contradict 
her again, so long as n)y name's John Stokes." 



EXTRACTS FROM FINDEN'S TABLEAUX. 



[The following pieces arc contributions of Miss Mitford to "Finden's Tableaux," ofwJiich 

Annual she was the editor.] 



PREFACE. 

In commending this volume to the puhlic, 
the editor has little to say, beyond the pleas- 
ant duty of thanking- her accomplished coadju- 
tors for such poetry, and, in one instance, such 
prose, as may render her pages no unfit com- 
panion to the beautiful engravings which they 
are intended to illustrate. 

For her ovi^n poor part, she has only to solicit 
for stories necessarily brief, and written, from 
circumstances over which she had no control, 
in more than usual haste, the same indulgence 
which has been extended to the productions, 
— over-numerous, perhaps, — which she has 
sent fortli during^ the last fifteen years. It is 
right to mention, that the two songs in one of 
her little tales, have been stolen from herself; 
being verses that she did not quite wish to die ; 
and which had appeared in two works out of 
print, and, to all intents and purposes, as good 
or as bad as manuscript. 

Three Mile Cross, Seplember 19th, 18:i7. 



ENGLAND. 

THE KING'S WARD. 

" I have no joy of this contract to-night." 

SHAKSPEAEE. 

" What ! not a word to thy poor old nurse, 
or thy faithful bower-women ? Not a nod, or 
a smile, or a kindly look, to show that thou 
heedest us 1 Thou that wast wont to be the 
merriest and kindliest damsel in merry Cum- 
berland, the fair and the noble Edith Clifford, 
the wealthiest maiden north of Trent, about to 
be wedded, too, to the young Philip Howard, 
the goodliest and the bravest knight of King 
Henry's court, for whose favour the gay dames 
of the south have been trying and vying at pa- 

47* 



geant, at joust, and at tournament, ever since 
his return from the wars ! Men say that, for 
all that he hath fought against the Soldan, and 
carried the " blanche-lion," the old banner of 
his house, foremost among the proud chivalry 
of France and Italy, he hath rather the mien 
of a young page than of a stalwart warrior, so 
smooth and fair is his brow, so graceful his 
form, so gentle and courteous his bearing. 
Still amort. Sweeting! mute as a marble 
image on thy very bridal eve !" And the good 
old Margaret, seeing her lady still unmoved, 
paused for very vexation. 

" So generous a wooer too !" exclaimed one 
of the attendant maidens, glancing at the pro- 
fusion of rich gifts with which a heavy wain 
had been laden, and which had arrived that 
very day at the castle, under convoy of the 
good knight's squire, and a score or two of 
pages and men-at-arms, and which now lay in 
magnificent profusion about the tapestried 
chamber, scattered amidst the quaint antique 
furniture, high-backed ebony chairs, oaken 
screens, cut into mimic lace-work ; marble 
slabs, resting on gilded griffins, or some such 
picturesque monsters of heraldry ; and huge 
cabinets, composed of the rarest woods, an 
entire history, profane or sacred, carved upon 
the doors, and surmounted with spires and 
pinnacles, like the decorated shrine of a Gothic 
cathedral; the whole scene, lighted up by the 
bright beams of the evening sun, coloured into 
a thousand vivid hues, as they glanced through 
the storied panes of the oriel window. A scene 
more bright, or more gorgeous, than that state- 
ly lady's bower, tenanted, as it was, by wo- 
man in lier fairest forms, by venerable age and 
blooming youth, could hardly be found in 
merry England. Yet there sat the youthful 
lady of the castle, in the midst of all this cost- 
ly beauty, languid and listless, pale and mo- 
tionless as a statue. 

" So generous a wooer, too ! " exclaimed 
Mistress Mabel, the pretty bright-eyed bru- 
nette, the Lady Edith's principal bower-wo- 
man, who being reckoned the best adjuster of 
a head-tire, and the most skilful professor of 

(557) 



558 



EXTRACTS FROM FINDEN'S TABLEAUX. 



all arts of the loom and the needle, whether 
in white-seam, cut work, tapestry, or broidery, 
of any maiden in the nortli country, was more 
especially alive to the rarity and richness of 
Sir Philip's gifts. 

" So generous a wooer, too ! only look at 
these carpets from Persia ! 'Tis a marvel how 
folk can have the heart to put foot on such 
bright flowers; they seem as if they were 
growing! And these velvets from Genoa; 
were ever such colours seen? And the silken 
stuffs from Padua, that stand on end with their 
own richness; what kirtles and mantles they 
will make ! and the gloves of Cales, that cause 
the chanrber to smell like a garden full of spice, 
cloves, and jessamine ! And these veils from 
the Low Countries, as fine as a spider's web ! 
And the cloth of gold, and the cloth of silver, 
— where did Master Eustace say they came 
from, Dame Margaret] And this golden ves- 
sel for perfumes, which looks like a basket all 
over-run with grapes and ivy?" 

" That was wrought by a cunning goldsmith 
of Florence," responded old Margaret, " whose 
skill is so surpassing, that, albeit he employs 
chiefly the precious metals, the workmanship 
is of more value than the materials. This 
silver tray, with the delicate trellis-work, 
wreathed with lilies and roses round the edge, 
and the story of Diana and Ac — Ac — fie on 
my old brains! I shall forget my own name 
soon ! — Diana and — he that was turned into a 
stag — " 

" Actreon !" whispered Alice, the fiiirest 
and most youthful of the Lady Edith's atten- 
dants, gently and unostentatiously supplying 
the good dame's failure of memory, without 
looking up from her work. 

" Ay, Actcson ! I thank thee, Alice. Thy 
wits are younger than mine by fifty good years, 
or more. This silver salver, with the light 
delicate ed'je, that seems like the work of the 
fairies, and the story of Diana and Actason in- 
side, is by the same hand." 

" And then the caskets of precious stones !" 
pursued the enthusiastic waiting damsel, 
warming at the contemplation of the finery. 
" The brooches and bracelets ! The coronets 
and the carkanets ! why, yonder wreath of 
emeralds and amethysts, which lies on the ta- 
ble underneath the great Venetian glass — to 
think of my lady never having had the curios- 
ity to look into thai!'" (and Mistress Mabel 
took a self-satisfied peep at her own pretty fig- 
ure, as it was reflected on the broad clear sur- 
face of the rare and costly mirror,) "that sin- 
gle wreath, which she hath never vouchsafed 
to glance upon : and the ropes of pearl which 
I laid upon her lap, and which she hath let 
drop upon the floor; — do pick them up, Alice ! 
— I verily believe the foolish wench careth as 
little for these precious adornments as the La- 
dy Edith herself! That one wreath, and those 
strings of pearl, be worth an earl's ransom." 

At this moment the sound of a harp was 



heard, and the voice of the minstrel arose from 
beneath the casement : — 

" Waken to pleasure, 

Lady sweet! 
Lol an empire's treasure 

Is spread at thy feet: 
Here be shawls of Cashmere fine; 
Rubies from Biicharia's mine ; 
The pear-shaped pearls of Ormnz' bay; 
And gold, 'raid Yemen's sands that lay. 
Waken to pleasure, 

Lady sweet! 
Love, and love's treasure, 

Be spread at thy feet." 

The air was smooth and flowing, and the 
voice of Robert Fitz-Stephen, one of the most 
approved of the courtly minstrels : but still the 
Lady Edith sat pale and motionless, as though 
the tide of melody had glided uiifelt over her 
senses, producing no more impression than the 
waters of the lake upoir the plumage of the 
cygnet. 

Dame Margaret sighed deeply ; and Mabel, 
giving her head a provoked impatient jerk, re- 
sumed her embroidery with such furious rapid- 
ity, that she broke her silk half-a-dozen times 
in the course of a minute, and well-nigh spoiled 
the carnation upon which she was engaged, 
and which she had intended to outvie the na- 
tural blossom in Father Francis's flower-bor-j 
der. Young Alice, drawing her tapestry-fratne ! 
nearer to them, and further from the Lady i 
Edith, and speaking in a low tone, even lower 
than her own soft and gentle natural voice, 
resumed the conversation. 

" For my poor part, good Mabel (call me 
foolish an' thou wilt), I do ikA wonder at our 
sweet lady's sadness. Think what a piteous 
thing it is to be an orphan ; think but of that 
great grief! And then to be a great heir to 
boot, left in the king's ward, and dragged from 
her old dear home in her old dear north coun- 
trie, to this fine grand castle (which, albeit 
her own also in right of her lady mother, 
seems too strange and too grand for happi- 
ness,) and all for the purpose of being wedded 
to this young lord, with his costly glittering 
gifts, who hath never vouchsafed to come near 
her until now, on the very eve of the_ bridal, 
when it hath pleased him to give notice of his 
approach. Holy St. Agatha defend me from 
such a wooer ! A wooer, whose actions show, 
as plainly as words could tell, that he seeketh 
the Lady Edith's broad lands, and careth as 
little for the Lady Fdith's warm heart, as I do 
for a withered rose-leaf. I '11 tell thee what, 
Mabel, I never look to see such happy days 
again, as when we dwelt in our old dear home, 
amongst the pleasant vales and breezy moun- 
tains of Cumberland. There was health and 
freedom in the very air. Dost thou not re- 
member the day when old GeoilVey the falconer 
had lamed himself among the rocks, and the 
youth Albert, the travelling minstrel, took 
charge of the hawks, and waited on my lady, 
as if he had been trained to the sport all his 



ENGLAND, 



559 



life long ! Hast thou forfrot how she stood 
by the lake, with her favourite merlin on her 
wrist, and her white greyhound Lily-bell at 
her side, looking like the very goddess of the 
chase, so full of life and spirit, and cheeriness? 
And that bright evening when she led the 
dance round the l\Iay-pole ? Well-a-day, poor 
lady! 'tis a woful change!" 

It was remarkable that the Lady Edith's 
attention, which neither the louder speech of 
her elder attendants, nor the ringing tones of 
the harper, had been able to conmiand, was 
arrested at once by the soft low voice of Alice. 
The womanly sympathy sank soothingly into 
the woman's heart, just as the gentle rain from 
heaven penetrates the parched hill-side, from 
whose arid surface the sharp and arrowy hail 
rebounds without impression. The drooping 
mistress listened in mournful silence, whilst 
her faithful maiden, unconscious that she had 
attracted her notice, pursued, in still lower ac- 
cents, the train of thought which her own fond 
recollections of the freedom and happiness 
which they had tasted among their native 
mountains had awakened in her mind. 

" Poor Albert, too ! the wandering minstrel, 
who came to the castle gate to crave lodging 
for one night, and sojourned with us for three 
long months ; and then, when he had wrought 
himself up to go, — and, verily, it was a parting 
like that of the spirit and the flesh, when he 
left our old walls, — returned again and again, 
and finally fixed himself in the fisherman's 
cottage, where the mountain streamlet, after 
meandering along the meadow, falls into the 
lake. Poor Albert ! I warrant me he taketh 
good care of Lily-bell and my lady's merlin, 
whereof he craved the charge from old Geoffrey. 
I marvel whether my lady knoweth that her 
pretty Lily-bell and her favourite falcon be in 
hands that will tend them so faithfully, for her 
dear sake ! To my fancy, Mabel, that poor 
youth, albeit so fearful and so ashamed in her 
presence, worshipped the very ground that slie 
trod upon, I have seen him kiss Lily-bell's 
glossy head, after her hand had patted it, reve- 
rently and devoutly, as though it had been a 
holy relic in the great minster at Durham." 

Again the full and ringing chords of the 
harp — but, this time, to an old border air, well 
known to the northern maids — arose from be- 
neath the casement. The voice, too, was dif- 
ferent from that of the courtly minstrel — deep- 
er, manlier, pouring forth the spirit of the 
words, as they gushed spontaneousl}% as it 
seemed, from his lips, as though, .in his case, 
song were but the medium of feeling, and the 
poet's fancy and the musician's skill buried 
in the impassioned grief of the despairing 
lover. So the strain rang: — 

" High o'er the baron's castio tall, 
Ricli banners float with heavy fall ; 
And light and song, in mingling tide, 
Pour forth, to hail the lovely bride. 



Yet, lady, still the birchen tree 

Waves o'er the cottage on the lea; 

The babbling stream runs bright and fair, — 

'I'he love-star of the west shines there." 

"Ha!" exclaimed old Margaret; "that 
ditty hath aroused my lady. See how she lis- 
tens." 

" 'Tis the roundela3r which she herself was 
wont to sing," observed Mabel ; " but the 
words are different." 

"Peace! peace!" cried the lady Edith, 
checking, with some impatience the prattle 
of her attendants, and leaning against the 
casement which she flung open, as the deep 
and earnest voice of the minstrel again re- 
sounded through the apartment. " Be silent, 
I pray ye !" 

" Mailed warders pace o'er keep and tower; 
Gay maidens deck the lady's bovver; 
Page, squire, and knight, a princely train, 
Wait duteous at her bridle rein. 
Yet in that cot the milk-v\hite hound. 
The favourite falcon, still are found ; 
And one more fond, more true than ihey. 
Born to adure and to obey." 

" Alack ! alack !" sighed the tender-hearted 
Alice. "Well-a-day, poor youth! lever 
deemed that his strange fondness for Lily-bell 
— albeit as pretty and playful a creature as 
ever gambolled on the green-sward, and as 
swift of foot as ever followed hare over the 
mountains — had a deeper source than love of 
the good hound. Well-a-day, poor Albert! 
He was a goodly youth !" 

" Hush ! hush !" exclaimed the Lady Edith, 
as the symphony finished, and the voice again 
mingled with the chords of the harp, struck 
falteringly and unsteadilj^ now, as though the 
hand trembled and the heart waxed faint. 

" The coronet of jewels rare 
Shines proudly o'er her (ace so fair ; 
And titles high and higher name 
Lord Howard's lovely bride may claim. 
And yet, the wreath of hawthorn bough 
Once lightlier pressed that snowy brow ; 
And hearts that wither now were gay. 
When she was but the queen of ]May." 

"Alas! alas! my lady, my dear sweet 
lady !". murmured Alice to herself, as poor 
Edith, after lingering at the window long 
enough to ascertain that the harp was silent, 
and the harper gone, sank into a seat with a 
sigh and a look of desolation, that proved, more 
plainly than words, the truth of the last lines 
of the minstrel's lay. 

" Alas ! alas ! dear lady !" exclaimed she, 
in a louder tone, as tb.e sudden burst of start- 
ling noises, the warlike blasts of trump and 
cornet, the jarring dissonant sound caused by 
raising the heavy portcullis, and lowering the 
massive drawbridge, and the echoing tramp 
of barbed steeds and mailed horsemen in the 
courts of the castle, showed that the expected j 
bridegroom had at length arrived. 

Edith wrung her hands in desperation. 



530 



EXTRACTS FROM FINDEN'S TABLEAUX. 



" This knight I cannot, and I will not see. 
Go to him, Margaret; say that I am sick — 
that I am d\'ing-. The blessed saints can bear 
v.'itness that thou wilt say but the truth in so 
telling him. Sick at heart am I, sick to the 
death ! Oh that I had died before this wretch- 
ed hour!" And poor Edith burst into an 
agony of tears, that shook her very frame. 

"Whygoest thou not, Margaret ]" inquired 
she, a few moments after, when, exhausted by 
its own violence, her grief had become more 
tranquil. " Why dost thou not carry my mes- 
sage to the Lord Howard 1 Why dally thus, 
old dame? Mabel, go thou! They stand 
about me as though I were an ignorant child, 
that knew not what she said ! Do my bid- 
ding on the instant, Mabel : thou wert best !" 

" Nay, good my lady, but our gracious lord 
the king — " 

"Tell me not of kings, maiden! I'll to 
sanctuary. I '11 fly this very night to my aunt, 
the prioress of St. Mary's. The church know- 
eth well how to protect her votaries. Woe is 
me ! that, for being born a rich heir, I must 
be shut from the free breath of heaven, the 
living waters, and the flowery vales, in the 
dark and gloomy cloister! To change the 
locks that float upon the breeze for the dismal 
veil ! To waste my youth in the cold and 
narrow convent cell — a living tomb ! Oh ! it 
is a sad and a weary lot. But better so, than 
to plight my troth to one whom I have never 
seen, and can never love ! to give my hand lo 
one man, whilst my heart abideth with an- 
other." 

"Lady!" cried Margaret; "do my senses 
play me false ! Or is It Edith Cliflord that 
speaketh thus of a low-born churl?" 

"A low-born chiud !" responded Edith, — 
"There is a regality of mind and of spirit 
about that youth, which needeth neither Avealth 
nor lineage to even him with the greatest — the 
inborn nobility of virtue and of genius ! Never 
till now knew I that he loved me ; and now — 
Hasten to this lord, Alice; and see that he 
Cometh not hither. Wherefore lingerest thou, 
maiden]" inquired Edith, of the pitying dam- 
sel, who staid her steps with an exclamation 
of surprise, as the door of the chamber was 
gently opened. "Tell the Lord Howard the 
very truth ; men say tliat he is good and wise 
— too wise, too good, to seek his own happi- 
ness at the expense of a poor maiden's misery. 
Tell him the whole truth, Alice. Spare thy 
mistress that shame. Say that I love him not 
— say that I love — " 

" Nay, sweetest lady, from thine own dear 
lips must come that sweet confession," said a 
voice at her side, and, turning to the well- 
known aconts, Edith saw, at her feet, him who, 
having won her heart as the wandering min- 
strel, the humble falconer, claimed her hand 
as the rich and high-born Philip Howard, the 
favourite of the king. 

A cry of joy burst from the astonished wait- 



ing-women, and was echoed by the pretty 
greyhound, Lily-bell, who had followed the 
Lord Howard into the room, and now stood 
trembling with ecstasy before her fair mis- 
tress, resting her head in her lap, and looking 
up into her face with eyes beaming with af- 
fectionate gladness — eyes that literally glowed 
with delight. 

Never was happiness more perfect than that 
of the betrothed maiden, on this so dreaded 
bridal eve. And heartily did her faithful at- 
tendants sympathise in her happiness ; only 
Mabel found it impossible to comprehend why, 
in the hour of hope and joy, as in that of fear 
and sorrow, her dearly beloved finery should 
be neglected. 

" To think," quoth the provoked bower- 
woman, " that now that all these marvels have 
come about, and that the Lord Howard turns 
out to be none otiier than the youth Albert, 
my lady will not vouchsafe to tell me wbether 
her kirtle shall be of cloth of gold or cloth of 
silver; or whether she will don the coronet of 
rubies or the emerald wreath ! Well-a-day !" 
quoth Mabel, " this love ! this love !" 



FLORENCE. 



THE WAGER. 



" Gone to be married I Gone to swear a peace !" 

/s/iuiisijcare. 

" Lily on liquid roses floating ! 

So iloais yon foam o'er pink, champagne. 
Fain would 1 join such pleasant boaluig, 
And prove tliat ruby main, 
And float away on wine ! 

" Those seas are dangerous (greybeards swear) 
Whose sea-hearh is the goblel's brim; 
And true it is they drown all Care — 
But what care we for him, 
So we but float on wine ! 

" And true it is they cross in pain. 

Who sober cross the Stygian ferry; 
But only make our Styx — Champagne, 
And we shall cross right merry. 
Floating away on wine. 

" Old Charon's self shall make him mellow, 
Then gaily row his bor ' fiom shore ;" 
While we, and every jovial fellow. 
Hear unconcern'd the oar 
That dips itself in wine !"* 

" So you really wrote this, Giovanni 1" said 
the young and pretty Beatrice Alberti, as she 
sat upon a terrace of her brother's villa, over- 
looking the Val d'Arno. "Sing it to me. I 
want to hear it in your own voice. Can An- 
tonio play the air?" 

And the little page ran rapidly over the 
notes, and then accompanied the conte's rich, 



* The editor is indebted for this Anacreontic — al- 
most an impromptu — to the kind friend, Mr. Kenyon 
(she is proud to name him,) to whom she also owes the 
stanzas entitled " Shrine of the Virgin." 



FLORENCE. 



561 



mellow, baritone voice, in a melody as rich 
and flowing as the verses. Both the singing 
and the playing- were full of right Italian taste ; 
and the fair Florentine, charmed with both the 
words and the air, was evidently not a little 
proud of her gay and gallant brother, whose 
talent as a poet she had never even suspected. 

"Well," said Giovanni, when he had con- 
cluded, "will this do, Beatrice'? Will that 
Anacreontic win me the laurel wreath to-night 
at the Palazzo Riccardi, think you ?" 

Beatrice started from her seat in astonish- 
ment. 

" You go to the Palazzo Riccardi ! You 
contend for the laurel crown ! You, Giovanni 
Alberti, who, since you were the height of An- 
tonio there, have done nothing but laugh at 
the old p-edeuse, the marchesa, with her pe- 
dants and her poets, and all the trumpery of 
all the Delia Cruscans transported into a lady's 
saloon ! You are making a fool of me, bro- 
ther ! You never can mean it !" 

"I am perfectl)'' in earnest, T assure you," 
replied the conti, looking, or rather trying to 
look, as grave as an habitually joyous and 
hilarious temperament would permit. " I have 
repented of my sins of scoffing and mockery, 
and mean to make that venerable priestess of 
the muses all possible amends by enacting 
the part of her Monsieur Trissotin, her homme 
cfef^jrrU:'' 

" With this great lawsuit pending, too ! A 
suit which, if you gain it, will leave that sweet- 
looking creature, her daughter (every one 
speaks so well of that pretty, gentle Bianci), 
little better than a beggar ! Why, it would, 
be like the story of one of the Montechi, in 
the house of the Capuletti, in times of old. 
Think of that dismal tragedy ! And, then, 
our uncle, the cardinal, what would he say "? 
Think of him." 

" There are no tragedies now-a-days, Bea- 
trice — at least none of the Romeo and Giu- 
lietta description ; they have left off happen- 
ing : and as to our dearly beloved uncle, he is 
a man of peace, and also — with reverence be 
it spoken — a man of contrivance. Leave his 
eminence to me. Go I shall; and I'll wager 
the antique gem that you were wishing for the 
other day, do you remember? — the Psyche — 
against your doves, that I bring home the 
prize. I see," continued he gaily, " that you 
think my verses too good to please that fantas- 
tical assembly; and, perhaps, you are right. 
But good or bad, they will answer my pur- 
pose; and you shall confess yourself that my 
wager is won." So saying, the light-hearted 
cavalier nodded to his sister, and departed, ca- 
rolling as he went, the refrain of his own song, 
" Floating away on wine." 

Five minutes saw him prancing on his met- 
tled barb, a fiery roan, whose gay curvets and 
sudden bounds showed to great advantage his 
noble owner's horsemanship ; for the young 

Conte Alberti was, by common reputation, as 
_ __ 



well as in the estimate of his fond sister, reck- 
oned amongst the most accomplished cavaliers 
of Florence ; and a very short space of time 
found him passing through the Lung 'Arno, 
on his way to his splendid home in the Piazza 
del Granduca, regarding with the indifference 
of an accustomed eye and a pre-occupied mind, 
the spacious, yet tranquil town, whose size, 
compared with its population, and whose for- 
tified palaces are so striking to strangers ; as 
well as the magnificent groups in bronze and 
marble, mere copies of which enrich the mu- 
seums of other nations, whilst the originals 
are the familiar and out-door treasures of the 
city of the Medici. 

Little thought our friend Giovanni, passing 
them at full speed on his full-blooded barb, 
of palace or of statue ; and as little, some few 
hours after, when pacing in the twilight the 
church of Santa Croce, did he heed, even 
while looking them in the face, the monuments 
of Galileo, of Machiavelli, or of him who 
wore so nobly the triple crown of Art — the 
sculptor, painter, architect, Michael Angel o 
Buonarotti. His thoughts were on other mat- 
ters. 

" Ay, there is the good father safe enough 
until he be wanted, I warrant him," cried he, 
gazing complacentl}^ upon a round, rosy, good- 
liumoured brother of the order of St. Francis, 
drowsily ensconced beside a dimly-lighted 
shrine. " Per Bacco ! the Monte Pulciano 
hath done its good office. Look, if he have 
not fallen asleep over his beads ! And a com- 
fortable nap to thee. Father Paolo! Stay 
there till I come to rouse thee!" And off 
danced the mercurial conte, murmuring his 
old burden, "Floating away, floating away, 
floating away on wine !" 

A blue-stocking party loses none of its pro- 
verbial dulness in the marble halls of Italj"^; 
and the assembly gathered together in the 
marchesa's magnificent saloon — that is to say, 
that very important part of such an assembly, 
the listeners, were roused from a state of drow- 
sihood, scarcely inferior to that of Father 
Paolo, by the unexpected entrance of the 
young heir of the Alberti in the palace of the 
Riccardi. 

It was a most animating sensation. The 
appearance of a Montagu amongst the festivi- 
ties of the Capulets, was nothing to it. The 
commerce of flattery (for the important busi- 
ness of the evening had not yet begun) sud- 
denly ceased; and the foundress of these clas- 
sical amusements, a/fff/eand faded lady, emu- 
lous of her of the golden violet, who sat on 
a fauteuil, slightly elevated, with the laurel- 
wreath on its crimson velvet cushion, laid 
upon a small table of rich mosaic, before her, 
and two starched and withered dames of the 
noble houses of Mozzi and Gerini at her side, 
stopped short in the midst of a compliment, 
with which, as in duty bound, she was repay- 
ing the adulation of one of the competitors 



562 



EXTRACTS FROM FINDEN'S TABLEAUX, 



for the prize, and started between horror and 
astonishment, as if she had been confronted 
by an apparition. 

Our modern Romeo, however, w^as not a 
man to be dumfounded by the amazement of 
a great lady, or awe-stricken by her displea- 
sure. He advanced with a mixture of gaiety 
and gallantry, an assured yet w"inning grace, 
which, for the moment, at least, the stately 
marchesa found irresistible, and professing 
himself an humble aspirant at the court of the 
Muses, come to do homage to their fair repre- 
sentative, took his station at the back of her 
chair, and listened with smiling attention to 
the competitors for the wreath. 

It was, perhaps, the very worst period of 
Italian literature ; before Alfieri had come in 
his might to renew the old strength and power 
of the sweetest of modern languages ; and 
when the versifiers of the day, " the word- 
catchers, who lived on syllables," confined 
themselves to mere verbal quiddities, and the 
most feeble and trivial imitations of the worst 
parts — the only parts that such mimics can 
hope to catch — of the great poets of a preced- 
ing age. 

Signer Ricci, a lean, yellow, shrivelled 
anatomy, began the recitations with squeaking 
forth a canzone to Angiolina, all bristling with 
concetti, after the manner, as he was pleased 
to say, of Petrarch ; and was followed by a 
wild, sallow, pseudo-enthusiast, who declaim- 
ed, with astounding vociferation and gesticu- 
lation, an unfinished and seemingly intermina- 
ble dream, in the involved and difficult triple 
rhyme which, beauty and sublimity apart, was, 
in the matter of ol)Scurity, pretty truly what it 
professed to be — a fragment in imitation of 
Dante. 

For " flickering lights, to no one focus brought, 
And mirage mists still baffled thirsty thought, 
And night-mare phantasies from drowsy grot. 
And far similitudes that liken not." 

Rhymed Flea for Tolerance. 

Signor Puzzi beat Signer Ricci all to no- 
thing. And accordingly he gratified to the 
highest point the bad taste of tiiis coterie of 
\^.^\'\■a.n precicuses ; and in the inidst of tapping 
of fans and murmurs of admiration of this 
grand effort of their chosen bard, the Mon- 
sieur Trissotin of Florence, our friend Gio- 
vanni gently stole off to a quiet corner near the 
door, where sat a very sweet-looking little 
maiden, whose black eyes sparkled with inno- 
cent pleasure, and whose rosy lips curled into 
irrepressible smiles at his approach. She 
made room for him beside her, with a natural 
symplicity and artlessness that formed a strange 
contrast witii the affectation and minauderie 
of the rest of the assem])!y. 

"So you are a poet, Conte Alberti'?" said 
she, in a low voice. 

" To be sure 1 am," replied he gaily ; " any 
thing that will bring me to you." 



" Really a poetl" asked the lady. 

" Why, that is putting my modesty to a 
very severe test," said the gentleman. " Really 
a poet ! Who may dare answer that question 
in the affirmative ] Judge for yourself. Come 
out into the porch, and Antonio shall bring his 
guitar, and I '11 sing the words to his accom- 
paniment. You have heard such a serenade 
before. Don't you remember our old signal"? 

'The moon is abroad in her glory to-night, 
Mid the deep blue sky and the cloudlets white ; 
Gaily her beams pierce the vine's trellised shade ; 
Softly they sleep on the long colonnade ; 
Calm her path in the heavens, though the bright orb 

below 
Still trembles and heaves to the dark river's flow. 

All lovely things are around us to-night ; 

The rose with her perfume, the moon with her light ;' 

and so forth. This song is worth a thousand 
of that. To be sure," added he, laughing, 
" that is not saying much for it. But these 
stanzas are really good. Only come and 
hear." 

" You '11 win the prize, then V 

" I have laid a wager with Beatrice that I 
carry the prize home to her, in spite of them 
all ; and it will be your fault if I lose it. Only 
come out into the porch ; I can't sing here. 
Besides, I have something important to say to 
you. I want you to help me to get rid of our 
weary lawsuit. Would you not like to put an 
end to this unnatural strife, and live vvith Bea- 
trice as a sister and friend V 

" Ay, from the bottom of my heart, would 
I, Conte Alberti !" said Bianca, clasping her 
hands fervently. " From the very bottom of 
my heart! And with you, too," she added, 
with great simplicity. 

" Come with me now, then, and I will show 
you how it may be managed. 1 beseech you, 
come." 

" Oh, Giovanni, I cannot ; I must not ! We 
shall be missed. See, Signor Puzzi has finish- 
ed, and they are going to call for your poem." 

" Heaven forefend !" cried Giovanni. " No ! 
the danger's past. Young Caroli is going to 
declaim a drama a Vimprovvifita. V\'hat sub- 
ject do they give him ? The Judgment of 
Solomon, by Jove! The Judgment, of Solo- 
mon ! ! ! Now, will he turn the marchesa into 
the Queen of Sheba, and go flattering on for 
two good hours, at the very least. They are 
safe enough now. Come, fairest Bianca! — 
Dearest Bianca, come !" 



" W^ell, Beatrice," said Giovanni, as he led 
his pretty wife to his delighted sister, " is not 
my wager fairly won 1 The cardinal suggest- 
ed this catastrophe to our story ; not indeed 
tlie means, — per Bacco ! they would never 
have entered his eminence's brains ; but he 
said, a year or two ago — that is to say, he in- 
timated — that if the heir male on one side mar-| 
ried the heiress on the other, he, the aforesaid j 



CEYLON. 



563 



heir male, would have nobody to go to law 
with but himself. I had not then seen my lit- 
tle Bianca, and, therefore, I turned a deaf ear 
to his hints. But after I had seen her, Fede 
di Dio ! if it had been necessary, to gain ad- 
mittance, that I should have constructed as 
vile a canzone as Signor Ricci, — and have 
dreamed as detestable a dream as Signor 
Puzzi, — and dramatised the Judgment of So- 
lomon into the bargain, I'd have done it. We 
have sent a dutiful billet to the marchesa, and 
I have no doubt but, for joy at getting rid of 
the lawsuit, and out of compliment to my 
poetical genius, she will behave like a reason- 
able woman — the more especially as what is 
done cannot be undone, and all the anger in 
the world will not mend it. So now, my fair- 
est Beatrice, you have nothing to do but to set 
her the good example of bearing misfortune 
with philosophy, and pay me my wager. The 
doves ! Signora, the doves !" 



CEYLON. 

THE LOST PEARL. 

" The gorgeous East, with richest hand. 
Showers on her kings barbaric pearl and gold." 

Milton. 

It was somewhere in the last quarter of the 
last century, that Charles Pemberton, the 
younger son of an ancient but impoverished 
family, having committed the old-fashioned 
folly of marrying a young lady, for no better 
qualifications than beauty, sense, and good- 
ness, without regard to those worldly conside- 
rations which modern prudence deems indis- 
pensable, esteemed himself most fortunate to 
inherit, through the bequest of a distant rela- 
tive, a small estate in the Island of Ceylon; 
and to obtain a commission in a Dutch regi- 
ment serving in that colony, in which, in the 
course of fourteen or fifteen years, he attained 
the rank of lieutenant-colonel. 

Livino;' cliiefly upon his own property'-, about 
a mile from the beautiful village of Negumbo, 
amongst some of the finest scenery of Ceylon 
(which the inhabitants imagine to have been 
the abode of our first parents, the paradise of 
the old world) ; enjoying an elegant compe- 
tence, and all sufficient to each other, Colonel 
and Mrs. Pemberton would have considered 
themselves blessed beyond the ordinary lot of 
humanity, in spite of their banishment from 
the country they loved so dearly, and the so- 
ciety they were so well calculated to adorn, 
but for the great evil of eastern climates, the 
successive deaths of several promising chil- 
dren. Five fine boys and girls had they fol- 
lowed to the grave ; and the only one who 
now remained to them was their little son. 



William, a child remarkable for his affection- 
ate temper, his intelligence, and his beauty; 
upon whom both parents doted, more particu- 
larly, perhaps, his mother, whose own health 
had been considerably injured by the repeated 
trials which her maternal feelings had under- 
gone. 

No tutor had been provided for Willy, whom 
they intended hereafter to send to England for 
education. Meanwhile his father taught him, 
when at home in the intervals of duty, whilst 
Mrs. Pemberton supplied his place in his ab- 
sence; but the active, lively boy was much 
about in the cinnamon plantations (just then 
beginning to be cultivated by tlie few British 
residents on the islands,) which were super- 
intended by a Cinglese, called Vinna, a man 
of remarkable quickness and much apparent 
fidelity ; whilst on longer excursions, he was 
put in charge of a superior domestic servant, 
a Malay of the name of Gatura, who, by his 
pliancy of manner, and powers of amusement, 
had greatly ingratiated himself with his young 
master. 

So implicit was the colonel's confidence in 
these dependants, especially in Vinna — for 
there was an occasional expression in the dark 
eye of the Malay, which recalled to recollec- 
tion the vindictiveness of his race ; — but such 
was his reliance upon Vinna's integrit}' and 
care, that it came upon him like no common 
shock, to find, having contracted for the sale 
of some essential oil of cinnamon (extracted 
from such fragments as happen to be broken 
olF in packing up the bales), and having seen 
it actually measured and ready for delivery, 
that half-a-dozen bottles of this valuable oil, 
which sometimes sells as high as ten pounds 
British, a pint, were missing ; and that, upon 
subjecting all concerned to an examination, 
two of the very peculiar bottles, in which the 
oil had been contained, were found in a corner 
of Vinna's hut, behind the earthen vessels 
used for cooking rice ; whilst another Avas hid- 
den between the brass basin and the pestle 
and mortar, where the spices are pounded, 
upon the bench which surrounded the apart- 
ment, and formed, with the articles which we 
have enumerated, nearly the whole of its sim- 
ple furniture. The bottles were not merely 
distinguishable by their fabric and shape ; but 
the strong aroma of the precious commodity, 
and even a few drops left in the bottom, 
proved that they had been secretly and hastily 
emptied of their contents; and that Vinna, the 
trusted superintendent of this valuable manu- 
factory, was himself the thief. 

After one simple but earnest denial of the 
charge — a denial to which his master made no 
other reply than pointing to the concealed bot- 
tles — the delinquent attempted no further de- 
fence, but resigned himself tranquilly to what- 
ever punishment the laws might decree. That 
extremity was, however, averted by the inter- 
cession of Willy, whose urgent entreaty for 



564 



EXTRACTS FROM FINDEN'S TABLEAUX. 



pardon for his friend was so far complied with, 
that Colonel Pemberton contented himself 
with dismissing- the favoured servant, who had 
set so flagrant an example of dishonesty to the 
labourers under his charge. 

" Remember," said his master, impressive- 
ly, when paying the wages due to him and 
discharging him from his service, " Remem- 
ber I have abstained from punishing you at the 
earnest solicitations of this child ; but that if 
you ever again come before me for any act of 
j theft or fraud, the chastisement will be ex- 
j emplary." Vinna listened in silent submis- 
I sion, kissed the skirt of Willy's garment, and 
i departed. 

For a while the boy missed his kind and 
I pleasant face in the cinnamon plantations and 
I about the home-grounds ; but the griefs of 
childhood are enviably brief, and he had near- 
ly forgotten his old playfellow, when he was 
thrown unexpectedly in his way, many months 
afterwards, in a visit paid by hinself and his 
father, attended by Gatura, to the pearl-fishery 
at Condatchy. 

A gay and pleasant scene was this pearl- 
fishery. Thousands of persons, of all colours 
and nations, in the picturesque costumes of the 
East, from the rich travelling merchants who 
supply the great jewellers of our European 
cities, to the poorest of the Cinglese women 
and children, who hover around the sieves, 
and pore for days over the heaps of sand which 
have been thrown aside, in hopes of lighting 
upon the smallest seedling pearl, crowd the 
streets of the temporary town (at other times 
a mere fishing village,) washing, sifting, bor- 
ing, drilling, squabbling, and bargaining, in 
every variety of dialect and jargon ; all intent 
upon the beautiful luxury destined to add a 
costlier splendour to the monarch's crown, or 
a rarer charm to the brow of beauty. 

Willy was delighted ; all the more delight- 
ed that he had met his old friend Vinna, and 
that Vinna had been singularly prosperous. 
A speculating merchant had not only engaged 
divers on his own account, but had employed 
persons to examine the sand that had been 
thrown by after passing, or being supposed to 
pass, through the sieves. Vinna had been 
fortunate enough to discover, in a portion 
which must have been spilled before being 
subjected to that process, a pear-shaped pearl 
of such size and beauty, as had not been found 
oft the coast of Ceylon within the memory of 
the oldest trader connected with the fishery. 
An agent of the King of Candy, specially 
dispatched by his royal master for the purpose 
of obtaining such a jewel, to gratify a fancy 
expressed by his favourite wife, who wanted 
such a one to complete a set of ornaments, 
was at that moment treating for it with his 
, employer. Vinna ran to procure it to show to 
I the boy, and placed it on a crimson shawl to 
1 display the shape and colour to the best ad- 
vantage. At Willy's entreaty. Colonel Pem- 



berton also advanced to admire the treasure, 
attended by Gatura, who had accompanied 
them to Condatchy; and a little crowd of mer- 
chants and natives gathered round the place, 
enlarging upon its merits, marvelling at Vin- 
na's good fortune, or rather the extraordinary 
luck of his employer, and wondering how, by 
any degree of carelessness, a pearl of such 
magnitude could have escaped from the sieves. 

Whilst these assistants, in the heat of their 
discussion, stood divided into separate groups, 
and Colonel Pemberton, at Willy's entreaty, 
was speaking with a grave and rheasured kind- 
ness to Vinna, his employer and the agent of 
the King of Candy having concluded their 
bargain, returned for the pearl. They applied 
to Vinna, who motioned to the shawl which 
he had deposited on the top of a high covered 
basket close behind him. The basket was 
there, and the shawl, but the pearl was gone ! 
The consternation was general. Vinna wrung 
his hands in agony ; the buyer and seller of 
the precious commodity were in equal dismay. 
Every man looked suspiciously on his fellow. 
Some disclaimed ; some accused. Gatura, 
who had stood nearest to the basket upon 
which the valuable jewel had been so unhap- 
pily left, insisted so vehemently upon being 
searched, that, rather to pacify him and rid 
themselves of his clamour, than from any posi- 
tive mistrust, his dress and person were, as he 
desired, subjected to a very rigorous examin- 
ation ; nothing, of course, being found that 
could implicate him in any way in the delin- 
quency. 

In the meantime, the less successful adven- 
turers, who had before been loud in the ex- 
pression of their astonishment that such a 
pearl could be found in such a manner, began 
to gather round Colonel Pemberton, to ex- 
amine into the character which Vinna, whom 
they understood, from what had passed be- 
tween them, to have been heretofore employed 
by him, had borne while in his service. The 
agent of the King of Candy, the purchaser of 
the pearl, and the speculator who had sold it, 
also approached with the same view. Willy, 
who, child as he was, saw the turn that mat- 
ters were about to take, seized the opportunity 
to steal towards his friend. 

" Go, Vinna ! go!" said Willy; and, with 
a sudden start, and a momentary pause, Vinna 
obeyed the injunction. He disappeared among 
the crowd ; and, by the time that the questions 
that those interested had extracted from Colo- 
nel Pemberton the cause of his dismissal, and 
tliat two or three of the most determined call- 
ed out to arrest him, he had made such good j 
use of his time, as completely to bafile every 
elTort of his pursuers; his flight, whilst it I 
saved him from almost inevitable punishment, I 
producing upon every body, except Willy,' 
who did battle manfully in his behalf, the 
most complete conviction of liis guilt. It 
seemed as certain that he had stolen the pearl, 



CEYLON. 



r)C5 



— perhaps that he had twice stolen it, — as that 
he had stolen the oil of cinnamon. No one 
believed in the possibility of his innocence, 
except our friend Willy. 

The boy and his father returned to Negum- 
bo; and, in a little while, the colonel was called 
away on service ; and Mrs. Pemberton being 
in delicate health, Willy was left much to the 
care of Gatura, who spared no pains in his 
endeavour to win the favour of the lively and 
spirited boy. He constructed a pad, on which 
to take him before him on a blood horse, be- 
longing to the colonel, and carried him every 
day upon some excursion to the cocoa groves 
(or topes,) or the dreary forests which sur- 
rounded their habitation. One day he took 
him to see the manner in which wild elephants 
are caught; and Will)'' was delighted with the 
sagacity and affection displayed by one of the 
tame ones, who, apparently recognising an old 
companion in the largest of those that had 
been ensnared, actually opened the fastenings 
of the gate for the release of his friend ; — 
thus showing, although enslaved himself, his 
sensw of the value of freedom. Willy was 
enchanted; and, on Gatura's dwelling upon 
the grandeur and interest of a builalo hunt, 
never ceased importuning the Malay to afford 
him that gratification. 

One line morning, accordingly, they set forth 
professedly to witness this remarkable specta- 
cle. The high-bred steed carried them rapidly 
through the cocoa tope, into the very depth of 
the forest. No sign appeared of the hunters ; 
but, pleased with the beautj'^ of the scenery, 
t!ie golden rays of the sun darting through the 
shaddock and the tamarind, and resting on the 
beautiful fruit of the jamboe, and amused by 
the variety of bright-coloured birds and gor- 
geous butterflies, the boj' took no note of the 
distance. At last, as the day advanced, the 
claims of hunger began to be felt, and he in- 
timated to Gatura his desire to return home. 

"Home!" said the Malay, in the low ac- 
cent of bitter hate; "you never sliall return. 
Do you remember the day — you, child as you 
are, may forget; but, on my memory that day 
is burnt in characters of fire — when for strik- 
ing this horse, ay, this very horse, as Colonel 
Pemberton, my master, year father, was 
pleased to think over hard, he snatched the 
I whip from my hand, and struck me, ay, lash- 
I ed me with it, as if I had been a beast ? I 
I grasped the crease in my bosom ; but that 
I would have been a brief and common ven- 
geance. I have waited for such revenge as 
may endure; and now my hour is come. 
You, too, young sir! you were pleased to read 
out of some story-book, to your mother, that 
pearls might be hidden in the mouth ; that 
stripping the dress, and searching the person, 
was no security against a skilful thief ! Home 
you shall never come to tell j'our father that 
tale, unless, indeed, you can win your way 
through the beasts and reptiles, the snakes 

48 



and the panthers, of this forest. Down with 
you, sir! Do not cling around me in this 
manner ! Let go my sash, or 1 will cut away 
those little hands ! What noise is that] Off 
with you, I say !" 

And, frightened at some real or imaginary 
noise, Gatura dashed the struggling child to 
the earth and rode rapidly away, leaving, in 
the boy's hands, the shawl sash, by which he 
had hung so tightly, and which had been fold- 
ed, after the oriental fashion, round the waist 
of the Malay. A small packet dropped from 
it — it was the lost pearl ! 

Hungry and bewildered as he was, the stout- 
hearted boy lost neither his courage nor his 
presence of mind. He pocketed the precious 
jewel, plucked the unripe fruits to appease the 
cravings of appetite, and tried, with all his 
might, to retrace the way by which he had 
come, and to turn back to his home; but, far 
beyond his own knowledge, he only plunged 
deeper and deeper into the forest. He avoid- 
ed, however, with remarkable boldness and 
sagacity, the frequent dangers from snakes and 
wild animals, took refuge under a talipot-tree 
from a storm, which sent the shrieking flor- 
mouse to the same friendly shelter ; and at 
night, remembering that the Cinglese some- 
times constructed their habitations for security 
on the branches of trees, he climbed the tall 
trunk of the cocoa to sleep 

What was the agony of the bereaved mo- 
ther during that long and solitary night ! Ga- 
tura had not returned, and, wholly unsuspi- 
cious of his treachery, she imagined that some 
fatal accident had happened to him and to his 
charge. Messenger after messenger did she 
despatch in every direction; Colonel Pember- 
ton was recalled ; and every means taken that 
the most anxious affection could dictate, to 
recover the missing child. 

He, meanwhile, wandered on, subsisting 
on wild fruits by day, and sleeping in trees 
by night, until he had nearly reached the 
boundaries of Candy. He, too, poor child, 
was heart-sick and home-sick. The high 
courage which he inherited from his father, 
roused at the approach of danger; but at other 
moments, foot-sore, weary, bruised by falls, 
and torn by bushes, his spirits flagged, and his 
strength w-as exhausted. One day, as he was 
passing by some brush-wood, which half con- 
cealed the entrance to a low cavern, a furious ' 
buffalo came bellowing up a track in the forest, 
and, pausintr for an instant, lowered his head 
to attack the child. Another moment, and 
Willy would have been gored by his horns, or 
tossed into the air ; but a man rushed from the | 
cavern, and, seizing the child with one arm, 
with the other flung a piece of cloth (part of ! 
his own garments) over the head of the buf- ! 
f do, blinding him, and entangling his horns, j 
so that the boy and his preserver had time to ; 
retreat into the cave, the entrance to which ! 
was too low to admit the enraged animal. I 



566 



EXTRACTS FROM FINDEN'S TABLEAUX. 



Willy was saved ; and, turning to thank the 
friend to whose boldness and address he owed 
his life, he burst into tears of delight, clapped 
his little hands together, and shouted, " \'in- 
na ! dear, dear Vinna !" 



Three days after this, Vinna, bending in re- 
spectful salutation, with his arms folded upon 
his bosom, stood in the presence of the beau- 
tiful wife of the Candian king. She listened 
to his little story, and listened pityingly, for 
she was a woman and a mother. She prom- 
ised, with the grace of conscious power, and 
nobly did she redeem her promise, to redress 
all Vinna's grievances, whether as regarded 
the oil of cinnamon, which she justly suspect- 
ed Gatura to have stolen, or the pearl; and 
with regard to that pearl of pearls, the noble 
boy Willy, she made it her first business, her 
first pleasure, to send him home to his dis- 
tracted parents, laden with presents, and ac- 
companied by his brave preserver, the faithful 
Cinglese. 



SCOTLAND. 

SIR ALLAN AND HIS DOG, 

" Therefore his age tvas as a lusty winter, 
Frostyj but kindly." 

Shakspeare. 

" No, Oscar ! no ; your young master is 
deer-stalking to-day. Don't you hear the gun, 
which has startled Jessy so wofully I He 
does not want you just now, Oscar. His view, 
before firing that startling gun, which, wo is 
me ! will have more than frightened the poor, 
pretty deer ; for Allan is such a shot, that he 
seldom misses his aim, — his view, before he 
frightened Jessy, and awakened the echoes 
and brought down the red deer with that sud- 
den shot, was to creep towards them quietly 
and stealthily. He does not want the good 
hound, Oscar, to-day ! Oscar must stay with 
his mistress." And as the lovely Agnes Mac- 
donald spoke coaxingly these coaxing words, 
lier small, fair hand thrown around Oscar's 
neck, as he stood beside her, the noble animal 
looked up in her face with his briglit intelli- 
gent eyes, delighting in the sweetness of the 
voice, comprehending, or seeming to com- 
prehend, the meaning of the words, and ac- 
quiescing most contentedly in her decision. 
There was, certainly, no great hardship in 
standing at the side of Agnes Macdonald, the 
beautiful and the kind ; and with looks that 
spoke, as plainly as looks could speak, his af- 
fection and his gratitude, her honest and faith- 
ful favourite (somewhat of the largest and 
roughest for a lady's pet,) lay down in calm 
and quiet happiness at her feet. 



Her fair companion, the high-born and 
graceful Jessy Stewart, who, startled, as Ag- 
nes had truly said, at the sudden sound of 
Allan Macdonald's gun, had been standing in 
some dismay behind her friend, now lliat the 
shock was passed, advanced smilingly, and 
found a seat upon the bank beside her. 

'• How fond you are, Agnes, of that huge 
dog! What would the exquisites who hover- 
ed round you in London and in Paris say, if 
they saw you in full dress, too, not as I am, 
snooded and plaided like a Highland lassie, 
with your jewelled hand resting upon that 
shaggy head, and his long, rougli body re- 
clining upon the satin skirt! What would 
they say to that, 'my dainty leddy,' as old 
Annot is wont to call you]" 

" And what matters what they say or think, 
Jessy '?" responded the warm-hearted maiden, 
kindling into a dignity of youthful beauty and 
unconscious stateliness, pure, delicate, and 
graceful as the attitude of a swan upon the 
mountain or lake, or the station of a doe 
amongst her native glens. " What care I for 
the exquisites of Paris or of London 1 Not half 
as much as for the mountain posy which you 
have been collecting — the harebell, and the 
heather-sprig, and our own elegant and abun- 
dant Scottish rose. What is the worth of a 
'wilderness of such 'monkeys,' compared 
with that of our noble, faithful Oscar 1 What | 
would be the amount of their services in a | 
whole century, measured with those which he ; 
has rendered to us? Why, did you never i 
hear," continued Agnes, observing the sur- 1 
prised look with which her friend regarded her | 
evident excitement; "Did you never hear of 
poor Oscar's exploits in the hard winter, five 
years back] No; you were in Germany at 
the time : and it was before Allan's attach- 
ment and your return of affection (nay, Jessy, 
a princess would have no cause to blush for 
loving such a man as my brother;) it was be- 
fore this affiance, so gratifying to us all, had 
given you a daughter's interest in the affairs ' 
of our house. If you are not afraid of a long 
story, I will tell you why it is that, from the j 
oldest to the youngest, we all consider Oscar, 
not merely as a noble animal, but as a bene-j 
factor and a friend. 

" You know the pride and delight of our 
family, my little sister, Jean; but you did not 
know the beloved and venerable relative, my 
dear and excellent grandfather, of whom she 
was, from the moment she could totter across 
the room, climb into his lap, and hang prat- 
tling round his neck, the prime pet and fa- 
vourite. He doted upon the sturdy, liardy, mer- 
ry little girl, with her joyous smile, and her joy- 
ous temper, so fearless, open, frank, and kind ; 
and she, in her turn, idolised the fine, cheer- 
ful, benevolent old man, her most alert play- 
mate, and most indulgent friend ! Oh ! how 
they loved each other! And what a picti>;e 
it was to see them together! He, at nearly 



SCOTLAND. 



567 



eighty, still upright, robust and vigorous in 
form, with a regular, oval countenance, high, 
noble features, hazel eyes, bright and keen as 
a falcon's, a mouth of feminine sweetness, a 
fine open forehead, a magnificent bald head, 
and long curling hair, as white as the snow on 
Ben Nevis, contrasting with his clear, ruddj' 
complexion, the very hue of a ripe peach. Oh, 
what a sight it was to see that beautiful old 
man, so full of health, and life, and glee, and 
kindliness, tossing about that rosy, laughing 
child with the activity of youth! never weary 
of humouring her pretty fancies, and even go- 
ing beyond her in innocent mirth, and fun, 
and frolic. How .Teanie loved him ! How 
we all loved him, the dear and venerable man! 
so generous and frank, so open-hearted and 
guileless himself, so unsuspicious of guile in 
others; so full of honourable thoughts and 
disinterested and affectionate feelings ! How 
proud we all were of a relative, whose cheer- 
ful and venerable age accorded so well with 
his virtuous and active youth! The South- 
rons, estimating little except the conventional 
benefits of wealth or station, are apt to sneer 
at our pride of ancestry ; and perhaps we may 
a little overvalue that mere string ot names, 
that long roll of parcluiient, a pedigree; bitt a 
progenitor like Sir Allan Macdonald, or as he 
preferred to be called, Kilburnie, — a living ex- 
ample of all that is true, and just, and honour- 
able, and kind, cannot be too highly appre- 
ciated. His family, his clansmen,' his very 
countrymen, were proud of the good old man, 
whose sweet and genial temperament diffused 
gaiety and happiness around him. He was a 
blessing to the whole country. You will be 
a happy woman, Jessy, if my dear brother, 
the heir of his estates and his name, should 
(as Heaven grant he may) fulfil the promise 
of his youth, and inherit also the frank and 
winning virtues to which his grandfather owed 
his extensive and remarkable popularity. 

" Sir Allan being a widower, and my mo- 
ther a widow, she and her three children, Al- 
lan, Jeanie, and myself, lived with him at 
Kilburnie; Jeanie, younger than either of us 
by ten years, and a posthumous child, being, 
as I have said, his companion; whilst Oscar, 
then in his prime, wliom my grandfather, still 
a keen sportsman, valued above all greyhounds 
for his speed (if my venerable kinsman, in his 
universal candour and charity, had a prejudice, 
it was against the sleek, high-bred, fine-limb- 
ed dogs, which form the'pride of the southern 
courser, and Oscar had won a cup from a 
round dozen of competitors from Newmarket, 
brought on purpose to oppose him), and whom 
Jeanie delighted in for his gamesomeness, was 
the constant attendant of their long rambles. 
In spring, summer, autumn, and winter, in 
every season, and in all weathers, would the 
active old man sally forth with tlie hardy lit- 
tle girl, sometimes holding him by the hand, 
or when weary carried in his arms, and the 



good hound, Oscar, bounding on before them. 
He had an innocent pride in dropping in with 
Jeanie in his hand at houses at a considerable 
distance, particularly at the residences of his 
daughters and grandchildren (for his daughters, 
older than my father, an only son, and early 
married, had scattered his descendants over 
the country), and replying, wath a chuckling 
glee, when questioned about horses and ser- 
vants, 'that he had walked; that he left such 
efleminacies as coaches and flunkies to those 
who needed them, and was ready to dance a 
reel with the youngest lassie present ; and it 
should go hard but he would tire her down : 
and Jeanie hersel' will keep it up with any 
lad of her inches ; won't you, Jeanie V and 
the vaunt would end by the good old man 
tossing Jeanie upon his shoulder, and cutting 
the Highland fling to his own music. This 
was his delight: a ball was nothing without 
his presence. If you had but seen the nod 
and the wink, the fulness of his glee, the 
overflow of his good-humour, his archness in 
suspecting, and sagacity in detecting which 
lad and lassie w^ould like to come together for 
the dance ; ay, and sometimes for longer than 
the dance ! How he would reconcile old feuds, 
and cement new friendships ; ay, and how he 
would use the influence of age, and character, 
and property, even to the very stretch of his 
interest, to smooth difficulties, and turn dim 
and distant wishes into present realities! — 
Many a hopeful youth has owed his prosperitj', 
many a gentle maiden her happiness, to the 
unwearied benevolence of the kind and merry 
Sir Allan. 

" One Christmas he went to Glenmore, ac- 
companied, as usual, by Jeanie and Oscar, to 
keep the birth-day of hts favourite daughter, 
Lady Macleod. My brother was detained at [ 
home by a slight indisposition ; and the wea- ; 
ther was so severe, that my mother, always 
delicate, was afraid to venture, I myself being 
too young for parties of any kind. Sir Allan 
had fixed to return on New Year's Eve, the j 
succeeding day being always one of high fes- i 
tivity at Kilburnie, the servants and neigh- 
bours dining in the great hall, and the whole ! 
castle being alive with feasting and jollity. It 
was an occasion on which we felt that he 
would be very unwilling to absent himself, 
and yet the day fixed for his return was so 
tremendous, tliat we took for granted Lady 
Macleod would detain her honoured guest at 
Glenmore. Snow had fallen during the whole 
of the preceding night, accompanied by a drift- 
ing wind, so til at to send carriages and horses 
was impracticiible ; every vestige of the road, 
a wild mountain-track, at the best, was im- 
passable, or my brotlier would have gone un- 
der pretence of fetching Jeanie; for we all 
knew well, that the only shade that ever cross- 
ed the brightness of our dear grandfather's 
countenance, w^as occasioned by his suspicion 
of being taken care of, — an affront which the 



568 



EXTRACTS FROM FINDEN'S TABLEAUX. 



hardy sportsman would have regarded with as 
much jealousy and displeasure as would be 
j evinced by a veteran of the wars at any precau- 
I tion that should imply a doubt of his personal 
I prov/ess. This consideration alone deterred 
my brother from setting forth to Glenmore in 
person ; and as the day grew wilder and wilder, 
all around, hill, plain, and valley, covered with 
a sheet of fragile glittering white, with scarcely 
ian hour's intermission of incessant snowfall, 
and the night closed in with bitter gusts of 
wind, which blew the frozen and feathery par- 
ticles against the face with blinding violence, 
even my mother, a nervous and timorous wo- 
man, with a revered parent and a beloved child 
at stake, made up her mind to believe that, as 
it was evidently impossible that the expected 
guests would reach Kilburnie Castle on the 
morrow, its master would be content to re- 
main where he was. Weather less formida- 
ble, so that it might have afforded some chance 
of his finding the road, or some probability of 
the arrival of his guests the next day, would 
have been more alarming. To have stirred out 
in such a fall as this seemed impossible. So 
we went to bed in comfort. 

"About an hour after midnight we were 
awakened by a tremendous noise at the gate 
of the castle, a mixture of scratching and 
howling. Upon opening the door, it was 
found to be our friend, Oscar, who, instantly 
singling out my brother, leaped upon him with 
a piteous cry, and then went on a little way 
beyond the gate, returning to see if Allan fol- 
lowed him (who delayed a few minutes to 
furnish himself with a lantern, and men with 
hurdles, mattresses, and ropes.) pulling him 
by the coat-skirts with a most urgent whine, 
wagging his tail when ho began to move, and 
enticing him forward by every means in his 
power. Oh, I shall never forget the poor dog's 
piteous ways, his trembling earnestness, his 
eager looks, and the expression of his anxious 
cry — no human voice could have conveyed his 
meaning more distinctly. Never shall I for- 
get that moment, nor the hour of agonising 
suspense that followed.'' 

"They were saved?" inquired Jessy, anxi- 
ously, breaking silence for the first time. 

"Oscar led his party to a hollow by the 
hill-side, about three miles' distant ; and there 
the venerable old man was found leaning 
against the rock in a half-recumbent posture, 
so as to shelter the child, who was clasped to 
his bosom. The snow was gathering around 
them. Sleep had crept upon both, and, in 
another hour, all help would have been un- 
availing." 

'■•But they were saved]" again inquired 
.Tessy. 

"Thanks to Oscar's fidelity and intelli- 
gence, they were. By proper care, they both 
recovered suiTiciently to dance at tlie postponed 
festival on Old New Year's Day. Our deiir 
grandfather lived in health and happiness until 



last year, just before we had the happiness of 
renewing our friendship with your family; 
and Jeanie is, you know, as lively and as life- 
like a little personage as treads this most ex- 
cellent earth. And now, my dearest Jessy, 
do you wonder that Oscar — look at him, poor 
fellow, he knows that we are talking- of him ! 
Do you wonder that this noble and sagacious 
animal should be my pet?" 



CASTILE. 
THE SIGNAL. 

" Mine honour is ray life." — Shakspeare. 

" Be wa^iting soon after dark, my dearest 
Leonora, at the balcony of your apartment, 
and when you see me holding up a torch in 
the little boat upon the lake, steal unobserved, 
if possible, from the castle, and come to meet 
me at the water side. I must see you ; must 
pour my sorrows into your sympathising bo- 
som; must take leave of you — possibly for 
ever! Your unhappy brother, 

Fernando Juan Carlos de Guz.man." 

For the twentieth time. Donna Leonora read 
her beloved brother's letter, as she stood lean- 
ing upon the beautifully carved stone-work of 
the balcony, watching the appointed signal. 
Her husband was absent; and the mystery in 
the delivery of the billet, which had" excited 
the attention of her serving maidens, Livia 
and Ursula, and had even aw^akened in their 
coarser minds, — accustomed to the not unfre- 
qiient flirtations of Spanish beauties, — suspi- 
cions that their grave and high-minded lady, 
hitherto so inaccessible and so spotless, was, 
at last, about to listen at least to one amongst 
her innumerable admirers. The disguise oi 
the letter-bearer, and the silence and secresy 
of his own approach, were, as far as Don Pe- 
dro was concerned, wholly unnecessary. But 
Donna Leonora, aware of the untamed, — per- 
haps untameable — impetuosity of her brother's 
character (an only and a twin brother, and 
most fondly beloved), and of his impatience 
of contradiction, and doubtful, also, how far 
what she had to hear might be connected with 
the political convulsions of these troubled I 
times, and certain of her husband's just re- ; 
liance upon her affection and prudence, re- 
solved to obey implicitly Don Fernando's 
directions, to wait in the balcony until she 
perceived the signal-torch, and then to hasten 
to meet him by the edge of the lake. 

As she stood leaning on the carved stone- 
work, her guitar at her side, the beams of the 
full-moon strikinpr on her rich jewels and her 
commanding beauty, and illuminating the 
splendid mansion, of which she was the un- 



CASTILE. 



569 



disputed mistress (from one of whose opened 
windows peeped forth the inquisitive and 
laughing serving-maidens), the contrast — that 
contrast so frequent in this world of contra- 
dictions — between the splendour and gaiety 
of outward circumstances, and the cares and 
anxieties of the interior mind, the wide differ- 
ence, in short, between appearance and reality, 
was most strikingly exemplified. To the eye 
she was bright, fair, sweet, and calm, as the 
flowers clustered in their sculptured vase, that 
waved above her head, diffusing beauty and 
fragrance around her; but, as the flower-leaf 
is subject to influences from without, shaken 
by the night-wind, and battered by the rain, 
so is that sentient and delicate blossom, the 
human heart, liable to be swayed by the 
changeful gusts of passion and feeling; and,- 
even when in itself equable and firm, it is but 
too often torn and shattered by sympathy with 
the sufferings and injuries of the objects of its 
best affections. And so it fared with the gen- 
tle Leonora at this moment, when, awakening 
from a long revery, occupied in vain guesses 
as to the purport of the letter which lay by 
her side, she glanced suddenly down towards 
the lake, and saw tlie signal-torch gleaming- 
high al)ove the waters. 

In a few miniites the brother and sister were 
standing together, in earnest conversation be- 
neath a group of cedar, and cypress, and Por- 
tugal laurel, through whose dark foliage the 
moonbeams struck in bright fitful gleams, as 
the cool breeze of evening swayed the huge 
branches. 

" He insulted me, Leonora, before the whole 
regiment: called me a rash, hot-headed boy; 
and when I sent the young Conde de Merida 
to him, to demand an apology, or to appoint 
the time and weapons for a meeting, he re- 
fused to listen to him or answer hnn, other- 
wise than by saying that his regard for my 
father's memory, his old comrade in arms, 
alone prevented him from putting me under 
arrest for sending a challenge to my superior 
officer; and that for this time he forgave me, 
but that I had need look to it, for that the next 
breach of discipline should be visited upon 
me with all the rigour of military law. And 
this from Manuel Hernandez to a descendant 
of the house of Guzman ! And he survives, 
and I survive! And all redress is closed 
against me by military discipline, forsooth ! 
Military discipline ! ! ! Well, I have removed 
that barrier, have thrown up my commission ; 
and if, upon my return to Madrid,, he refuses 
me the satisfaction which I require, I will 
leave Spain — leave Europe ! The world does 
not want in ways in wliich the son of an old 
Castilian, even if he abandon his estates, his 
rank, his country, may win for himself enough 
to maintain life, without forfeiting that with- 
out wliich life is wortlilcss — honour."' 

" Alas ! my dearest Fernando ! my most 
dear brother !" exclaimed Donna Leonora, in 



the deepest affliction ; " can you speak thus 
of leaving your country, of abandoning the 
princely name and the princely home of your 
ancestors, of deserting now, in the moment 
when she most needs the defence of every 
loyal cavalier, the young and innocent sove- 
reign, in the assertion of whose rights yoa 
took so vivid an interest; — above all, can you 
think of forsaking me ! True, I have a kind 
and an honourable husband ; but even his af- 
fection would not suffice for my happiness, if 
you, the playmate of my childhood, the com- 
panion and friend of my maturer years, my 
twin brother, my only living relation, were to 
become a wanderer and an exile ! Speak to 
my husband, Fernando; he, too, is a soldier, 
and a noble Castilian ! Consult him. What 
was the commencement of this unlucky quar- 
rell Don Manuel Hernandez has a lovely 
daughter, the Donna Serafina, respecting 
whom he is known to be singularly tenacious. 
Surely, her name was not mentioned between 
yer' 

"His daughter, quotha!" replied the fiery 
youth. "I never saw her, have hardly heard 
that such a person existed ! Don Diego Velas- 
quez and myself were speaking of a stranger, 
clearly a lady of distinction, a beauty whom 
we had met together on the Prado, and whom 
I had subsequently seen, oftener indeed than 
I cared to tell him, at early mass at the church 
of San Isidro. He dared to compare with 
this angel, pure, dignified, gracious, and grace- 
ful ; — 1 have never spoken to her, but I am 
sure that she is all this ; there is an evidence 
of bearing and of countenance, to say nothing 
of the careful attendance of two old domes- 
tics, whose appearance vouches for the station 
and character of their mistress ; — he dared to 
compare with he?- a Jewish girl, picked up in 
some of the alleys of the city ; and it was my 
indignation at this insult, offered to a virtuous 
lady, which provoked the interference of Colo- 
nel Hernandez, who had entered unobserved 
during the dispute. Don Diego apologised. 
He is a slight boy ; a trivial jester, who would 
crack jokes at his mother's death-bed, or his 
father's tomb : but Hernandez ! And to re- 
fuse me all explanation! all redress! To 
disgrace me before my comrades, and then to 
stand upon his seniority ! his military discip- 
line ! ' The day would come,' he said, ' when 
I should repent my violence.' Death w ill ar- 
rive before that day ! Farewell, my Leonora ! 
Women cannot comprehend these feelings! 
Schooled before all his officers ! And he ex- 
pects that I shall submit ! that I shall rejoin i 
the regiment, to be pardoned, it may be! or: 
to be schooled again! By St. Jago, the gen- i 
tleman is modest ! Farewell, my ]irecious , 
sister, my own Leonora! May the Holy Vir- , 
oin watch over J'ou ! Forget me, my best 1 



Leonora; lean never forget you!" And he 
broke from her affectionate embrace, leaped 
into the boat that awaited him, and rowed 



48* 



3W 



570 



EXTRACTS FROM FINDEN'S TABLEAUX. 



rapidly to the opposite shore ; where Jose, his 
faitliful domestic, attended witli his horses. 

The weather was singularly fine even for 
that delicious climate. The moon, nearly at 
full, reigned in the clear and deep-blue sky 
like a milder sun, throwing a silvery light 
upon the wild and beautiful scenery, the deep 
and richly-wooded glens, threaded by moun- 
tain streams, and surmounted by the abrupt 
precipices and rugged steeps of Sierra Gua- 
darrama, into the defiles of which a few hours' 
riding had now brought them. Even the 
stormy passions of man were insensibly sooth- 
ed by the peaceful sights and the harmonious 
sounds of nature, the calm sweetness of the 
night, the lulling sound of the wind amongst 
the willows, the distant fall of waters gush- 
ing from a rock, and the balmy odours of the 
cistuses, the wild thyme, and the thousand 
aromatic herbs that sprang around him on 
every side. Unconsciously, his anger was 
yielding to milder thoughts, as he wended his 
way, taking, at the guidance of Jose^ or the 
will of his steed, the nearest but least-fre- 
quented road to Madrid, when, on emerging 
from a grove of cork-trees, and entering a 
strait and narrow valley, where the rude cart 
track wound between tall and almost inacces- 
sible crags, celebrated as the resort of the ban- 
ditti, formed in these times of civil war by the 
refuse of either army, he was startled from 
his meditations by the repeated sound of a 
pistol-shot, and the shrill screams of female 
voices; and saw right before him, in the 
moonlight, a carriage drawn by mules with 
one or two unarmed attendants, who, over- 
powered by superiority of numbers, and the 
suddenness of the attack, were on the point 
of surrendering to half-a-dozen ferocious-look- 
ing savages, armed to the teeth, who were so 
intent on their booty, that they did not perceive 
the nevz-comers. 

" Carry off the trunks, Pablo ! Take care 
of the lady, Joachim ! She looks like one for 
whom we may demand good ransom !" cried 
the ruffian, who seemed to be their leader. 

The reply to this injunction was a shot from 
Fernando's pistol, which levelled the wretch 
I to the earth. The faithful Jose seconded his 
I master; the driver of the. carriage and the at- 
j tending servants, encouraged by the unexpect- 
ed succour, rallied round their lady ; and, in 
a few minutes, the assailants, dismayed by 
the loss of tlieir captain, and alarmed also by 
the sound of horses advancing along the high- 
way, fled the field. 

Don Fernando advanced to the trembling 
and iVii'hlened travfllers, (for they viere two 
females ensconced in the caleche,) whom he 
had rescued from worse than death. 

"The beauty of the Prado!" cried he, in 
ecstasy. " The lovely devotee of San Isidro !" 

'' Serafina, my beloved daughter !" exclaim- 
ed the newly-arrived cavalier, joining the 
group; "and you, seuor, her protector, her 



preserver, how can we repay such services'? 
Don Fernando ! Is it, indeed, Don Fernando 
de Guzman ]" 

" Colonel Hernandez !" and, without their 
at all knowing how it happened, the two brave 
hands were joined in the most cordial grasp 
of affectionate amity. 

" Well, is this not better, now, than fight- 
ing for neither could tell what?" said Don 
Manuel, after a few minutes passed in the 
warmest expressions of gratitude on the part 
of the father and daughter. " You will un- 
derstand, my good young friend, that I had 
heard enough of your conversation with Don 
Diego, to be convinced that you were speak- 
ing of Serafina, without exactly knowing the 
degree or the manner of your acquaintance 
with her. This occasioned my taking up the 
matter with undue warmth. Upon discover- 
ing, however, how matters stood, I was actu- 
ally on my way to your excellent sister. Don- 
na Leonora, to commission her to mediate 
between us; and, as you confess to having 
left her in some trouble, why, I think, with 
your permission, we had better proceed thither 
now. She will forgive our untimely visit for 
the sake of its object." 

There is little need to say with how much 
delight Don Fernando acceded to this propo- 
sition, or how much more delicious the silver 
light of the moon, the lulling sound of wind 
and waters, and the balmy scent of the herbs, 
which hung heavy with the nightdew from 
the romantic defiles of the sierra Guadarrama, 
seemed to the lover, when traversed at the 
side of his beloved. 

It was long past midnight when they arrived 
at the castle, to the unspeakable pleasure of 
its fair mistress, and a little to the disappoint- 
ment of her waiting-maids, who found to tlieir 
no small amazement, that the cavalier of the 
signal-torch was no other than their lady's 
twin brother. 



THE RETURN FROM THE FAIR. 

" For love, thou knowest, is full of jealousy." 

Shakspeaee. 

It was on a brtglit balmy eveninnr towards 
the end of July, that half the population of this 
sunny side of Berkshire were pouring through 
the suburbs of Belford Regis, on their return 
from tlie annual festival, popularly c.illed the 
Cherry Fair, because it forms the great mart 
for the wagon-loads of that luscious fruit, 
which blacken the orchards, skirt tb.c beech 
woods, and dot the commons, of that wild and 
beautiful tract of country which runs along the 
northern banks of the Thames. Carriages of 
every variet)^ from the lordly landau (our sto- 
ry bears date some thirty years back), with its 



THE RETURN FROM THE FAIR. 



5T1 



four prancing steeds and its liveried outriders, 
to tlie humble caravans crowded with women 
and children, alreadj'^ fretful from the fatigue 
which, in lower as in higher life, treads so 
close upon the heels of pleasure; all sorts of 
wheeled vehicles — chariots, phaetons, curri- 
cles, gigs, and carts, horsemen of every rank, 
and foot-people of all ages and denominations ; 
some tipsy, some sober, some merry, some 
sad, all came pouring from the fair; and the 
stir and movement of the different groups, the 
sounds of so man)^ passengers, talking, laugh- 
ing, hallooing, and whooping, mingled with 
the distant noises of the scene of action, where 
the ringing of bells, the beating of drums, the 
lowing of cattle, and the blowing of trumpets, 
contended with, and at times nearly overpow- 
ered, the mingled hum of the multitude, form- 
ed a scene, which, lighted by the bright beams 
of a midsummer sun, and fanned by the pleas- 
ant evening breeze, had something peculiarly, 
exhilarating in its aspect and character. Stand- 
ing upon the hill which parts Belford Regis 
from Aberleigh, and looking towards the old 
town, its towers and steeples glittering in the 
sunshine, its venerable buildings mingled with 
groves and gardens, and crowned with terraces 
of a lighter and gayer style of architecture, the 
clear waters of the Kennet spanned by noble 
bridges and crowded with barges and pleasure 
vessels, whilst river, bridges, streets, and 
quays, were all alive with the gay and stirring 
population, rolling its apparently inexhausti- 
ble tides upward from the good town, and 
then onward through broad avenues and tufted 
lanes, into the neighbouring country beyond ; 
looking from this point, it was scarcely possi- 
ble for the coldest observer not to be gratified 
by a spectacle so full of innocent although 
somewhat boisterous, gaiety, and wide-spread- 
ing enjoyment. 

Among the most gratified of these spectators 

was a somewhat stern-looking dame, who sat 

i ill her own porch before a small farm-house, 

I just wMthout the suburbs of Belford Regis, and 

j took off her spectacles, and laid aside her 

knitting, to survey her pretty grand-daughter 

I Susan, who, followed by two fine boys, her 

brothers, one beating most lustily a child's 

drum, the other shouldering with great pride 

and valour a toy musket, approached slowly 

from the ftir. 

Susan Wharton was one of the prettiest 

lasses of the country side, and her sweetness 

and modesty equalled her beauty. She and 

j her brothers were orphans brought up by her 

I father's mother, the venerable matron of the 

I knitting needle and the spectacles, who, hav- 

j ing a small but excellent pasture-farm close 

to 'the town, and being an active, stirring, 

' bustling dame, accomplished in all the arts of 

I the dairy, contrived to make a good living for 

i herself and her grand-children by supplying 

! the inhabitants with cream, milk, butler, and 

j other pastoral luxuries. Lone woman though 



she were, the world had gone well with her, 
and she had scarcely known a care since the 
sudden and almost simultaneous death of her 
son and her son's wife, except indeed the dread 
occasioned by the perversity and headstrong 
temper of Robert Owen, her pretty grand- 
daughter's favoured suitor, who, whenever a 
fit of jealousy came across him, which was 
far oftener than ought to have occurred consid- 
ering the reserve and prudence of his fair mis- 
tress, (but when did jealousy listen to rea- 
son]) was sure to avenge himself by threaten- 
ing to turn soldier; a threat of all others most 
grievous to Dame Wharton's cars, whose eld- 
est grand-son, having enlisted during his fa- 
ther's life, had thereby occasioned to his affec- 
tionate relatives a species of trouble and anxi- 
ety unknown in the traditions of that peaceful 
family since the time of a certain Rupert 
W'harton, some great-great-great-grand-father 
of poor James, who had followed the fortunes 
of his illustrious namesake, and fallen in the 
king's service during the civil wars. 

Jem's delinquency, and the threat to follow 
his example so frequently held out by Robert 
Owen, had so strongly impressed Dame 
Wharton's imagination, that her natural pride 
and pleasure at the sight of her blooming grand- 
children was somewhat lessened by the mar- 
tial array in which the two boys presented 
themselves. 

" I suppose it's some foolish present of Rob- 
ert Owen's," said the good dame to her faithful 
adherent, Jenny Stubbs, a short damsel, who 
assisted in the care of the cows as well as in 
carrying milk and butter about the town, and 
had been left to attend her mistress during the 
absence of her grandchildren; "It's certainly 
some folly of Robert's, for I am sure that Su- 
san would never have given the boys such 
nonsensical toys fit only to put war, and sol- 
diering, and such-like wild notions into their 
heads, poor children ! But where is Robin?" 
added she, as Susan approached : " and what 
ring is that upon your finger'? You have not 
gone to church without leave or license, to be 
sure, Susan, now that all 's arranged for your 
being married at Christmas, when Robert is 
settled in his own little farm] I wonder what i 
his uncle. Master Owen, the cooper, who has I 
been as good as a father to him, would say to 
that. Speak, child, can't you ] Are you mar- 
ried? — yes or no"? or has Robin bought the 
ring beforehand, and got you to put it on in 
this way to make a fool of your old grand- 
mother ]" 

" No, indeed," returned Susan ; " I would 
not have done any thing so disrespectful to 
you, grandmother, for twenty Robins. This 
is no wedding-ring." 

" No ]" said her grandn^other, assuming her 
spectacles to take a second view of the slender 
finger and the glittering gem which encircled 
it; and, comparing both with her own hard, 
ruddy hand. ' "No!" exclaimed she, eyeing 



572 



EXTRACTS FROM FINDEN'S TABLEAUX. 



it more attentively, " this gimcrack isn't such 
a rinof as I was married with. But why dost 
wear it upon thy wedding-finger, child ? and 
who gave it to thee ] Eh T Kobin ? Ah ! he 's 
a foolish boy to throw away so much money. 
I warrant it cost a good half-guinea. And the 
hoys and their nonsense ! Ah! those young 
heads! I warrant he's been finely cheated! 
Robert bought it in the fair?" 

" No indeed, grandmother !" responded Su- 
san. 

"Not Robert! who theni" inquired Dame 
Wharton, with great sternness. " How dare 
you accept a present from any one else] Ah, 
child ! child ! she that takes rings from fresh 
acquaintance little deserves that an honest man 
should seek to put one upon her wedding- 
finger. Who gave it to you, hussy] speak, I 
say ! Who gave you the ring]" 

" I must not tell you his name, dear grand- 
mother," began Susan with great agitation ; 
" I have promised not to tell ! You wrong 
me, grandmother ! indeed you do !" sobbed 
the weeping beauty. " It was no fresh acquain- 
tance ! Indeed, indeed, it was not! but I can- 
not tell his name. I have promised not to tell 
any one, not even Robert or you !" 

" Athk me," interrupted the young gentle- 
man with the musket, interposing between his 
angry grandmother and his frightened sister, 
with an alacrity and boldness of bearing, 
which together with his readiness and shrewd- 
ness of speech contrasted laughably with an 
infantine lisp from which Ned, his younger 
brother, (he of the drum,) was perfectly free. 

"Athk me, gwandmolher, and don't thcold 
poor thither Thuthan ! Athk me ; I know the 
whole thtowy," pursued Master Willy, shift- 
ing his weapon most energetically with both 
hands from shoulder to shoulder. 

" Brother Jem the soger's come to Belford !" 
bawled Ned, shouting at the top .of his voice 
to overcome the noise of his own drum. 

"Yeth," resumed Willy, "when bw^other 
Dzem put the wing on tliither Thuthan'th fin- 
ger he pvv'omethed to make me a dwummer, a 
weal dwummer, not a tham, like Ned, but a 
weal dwummer." — 

"And me a fifer!" shouted Ned, still ac- 
companying himsr'lf witli his noisy instru- 
ment. 

I " Ath thoon ath ever I wath ath tall ath a 
'muthkct; pwovided," resumed this discreet 
keeper of secrets, " pwovided we never thaid 
j a thyllable of hith being at the fair ! A weal 
! dwummer ! thinlc of that !" 
I " And a real fifer !" 

j " Dwummer and fifer, fifer and dwummer," 
shouted the boys in chorus ! " And bwotber 
Dzem can make me a dwummer," added Mas- 
! ter Willy, in a confidential whisper addressed 
to his grandmother, "for he'th a therdzeant 
and wearth a tliwath ! — a therdzeant with a 
thilk thwath !" 

"Not silk !" interposed Ned — "worsted." 



"Thilk, I thay !" rejoined Willy. 

And the one beating a grand tattoo, and 
the other shouldering arms, off the two boys 
marched, each shouting at the top of his child- 
ish voice. " Thilk !" " Worsted !"— " Worst- 
ed !" "Thilk!" until the sound was lost in 
the distance. 

" Jem a serjeant! and at Belford ! But why 
not come here, Susan ] and why desire you to 
keep his being here a secret] 1 don't see any 
wisdom in such secrets," said the good dame, 
shaking her head. " And poor Robin, what '11 
he say I wonder ] And why does Jem desire 
you to wear this foolish ring] It's enough to 
make the lad enlist in good earnest." 

" Why, dear grandmother, that 's the very 
thing that Jem wants ; not that he should en- 
list in reality, grandmother; not that he should 
go for a soldier; but, to cure him of these 
threats and jealousies. Somebody told James, 
who came to Belford this morning recruiting, 
how foolish Robin had been about Harry God- 
dard and George Elton, and everybody who 
spoke to me or looked at me, whether I spoke 
to them or not. So when I met him, and — oh 
dear, grandmother, what a fine stately man he 
is grown — and when he found me out (for he 
hardly knew me at first,) and had kissed me 
and hugged the boys — how pleased he was 
with Willy — he insisted on my taking this 
ring, which he received from some great lady 
to whom he had done a service abroad, and 
brought it here that it might be sold and serve 
for my marriage portion : he insisted on my 
wearing it on my wedding-finger, and not sat- 
isfying Robin's curiosity farther than by tell- 
ing him solemnly that no lover gave it to me ; 
so that either he might put such a trust in my 
word and my truth as a husband ought to put 
— or, if that were too good to happen, that he 
might enlist in James's own party, and so be 
let off to-morrow after having a good fright. I 
was not willing to play poor Robin such a 
trick; for you know, dear grandmother, there 
was little chance if he saw the ring but he 
would fly off; only James insisted on the mis- 
ery of a jealous husband — and so — " 

"And so Robert did see the ring, and did 
fly oft'] I thought something was amiss when 
you came home without him," said the grand- 
mother. 

" Yes !" sighed Susan, " he did see the ring, 
poor fellow! as soon as ever he rejoined me: 
he had been to help his aunt and cousins into 
their cart when I met James : he did see the 
ring, and asked me over and over again how 
I came by it, and who gave it to me. Willy 
and Ned were gone with James to see Punch 
and the wild beasts, or else — but I had prom- 
ised James not to tell. And, thank heaven, 
Robert said nothing of enlisting this time. So 
that T hope all will go right," 

" Heaven send it may !" said her cnrefid 
grandame ; " but I love no secrets, and playing 
at enlisting is playing with edge tools. Heark- 



THE RETURN FROM THE FAIR. 



573 



en, Susy ! if Kobert should come here to-night, 
send him to me. I must go see after the skim- 
ming !" and with a nod as eloquent as Lord 
Burleigh's, the good dame repaired to her 
dairy. 

Susan, although somewhat comforted by 
Dame Wharton's last speech, could not quite 
get rid of certain apprehensions that clung 
about her. She hummed unconsciously her 
grandmother's favourite ditty — 

" I hate the drum's discordant sound, 
Parading round, and round, and round" — 

whenever the distant noise of the recruiting 
party reached her from the town, or the din of 
poor Ned's new toy echoed through the man- 
sion; and over and over again did she lament 
the attractions of Punch, and of the lions, ele- 
phants, and monkeys which had detained 
Willy from her side at a moment when his 
genius for explanations would have been in- 
valuable to her unhappy lover ; for, accustomed 
to love Robert, faults and all, and almost per- 
suaded to consider his rash and violent, but 
often repented and easily appeased jealousy, 
as a proof of the strength of his passion, the 
soft-hearted beauty was more alive to the dan- 
ger of losing her betrothed than to the peril in 
which this solitary failing might place her fu- 
ture happiness. She even contemplated the 
possibility of sending Willy in quest of her 
luckless swain; but egain the great- show of 
the wild beasts stood in her way. It had so 
happened that poor Ro')in himself, always gen- 
erous, especially to the boys whom their sister 
loved so dearl)^ had presented them the Christ- 
mas before with a Dutch toy called Noah's 
Ark, consisting of a curiously fashioned com- 
pound of boat and house, filled not merely 
with the quaintly habited wooden figures re- 
presenting the Patriarch's family, attired with 
an amplitude of apparel and a splendour of 
colouring which did honour to the Hollander's 
fancy, but with a variety of pairs of animals 
decked in hues almost as splendid and quite 
as unlike nature as those with which the 
Dutch artist had bedecked our antediluvian 
progenitors. Over this toy, preserved for them 
with great care by their grandmother, the 
young students in natural history were quietly 
seated, so deeply engaged in comparing those 
beasts which they had seen in the morning 
with their wooden prototypes in the Ark 
(where by the way they were most inartifi- 
cially stowed one above the other, the recep- 
tacle being scarcely capable of containing them 
when shoved in en masse, whence divers ac- 
cidents to leg and tail, head and horn.) that 
nothing short of a proposal to revisit Signor 
Polito's menagerie could have stirred them. 

" I hale yon drum's discordant sound. 
Parading round, and round, and round," 

half sung, half sighed, poor Susan. 



" I hate yon dwom'th dithcordant ihound, 
Pawading wound, and wound, and wound," 

gaily echoed Master Willy. 

" No, Ned," added the young gentleman, 
snatching from the boy's hand a mutilated 
nondescript, minus three legs, one tail, and 
half a head, and proffering in its place another 
monster cut asunder in the middle like Baron 
Munchausen's horse, and presenting a formi- 
dable horned head and two fore-legs, sans the 
body and hind quarters usually found in quad- 
rupeds of all descriptions. 

" That'th a milhtake. Thith ith the other 
theep." 

"That!" rejoined Ned, "that's as red as 
Cherry's calf. It's a lion." 

" A lion !" repeated Willy contemptuously; 
"a lion with hornth! Look at the wam'th 
hornth! Thithter Thuthan, look! It'th a 
warn. Thee the hornth. Gwandmother callth 
Dzonth the thaddler ath cwooked ath a wam'th 
horn. It 'th a wain, Thuthan ! thome theep 
are black, and thome may be wed. Ith n't it 
a warn, Thuthan 1 Ith n't Ned wongl" 

Susan suggested that, so far as could be 
judged from the relics of the animal, both 
were probably mistaken, those interesting re- 
mains bearing tnost resemblance to a cow — an 
undignified solution of the enigma which uni- 
ted both disputants against tlieir fair referee ; 
and Dame Wharton returning from the dairy, 
and summoning the boys to supper and to bed, 
Susan reluctantly abandoned all hope, for that 
evening at least, of undeceiving her devoted 
but irascible lover. 

Before dawn the next morning the young 
damsel, who slept in a small chamber of which 
the casement overhung the garden, heard a 
low tap at her window, accompanied by the 
peculiar bird-like whistle which had so often 
summoned the rustic Juliet, late and early, to 
the brief delight of a stolen dialogue with her 
enamoured Romeo. 

Wrapping a large cloak about her, Susan 
stood leaning her hand against the open win- 
dow. 

" Robin ! dear Robin !" 

Robert could not see the rosy lips which 
spoke these few and simple words; but the 
tone, sweet, gentle, caressing, affectionate, 
implied all that could be imagined of truth and 
tenderness. It was a tone as sweet and open 
as her own sweet smile. He mustered all his 
indignation to resist the charm, and succeeded. 

"I come here, Susan," said Robert, in low 
resolute accents, " to ask you for the last time, 
from whom, and for what purpose, you received 
the ring which I saw you wear yesterday? 
By heaven, I see it now glittering in the moon- 
light. Answer this question, or we part for 
ever." 

" It is a question, Robin, which I have 
promised not to answer at present. I can 
only tell you that I received it from no one 



574 



EXTRACTS FROM FINDEN'S TABLEAUX, 



who can interfere with our attachment. More 
I must not, cannot tell." 

" Must not! cannot! say will not!" rejoined 
Robert, in a voice of deep and concentrated 
anger. "• Say will not, Susan ! Once again, 
and for the last time, I ask you this plain ques- 
tion, — From whom did you receive that gew- 
gaw 1 Answer ! or may my right hand be 
struck off before I place the wedding-ring on 
your finger!" 

" Oh, dearest Robin ! grant me but a few 
short hours. Believe rny word, dear Robert. 
Confide in my affection, in my faith !" ex- 
claimed the poor girl, as her lover turned furi- 
ously away ; " or ask my grandmother," added 
she ; " or inquire of Willy ; they are bound by 
no promise," continued she, not regarding in 
her anxiety how much she was infringing her 
own. But if she did break her word, it was 
to little purpose; the jealous lover fled from 
the garden, unhearing or unheeding; and al- 
though no threat of enlisting had been spoken, 
no farewell had been breathed, she remained 
persuaded that he had taken his measures, and 
with something very like a presentiment that 
her brother's hasty plan would, as deception, 
however well intended, often does, lead to evil 
rather than to good. And so it proved. 

Before noon on the next day James Whar- 
ton learnt that Robert Owen had enlisted the 
night before, not with his party, but with one 
belonging to another regiment stationed in Bel- 
ford for the occasion of the fair ; that, imme- 
diately upon ascertaining that Susan still re- 
fused to answer his question, he repaired to 
Ms Serjeant Kite to announce his continued 
desire to enter the service ; that as soon as ad- 
mittance could be obtained he had been exam- 
ined and attested before the mayor and other 
magistrates ; and that he and the recruiting- 
party were by that time some miles on their 
way to the depot of the regiment. It was in 
the very heat of the peninsular war ; men were 
scarce, especially men so tall and finely form- 
ed, so spirited and so active as poor Robert. 
It was impossible to procure his release, and 
James and his sister were left to bewail the ill 
consequences of his unlucky experiment, and 
Dame Wharton to lament, again and again, 
the evil destiny which led her descendants, 
and those connected with them, to go, as she 
phrased it, a sogering. The only comfort she 
derived upon the occasion (next perhaps to 
that general scolding of the guilty and the in- 
nocent, the efficacy of which as a consolation 
under affliction is well known to most ancient 
dames well to do in the world, who wear spec- 
tacles, knit stockings, and love their own 
way), her prime comfort consisted in cutting 
Ned's drum to pieces, to the great improve- 
ment of the tranquillity of the rustic homestead, 
and in throwing Willy's musket into the fire. 

Years passed awaj'. The poor boys, grown 



into fine stout lads, tended the cows and car- 
ried the milk through the streets of Belford 
Regis ; exhibiting no more dangerous warlike 
propensities than an inordinate ambition on the 
part of Willy to possess a gun for the purpose 
of shooting sparrows. Nothing had been heard 
of Robert : and James Wharton, now serjeant- 
major of his regiment, remained at a distance, 
sharing the perils and the victories of the Brit- 
ish army. Still, however. Dame Wharton, all 
peaceful as were her inclinations, had the ill 
luck to find the destinies of those she loved 
unexpectedly influenced by the warlike spirit 
of the times. Poor Susan, restless and un- 
happy at home, had entered into the service of 
her noble landlord's daughter, as her own wo- 
man ; and during the short peace which prece- 
ded Napoleon's return from Elba, the lady 
Anne had been wooed and won by one of the 
gallant staff which surrounded the great Duke; 
and, too much attached to her husband to re- 
main at a distance from the field of action, the 
young bride and her favourite waiting-maid 
were actually waiting in Brussels during the 
crowning victory of Waterloo. 

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 

" You are a soldier's sister, Susan," said 
the lady Anne to her attendant, with her usual 
sweet grace, a few days after the great battle ; 
" have you any objection to go with me this 
morning to the military hospital ? A private 
belonging to my husband's division threw him- 
self between him and a French cuirassier who 
was about to cut him down with his sabre, and 
received the blow destined for Sir Charles. 
Of course every care has been taken of him, 
and he is likely to recover, poor fellow, thank 
heaven ! but I wish to carry him a few com- 
forts, and to see with my own eyes that he is 
kindly attended, and thank him with my own 
lips for preserving a life dearer than my own. 
Charles has sent to the surgeon to be in wait- 
ing : so order the caiTiage, and we will set 
forth." 

Laden with comforts and restoratives, mis- 
tress and maid proceeded to the hospital, nei- 
ther of them perhaps quite prepared for the in- 
evitable horrors of the scene. Crowds of sol- 
diers, for the most part severely wounded, fill- 
ed the apartment into which they were usher-; 
ed. Pain and Death seemed busy around them. 
Sufferings, only the more affecting for the bra- 
very with which they were borne, spoke in j 
every countenance. Young, timid, and softly- ; 
nurtured, the lady Anne, overcome by such a [ 
realisation of the miseries of war as her imag-l 
ination, ever so close to the scene, had hardly ' 
pictured, delivered to the friendly surgeon a 
slip of paper upon which the name of her hus- 
band's ])reserver was written. He led the way 
to a bed near a window. 

" Poor fellow ! his wars are over !■ Nay, 
nay, your Ladyship must not misunderstand 
me. His life is in no danger; but he has 



THE RUSTIC TOILET. 



575 



been compelled to submit to amputation : and 
as his friends are said to be well off, why the 
empty sleeve, in his case, will be only — " 

His speech was here checked by a sudden 
exclamation, almost a shriek, from his patient. 

" Susan ! Susan Wharton ! my Susan !" 

" Robin ! dear Robin !" 

Lady Anne knew the story, and witnessed 
the recognition with the sympathy of a young 
unpractised heart. She too had loved a sol- 
dier ; and the poor sufferer now before her had 
received his hurt in that dear soldier's defence. 
Tears contended with smiles as she gazed 
upon the couple, already reunited, for Susan 
was hanging over the couch, and her hand 
was locked in that of Robert. He looked at 
her wedding-linger; the ring was gone. 

"Robin! dear Robin!" Her voice failed 
her. 

" I know what you would say. Susan !" 
replied poor Robert. " It was your brother 
James. • We met in Spain, and he told me 
the whole truth. Do you remember my wick- 
ed vow 1 I am a poor maimed object now, 
Susan: I have no right hand to put the wed- 
ding-ring upon that dear finger — " 

" But you can ])ut the ring on with the left, 
dear Robin ! You can put it on with the left !" 
said Susan, smiling through her tears : and 
never, in spite of pain, and wounds, and dan- 
ger, and suffering, throbbed two happier hearts 
than those of the reconciled lovers, in the 
crowded wards of the Brussels hospital. 



THE RUSTIC TOILET. 

"To hold the plough for her sweet love." 

Shakspeaee. 

A PLEASANT and a stirring scene was the barn- 
yard of Farmer Holden of Hilton, one of the 
principal tenants of our friend Colonel Lisle 
of that ilk (if it be permitted to a Southron to 
borrow that ex])ressive phrase,) on one of the 
pleasantest and sunniest evenings of this last 
most sunny month of April, when, as if to over- 
set all tiie calculations of all the almanac- 
makers from Mr. Murphy downward, and in 
direct defiance of those safer general prognos- 
tics derived from old experience, there has not 
fallen in this fair county of Berks, from the 
first to the thirtieth, one single drop of rain. 
A bright and a lively scene did the barn-yard 
of Hilton Great Farm exhibit on that bright 
April evening. Seen between the large wheat- 
ricks and bean-stacks and hay-ricks, the barns 
and stables, the cart-houses, ben-houses, and 
pig-sties, which, together with the old-fash- 
ioned rambling dwelling house, large enough 
to form two or three fine 'Cottages ornees in 
these degenerate days ; seen between the vari- 



ous buildings which with all conceivable irreg- 
ularity surrounded the spacious farm-yard, glit- 
tering with the clean crisp covering of straw 
with which it was very literally littered, and 
giving due token of their presence by bleatings 
of lambs seeking their mothers and ewes in pur- 
suit of their lambs, by barking of dogs and 
shouting of men and boys, were the fine flocks 
of Farmer Holden returning from their distant 
pastures to the fold in a rich meadow near the 
homestead ; horses mounted by young carter- 
boys sitting loungingly upon their naked 
backs, and riding them to and from the village 
pond with an indescribable air of lazy pride ; 
whilst cows, driven by urchins on foot some- 
what brisker, but every whit as dirty, stum- 
bled amongst the sheep and jostled the horses 
in their haste to reach the calves, who were 
lowing in their pens eager for the moment that 
should at once appease their own " pleasant 
enemy Hunger," and relieve the " mothers of 
the herd" of their milky burthen. 

Mingled with these larger comers and goers, 
biped and quadruped, together with occasional 
passers-by, as the thresher or seedsman flung 
himself heavily over the threshold of the barn, 
or the ploughman stalked from the stable to 
the hay-rick, were innumerable lesser denizens 
of this well peopled agricultural demesne. 
Pigs of all ages and all sizes lay wallowing 
about the yard ; and poultry of every denomi- 
nation, from geese and turke)'s to bantams and 
pigeons, cackled at the barn doors, dabbled in 
the ponds, fluttered discontented in the coops, 
or perched in happy freedom on the roofs of 
the different buildings ; whilst one or two 
small and pretty children, one with a kitten in 
its hand, leaning eagerly over the low hatch- 
gate which extended from side to side of the 
deep old porch, as if longing to escape from 
this their peculiar coop, added to the general 
agreeableness of the picture. Sweetbriar in 
its tender green and its fresh fragrance grew 
on one side of that old dark porch, and an ear- 
ly honeysuckle, already putting forth its buds, 
flourished on the other. July-stocks, wall- 
flowers, and polyanthuses sent their sweet 
breath through the lattice windows, divided 
by rich stone mullions ; a large cherry-tree 
waved its snowy blossoms, scatterirjg light at 
one end of the house, backed by a rich rosy- 
tinted almond-scented orchard, whilst in a 
nook between a dark fagot-pile, and a huge 
open cart-house, the sun glanced upwards on 
an old elder tree, turning the trunk into gold, 
and the wide spreading branches drooping 
with the weight of the redundant foliage and 
the swelling flower-buds into pendent eme- 
ralds ; the clouds were white and fleecy, the sky 
of the brightest and purest blue, and the woody 
uplands which formed the framework of the 
scenery full of hedge-row timber just putting 
forth its youngest and most delicate " grcenth." 

A gay and a pretty picture was that crowded 
farm-yard, and yet the two principal figures 



576 



EXTRACTS FROM FINDEN'S TABLEAUX. 



still remain unJescribed. Seated upon a low 
wooden stool, engaged in the operation of ad- 
ministering certain small pellets of dough to 
some three-score of callow, gaping, struggling 
goslings — (in the pure Doric of Berkshire this 
operation is called "pilling the gulls,") — 
was a young woman of middle height, whose 
person, sufficiently well formed but somewhat 
large-honed and muscular, betokened such a 
union of activity and strength as might proba- 
bly be more common in the weaker sex if the 
bountiful intentions of Nature were duly sec- 
onded by education and circumstance — if girls 
took more exercise and passed more time in 
the open air. Her face could hardly be called 
pretty, far less beautiful ; and yet the bright 
laughing eyes, the red lips just enough divided 
to show the pearly teeth, and a dimple at one 
corner of the mouth, the clear healthy sun- 
burnt complexion, and an expression com- 
pounded of frankness, sweetness and gaiety, 
there was more of charm than is often to be 
found in the most regular beauty. And so in 
good truth thought her companion. 

She, from her occupation and her dress, her 
dark cotton gown, her double muslin handker- 
chief, her simple cap, as well as the sleeves 
turned up above the elbows, and the coloured 
apron tied over her white one, was evidently 
a farm-house serving-maiden just tidied up 
after going through the most laborious of her 
many offices, and finishing her day's work by 
supplying the manifold wants of her feathered 
j charges, and milking the kine, if indeed the 
I calves did not spare her the trouble. He, a 
I fine-looking young man, rather tall tlian short, 
1 but firmly and vigorously formed, with a bright 
j open countenance and a glowing complexion, 
I was as evidently a farmer's son. His straw 
I hat was placed rather on one side on his glos- 
j sy auburn curls, with the true air of a village 
I beau, and his dark velveteen jacket and the 
silk handkerchief just knotted round his throat 
1 had as much of real study in the apparent 
j carelessness of their adjustment as would have 
I done honour to the veriest coxcomb of one- 
} and-twenty that ever danced at Almack's — per- 
I sonal vanity being astonishingly alike in all 
I stations. A coxcomb, I grieve to say, was 
j Maurice Elliott ; and yet, being heartily in 
I love, he had the best chance that could befall 
i him of getting rid of his coxcombry. At 
j present, however, to judge by the dialogue 
i passing between them, their " course of true 
j love" was very far from " running smooth." 
It was more like a game of cross pur- 
poses than a meeting at sunset between two 
lovers. 

" You won't go with me, then, to the May- 
ing, PhcEbe]" said the youth impatiently, 
twisting round his fingers a long supple branch 
which he had just twitched from a weeping 
willow that overhung the goose-pond, never 
dreaming the while that he was, so far as ac- 
tion went, emulating one of the most eloquent 



women that ever graced blue stockings. " You 
won't go with me to the Maying 1" 

" You won't try for a prize at the ploughing- 
match, Maurice] You really won't try! 
really and indeed you won't]" rejoined the 
damsel, poking one of her pellets with a little 
stick down a gosling's throat, and following 
the dose by a drop or two of water to clear the 
passage for another morsel. "Do try, Mau- 
rice !" continued she in a tone of voice sweet 
and round and youthful, — a spoken smile. 
"Do try!" 

" When I know," cried Maurice, still twist- 
ing the unlucky bit of willow, " that you have 
got leave to go out that very day ! Of course 
to the Maying ! and not to go with me !" And 
Maurice gave the bit of willow which he had 
twisted round his finger such a tug with his 
other hand as had nearly cut that useful mem- 
ber to the bone. " Got leave to go, and won't 
go with me !" 

" When you won't try at the plough — " 

" Hang the ploughing-malch I" ejaculated 
Maurice, shaking his discomfited finger ; 
" Hang the ploughing-match !" 

" When you won't try for a prize," contin- 
ued Phcebe, quietly taking another gosling 
upon her lap, "you who know that you can 
plough as straight a furrow as old Giles Dow- 
ling himself!" 

" Hang Giles Dowling, Phcebe ! my father 
was a farmer, and though, to please him, and 
since his death, to humour mother, I may have 
gone between the stilts, there 's no need to let 
myself down in the eyes of the whole parish. 
What would that cold sneering purse-proud 
uncle of mine and his fine daughters say, I 
wonder] Come, Pha?be, don't look so grave 
— you'll goto the Maying, won't you] What 
can hinder you, now that you have got leave ] 
Come, and I'll drive you in my own chaise- 
cart with my new chestnut horse." 

" What would your proud uncle and your 
fine cousins say to that, I wonder] You are 
a farmer's son, as you truly say, Mr. Maurice 
Elliott, and I am a labourer's daughter. God 
forbid that I should be ashamed of being the 
child of an honest man, let his condition be 
ever so poor !" and Phosbe, though "her tone 
was gentle, drew her stool a little back with 
an air of self-respect that approached to dig- 
nity. 

Her lover felt the reproof. 

" Forgive me, dearest Phcebe ! pray, pray 
forgive me ! I did not intend — I did not dream 
— oh ! Phcebe, I never think of you but as one 
so much better than myself! you do forgive 
me then ]" said he, answering the bright dim- 
pled smile which required no words to confirm 
her pardon. " You do forgive me, and you '11 
let me drive you to this Maying] We are to 
have a cricket-match and a dance, and it will 
be so pretty a sight! Why do you shake your 
head] Is there afty secret in the matter]" 

" No secret at all, Maurice," said Phcebe. 



THE RUSTIC TOILET. 



577 



'' I '11 tell you the truth ; you '11 not be ashamed 
of it, though your fine cousins would. Poor 
Uncle George has been so ill this spring that 
he has not been able to get his allotment dug 
or planted, and you know the allotment-ground 
is his chief dependence. The children would 
be half starved without the vegetables, and the 
refuse keeps the pig. So father and mother 
are going to give him a day's labour to get in 
the potatoes, and I'm going to help. That's 
my holiday, and a very happy one it will be. 
Uncle George was always so good to me, and 
so was aunt, and I love the children dearly. 
You '11 see what a day's work I shall do." 

"Dear good Phoebe! I wish I could help 
too; only I have promised to make one of the 
eleven, and I can't desert them just at last. 
But I '11 tell you what I can do. Your little 
cousin George, who lives with us, I can let 
him go home and help." 

Another bright smile repaid the kindness. 

" But this ploughing-match, Maurice ! that 
will be a pretty sight too ! and you, who can 
do every thing better than the other lads of the 
parish, why should not you be as proud of be- 
ing the best ploughman as the best cricketer 
or the best shot] Nay, but you must listen to 
me, Maurice : whatever the purse-proud uncle 
or the fine cousins may say, I have good cause 
to believe that your trying for the prize would 
please one person besides myself — your own 
good landlord. Colonel Lisle." 

Maurice's brow darkened. He drew up his 
person to his full stature, and spoke angrily 
and bitterly : — 

" My own good landlord ! Would you be- 
lieve, Phoebe, that after living upon his estate, 
I and my fathers, these hundred years and 
more, paying his rent to a day, and doing as 
much justice to his land as if it were really 
our own, this good landlord of ours, the lease 
being upon the point of expiring, has sent us 
notice to quit!" He turned away in proud 
and angry sorrow. 

" Notice ! but has any one taken the farm T" 
inquired Phcsbe. 

" Not yet, I fancy ; but he will find no diffi- 
culty in letting it. The lands lie close to my 
uncle's, and I have sometimes thought — at all 
events we have notice." 

" But for what reason 1" 

"Oh! your rich landlord can easily find a 
reason for ridding himself of a poor tenant. 
The message was civil enough as regarded 
mother. If she had wished to remain in the 
j farm, he would have had no objection ; but, as 
her request was that the lease might be renewed 
in my favour, he could not comply. I was un- 
fit for a fanner, he said ; never in my business, 
always shooting, or coursing, or cricketing; 
never at home; never attending to the main 
chance; unthrifty in every thing; and about, 
he heard'' — and then, suddenly, Maurice El- 
liott checked himself, and paused. 

" About to marry a poor girl without a far- 



thing, when you might have married your 
cousin Harriet with more money than 1 know 
how to reckon. Oh ! Maurice ! Maurice ! lit- 
tle did I think when your own dear mother 
gave her consent, because I was active and in- 
dustrious and an honest man's daughter, and 
because the son she loved so well loved me, 
little did I think that she would be turned from 
her home for that great goodness. But it must 
not be, dear Maurice ! We must part ! We 
must not marrjr, to have your mother turned 
out of doors; neither of us would be happy I 
so. I can speak to my mistress — she is so ' 
very kind — and go to live with her friends a j 
great way off. And you will give up coursing ■ 
and shooting (you know you had promised me j 
to do that,)^nd then, Avhen Colonel Lisle finds | 
that your heart is in your business, all will go 
right again, and you will stay at the Linden 
Farm, and we shall be happy." — And by way 
of earnest of this coming felicity, poor Phcsbe j 
burst into a violent fit of sobbing. 

Maurice exhausted himself in protestations I 
— to do him justice, most sincere — of love, 
everlasting love, to Phoebe, and hatred, equally 
durable and equally sincere, towards uncle, 
cousin, landlord, and, in short, all who sought! 
to separate him from his beloved ; assuring her ! 
that Colonel Lisle's whole estate would not 
bribe him to renounce his engagement ; that, 
go where she might, he would follow : and i 
that, so far from desiring to continue at their | 
old home, nothing would induce him to remain 
the tenant of a landlord so unjust and despotic, | 
one who had condemned, without hearing, the j 
descendant of a race who had lived under hisi 
father and his father's fathers — ay, even from 
the planting of the great lime-trees which gave 
their name to the farm. But if Maurice was- 
vehement, Phoebe, whose hysterical sobbing 
had ended in quiet and relieving tears, contin- ' 
ued gently firm. I 

" You would not make me wretched, Mau-j 
rice; I know that yon would not; and how | 
could I be otherwise if I were to cause your 1 
ruin 1 I shall go into Kent, to Mrs. Holden's 
sister, and Colonel Lisle will think better than 
to dismiss the son of his old tenant. Go to I 
him, dear Maurice! Speak to him yourself! 
Explain — " 

" Go to him, indeed ! speak to him ! Ex- 
plain ! I can tell you, Phoebe, that he must . 
come to me if he wishes me to stay upon his 
land. There are otlier farms in the county be- 
side his. We are no bond-slaves, blessed be 
God ! in merry England. But don't you go, 
Phcebe ! Stay and let me tell you of my plans ; 
or, if you must go, promise at least to see me, 
and to give me a full hearing, before you leave 
Hilton. Promise me this. Stay at least till 
this ploughing-match is over. That will be 
a holiday far and near. See me then, and I 
will let this dear hand go." 

And Phcebe, blushing, sighing, and protest- 
ing against a meeting which would only be a 



49 



3X 



573 



EXTRACTS FROM FINDEN'S TABLEAUX, 



renewal of pain, did, however, give the re- 
quired promise ; and the lovers parted — she 
for her in-door duties, he for the home he was 
so soon to relinquish. 

They Avho witness those pretty rural festi- 
vals, with all their picturesque accessaries of 
tent and marquee, banners and bands, gay and 
happy crowds, shaded by noble trees and 
lighted by bright sunshine, and fanned by the 
sweet airs of the fairest of the seasons ; or 
they who read the elaborate account of the 
day's proceedings in the county newspapers, 
where all is chronicled en cou/ewrrfe rose, from 
the earliest procession to the latest cheer, little 
guess the trouble, and turmoil, and tracasseries 
which this apparently most amicable and peace- 
ful celebration occasions in its district. The 
ostensible competitors, whose province it is to 
contend for the prizes, are for the most part, 
(the winners being satisfied, of course, and the 
losers soothed and comforted by encouraging 
speeches and a good dinner, — solid pudding 
added to empty praise,) as good-humoured and 
contented as heart can desire; their unlucky 
patrons and protectors, the Association, in its 
own proper person, having previously gone 
through as much fussing and disputing, squab- 
ling and quarrelling, as would carry a candi- 
date through a county election, or produce a 
tragedy upon the boards of a theatre royal. 

One committee-man threatened to resign 
because he was not a vice-president, and one 
vice-president did send in his resignation be- 
cause he was not the president. One very 
great man (an Earl) applied to to assume that 
high office, never answered the secretary's let- 
ter; and another great man (a Viscount) co- 
quetted, and poolied,and 'pshawed, and finally 
declined, because the Earl had been written 
to first. The committee had five meetings to 
consider of the place where they ought to 
meet ; four to consider of the day of celebra- 
tion ; three of the hour of dinner; and the 
grand question of in doors or out of doors, 
marquee or barn, very nearly caused a disso- 
lution of the society ; party having run so 
high that two of the members, after scolding 
themselves hoarse, arrived at that state of 
dumb resentment which answers to the white 
heat of the anvil, and did not speak. They 
quarrelled about the value of the clothes, about 
the devices of the banners, about the colours 
of the cockades, — in short there was nothing 
which admitted of two opinions about which 
they did not quarrel; so that the chief digni- 
taries of the Association, the chairman, trea- 
surer, and secretary, who had endeavoured to 
add to their several offices that of pacificators- 
general, declared that all the ploughmen and 
all their teams would network half as hard on 
the day of trial as they had done during the 
time of preparation. 

But tiiis spirit of opposition, for opposition 
sake, is a little too much the fashion in our 
free country, where the good yeoman who sub- 



scribes his five shillings claims " a voice po' 
tential, as double as the duke's," who lays I 
down his twenty pounds, (and that the facts | 
are little exaggerated, will be readily admitted I 
by most who have been behind the scenes in \ 
such societies,) so let me proudly say the ill- j 
humour having once found a vent, works itself I 
clear, and the rough burly disputants come 
round again, shake hands, and hear reason, 
with a readiness and facility just as character- 
istic of our national manners, where a squab- 
ble once over is over for ever, and a quarrel 
fairly reconciled only leaves the opponents 
faster friends than before. Accordingly, by j 
the time the appointed day arrived, all was 
peace and amity, and joyous bustle, and the 
scene took its usual cordial and hearty charac- 
ter of a meeting calculated to advance the inte- 
rests and promote the happiness of all classes. 
Some weeks had elapsed since the dialogue 
between the lovers in Farmer Holden's barn- 
yard, and reports were rife in the village of a 
strange change in the fortunes of the young 
tenant of the Linden Farm. His father's will, 
it was said, threw him entirely into the power 
of his hard-hearted and purse-proud uncle, Ste- 
phen Elliott. There were different versions 
of the story, and no one spoke as of positive 
knowledge; but one fact seemed certain, that 
Maurice's negotiation for a farm of the same 
extent with that which he now occupied, had 
been cut short by the intervention of his stern 
relative, and that he was now seeking to rent 
a few acres of pasture-land attached to a cot- 
tage in the Moors. He and Phtsbe had not 
again met, but, pursuant to her promise, she 
had not yet left Hilton, and was now dressing 
for the ploughing-match at her mother's cot- 
tage, with a feeling of light-heartedness for 
which she would have found it difficult to ac- 
count. Was she — could she be conscious that 
her lover's gaze was fixed upon her through 
the open door? or was the knowledge that he 
was no longer the rich, and, to use the country 
phrase, the somewhat prodigal young farmer, 
but nearer her own level, brightening her eyes, 
and glowing in her cheek, with a hope that she 
had never put into words — a hope unacknow- 
ledged even to her own heart] or did she give 
more credit than she thought she did, to the 
report of her little cousin George, that he and 
his master were, after all, to try for the prizes 
at the ploughing-match ] Phojbe knew that 
Stephen Elliott had said, with his scornful 
sneer and bitter tone, " Let him try for the 
suit of clothes — he may want 'em!" and 
Phcfibe knew enough of her lover's temper to 
feel that this very taunt, uttered to keep him 
from the scene, was likely to take a dillerenl 
effi?ct upon his high spirit. " At all events," 
thought she, "1 shall see him!" and shb 
dressed herself, in a flutter of spirits with which 
vanity had little to do, and then sat down 
quietly to await her father, whom she was to 
accompany, and to whom the first prize was 



THE RUSTIC TOILET. 



579 



allotted, as having brought up a large family 
in credit and respectability, without receiving 
parochial assistance. The hale old man, in 
his well-preserved Sunday coat, with his grey 
hair smoothed down over his honest face, and 
his pretty daughter hanging upon his arm, as 
they walked to the ground after the match was 
over, formed one of the most interesting groups 
of the day. 

The scene was really beautiful. Upon an 
extensive lawn, richly dotted with magnificent 
trees, and backed by a noble mansion embow- 
ered in woods, stood a splendid central mar- 
quee, with smaller tents on either side ; flags 
and banners waved around the tents, and 
crowned the loft}^ decorated building, arched 
with lilacs and laburnums, where the gentle- 
men were to dine ; and the large low open 
cart-house, overhung by a down-hanging elm, 
prepared for the ploughmen ; carriages were 
driving up in close succession, horses pranc- 
ing, music playing, and (to borrow the words 
of the County Chronicle) all the beauty and 
fashion of the neighbourhood were collected 
in front of the tents to witness the distribution 
of the prizes, and, best of all, they who had 
earned those prizes, the sturdy tillers of the 
soil, clean, healthy, and happy, their delighted 
wives and daughters, and the stout yeomen, 
their masters, triumphing in the success of 
their labourers. Add to this the luf^ky ac-ci- 
dent of a sunny day in the most genial of the 
seasons, and every advantage of light and 
shadow, and shifting clouds, and the result 
will be a scene too wide for the painter, but 
rich and bright, and joyous as ever inspired a 
poet in the merry month of May. 

Phcsbe looked only for one figure, — and 
there, dressed like the rest of the competitors, 
in a white smock-frock, his head decked with 
a double cockade, winner not only of the regu- 
lar match, but of a subsequent prize for plough- 
ing with two horses, stood Maurice Elliott, 
and close beside him, her little cousin George, 
sticking his hat, also doubly cockaded,as high 
as possible upon his head, and fairly standing 
on tiptoe, that his honours might be more con- 
spicuous. Near him, so placed as to appear 
to belong rather to the gentry than to the 
wealthy yeomen, in which order he was really 
classed, leaned his uncle Stephen, his accus- 
tomed scornful sneer darkened as if by stronger 
passions. 

The ceremony and its attendant speeches 
being over. Colonel Lisle approached Phcebe 
and her father, now also wearing the decora- 
tions of tlie day and joined by little George, 
and, patting the boy's cheek, he said gra- 
ciously to the old man, " Why, you and your 
nephew are carrying off all our prizes." 

" Add his son-in-law, if you please, sir," 
said Maurice Elliott, approaching the group, 
holding in one hand the hat decked with its 
blue cockades of success, and shaking hands 
heartily with the grey-headed and venerable 



old peasant; " Add his son-in-law, for such I 
shall be as soon as the bans can be published, 
for 1 have no money now to throw away upon 
a license. All is settled," continued he in a 
lower tone to the old man ; " Phoebe consented 
as soon as ever I proved to her that not only 
my happiness but my prosperity depended 
upon my marrying such a wife as herself — 
pooh ! as soon as I proved that my happiness 
depended upon marrying her, for there is not 
such another in the world ; and Joseph Clark- 
son, finding that I am to have her to manage 
the dairj'', has consented to let me rent his 
thirty acres down in the Moors, and the little 
homestead belonging to it. There 's a capital 
garden, and during my spare time, I shall 
raise vegetables for the Bel ford market, and 
mother '11 live with us, and you'll see how 
happy we shall be !" And happiness danced 
in the young man's eyes, as again wringing 
the old labourer's hand, he turned away to join 
his Pha3be. 

" Stop !" exclaimed Colonel Lisle, who, 
irresistibly attracted by the sudden alteration 
in his tenant's manner and conduct, had been 
unable to refrain from listening to the conver- 
sation. " Stop one moment, Maurice Elliott," I 
said he, kindly; "and tell me what this ! 
means 1 Joseph Clarkson's land in the Moors ! | 
and your mother to live with you there ! Why, 
in leaving the Linden, there will be the stock i 
and the crops, and the farming utensils, ; 
enough, whether you retain or dispose of them, i 
to set you up in one of the best farms in the { 
country. All was left, I know, to you and i 
your mother. Surely, you have not, since j 
your father's death, involved yourself in such 
debt as to render this change of situation ne-; 
cessary?" ' 

" I owe no man a farthing, sir," replied 
Maurice, with some pride of accent and man- , 
ner ; then catching the kindly glance of his 
landlord, he continued, mildly and respectfull}', j 
" Every thing was left to my mother and my- j 
self; but, either by accident or design — I be- j 
lieve — I am sure by accident, — the w'ill is so I 
worded, that although, in case of our continu- ! 
ing at the Linden farm, the stock and properly 
of every sort was to remain for my use, upon 
paying a small annuity to my mother, yet, if 
we removed, it appears that the whole is to be 
sold ; the money to be invested in the three 
per cents., and not to be touched either by her 
or me, until her death — neither of us receiving 
any benefit from this sum beyond the yearly 
payment of her annuity, — which heaven grant 
may continue for many years !" 

"This is new to me, Maurice, and strange 
as well as new. Who is the executor?" 

" Mr. Stephen Elliott, my uncle," 

"Humph! — your uncle! — have you seen 
the will ■? Has any lawyer seen it? Your 
uncle, Mr. Stephen Elliott, is the executor, 
you say? Is the will in your father's hand- 
writinsf ?" 1 



580 



EXTRACTS FROM FINDEN'S TABLEAUX. 



" No, sir ; in that of Mr. Ball." 

"The little pettifogging lawyer of Bew- 
ley — a man tliiity miles ofi" — Stephen Elliott's 
factotum; I thought so. Well, we must get 
some one learned in the law to look it over. 
Not to touch the money until after your mo- 
ther's death ! That could never have been ihe 
design of the testator, however well it might 

meet the views of This must be looked 

to, Maurice; send me a copy of the will." 

"You are very good, sir," replied Maurice, 
firmly ; " but with all gratitude for your kind- 
ness, 1 have made up my mind to let the mat- 
ter rest. Firmly as I believe that my father 
did not contemplate this state of things — that 
he never dreamt of our leaving the Linden 
Farm, it is, nevertheless, so set down; and 
there is something in contesting the last will 
of a parent which I cannot endure. Besides, 
we shall do very well. My mother will have 
the comforts to which she has been accustom- 
ed, if my labour can provide them; and it will 
be better for me to be a working man. I was 
getting to like sporting better than farming. 
Phogbe said so, sir, as well as you. But now 
all that is out of the question. I can work, as 
I have proved to her; and, with her for a com- 
panion and a reward, I shall be a better and a 
happier man at the Moors than I should have 
been at our old house, well as I love it." 

"Belter and happier, perhaps, than you might 
have been, had this not occurred," replied 
Colonel Lisle, grasping his young tenant's 
hand with a pressure full of heart; "but not 
better or happier than you will be there now. 
The new lease shall be made out to-morrow. 
Your uncle, for views of his own, and in re- 
venge for your refusal of his daughter, repre- 
sented you to me as dissipated, idle, extrava- 
gant, and careless of all except the caprice of 
the hour. He even contrived to turn your love 
for Phtebe into a proof of the lowness of your 
mind and degradation of your habits. Under 
this view, I sent the notice, fully intending, 
however, especially after I found that he 
wanted the farm, to examine more closely into 
the facts. I ought to have looked into the 
matter at once; but I can hardly regret not 
having done so, since the experiment has not 
only made your character better known to me, 
but to yourself. And now you must introduce 
me to Phcebe! There she stands, looking at 
us ; — no ! now that she sees that we are look- 
ing at her, she turns away blushing. But that 
is Phcebe! I should know the fresh, innocent 
smile among a thousand." 

And, as a lover of all justice — even that 
j shadowy justice, called poetical, which is the 
I branch over which we poor authors have most 
[control — I must add, that whilst Phoebe's 
! smiles grew sweeter and sweeter, as her 
blushes deepened, Stephen Elliott, the rich 
and purse-proud uncle, who had crept stealth- 
ily within hearing of the conversation, and felt 
i himself detected and defeated, slunk away, 



hanging down his head, pale with impotent 
malice, and muttering ineffectual curses, the 
most contemned and miserable wretch of that 
large assembly. 



THE GLEANER. 

"They liave all been touched, and found base metal." 

" So ! This is my return to my native vil- 
lage ! This my reception from relatives who 
owe me so much !" Thus thought, rather than 
said, a poor-looking man, as he stood leaning 
over the gate of a newly-cleared wheat-field 
in the bright, bustling, busy, harvest time. 
" One," exclaimed he, as his musings took a 
tone of passion which broke unconsciously 
into words; "One — yonder portly landlady, 
forsooth, sitting in her bar, as she is pleased 
to call it — her bar, quotha ! Li my young 
days it was the little boarded parlour opening 
from the tap-room, A bar in the old Red 
Lion ! What shall we hear of next"? One, 
bedecked and bedizened, with her gown like 
a rainbow, her fringed apron, and her cap stuck 
out with flowers, sitting in her bar, if that be 
its style and title, amongst her glasses and 
punch-bowls, with a bell upon her table and a 
net of lemons dangling above her head ; she. 
Miss Collins as she calls herself — she used to 
answer to the name of Jenny Collins, twenty 
years agone — refused point-blank to acknow- 
ledge me ! denied to m.y face that she had ever 
seen me ! called me a cheat and an impostor ! 
wondered at my impudence in attempting to 
pass myself for her dear uncle, JMichael Nor- 
ris ! threatened me with the stocks and the 
round-house, the justice and the jail ! Pre- 
cious minx ! She whom I rescued from drud- 
gery and starvation, from living half shop-wo- 
man, half-maid, with the stingy, termagant 
clear-starch er, in Belford Marsh ! whom I set 
up in that very Red Lion ! — perched upon her 
throne, the arm-chair, in the bar ! — purchased 
the lease, the furniture, the good-will ! paid 
her first year's rent ! stocked her cellars ! 
clapped a hundred pound bank-note into her 
hand! And now that I come home, old and 
lame, sick and ragged, she reviles me as a 
vagabond and an impostor, and tells me to be 
thankful to her compassion and tender-hearted- 
ness that she does pot send for the constable 
to carry me to jail! Liar that she is! base, 
ungrateful, perjured liar ! for she knew me. I 
say that she knew me ; ay, as well as I knew 
her. She would be glad to be no more altered 
in the years that have changed her from a slim 
girl of twenty-five to a bloated woman of five- 
and-forty, than I, in those same years, with all 
my griefs ! 

" Then her brother — faugh ! it maddens one 
to think of their baseness ! — her brother, whom 



THE GLEANER. 



581 



leducated and apprenticed, finding him money 
afterwards to put him into partnership with old 
Jones, the thriving linen-draper. He, indeed, 
did not pretend to deny that I might be his 
uncle ! — but, grant that I were, what claim had 
I upon his charit):' more than any other starv- 
ing wretch] What was I to him'? He pi- 
tied me, Heaven knew ! but what could I 
expect from him 1 Oh, the smooth-speaking, 
soft-spoken knave ! with his pity and his cha- 
rity ! Hypocrite in look and word ! His tone 
was as gentle as if he had been bidding me 
welcome to bed and board for my whole life 
long. What a fawning parasite that would 
have been now, if I had accosted him like a 
rich man ! Well ! there is some virtue in 
these rags, since they teach false tongues to 
speak truth. Then came my cousin Antliony, 
whose daughter I portioned, whose runaway 
son I clothed and sent to sea. And this An- 
thony is now a great meal man — a rich miser 
who could buy up half the country. What 
said he? Why, he was poor himself — the 
scoundrel ! — nobody knew how poor, and had 
been forced to make a rule to give nothing to 
beggars ; ay, he called me a beggar ! I might 
go to the Union, he said, that was the fittest 
place for me. To the Union! the workhouse! 
Oh, the precious rascal ! The son of my fa- 
ther's brother, brought up in my father's house, 
— worth a hundred thousand pounds, and would 
have sent me to the workhouse — me, his only 
living kinsman! Oh. this world ! this world ! 
this world ! Then — for I was resolved to try 
them all — 1 sought out my old school-fellow, 
Nicholas Hume, the spendthrift, whom I 
bailed in my young days, when little richer 
than himself, and saved from prison by paying 
his debts. What was his gratitude"! Why, 
he, forsooth, had never heard my name. Mi- 
chael Norris? Who was Michael Norris 1 — 
Oh, they knew me well enough twenty years 
ago, when I returned from the West Indies a 
rich man, husband of a wealthy Creole, master 
of flourishing plantations, to visir my early 
iiaunts, belj) my poor relations — I found them 
I all in distress some way or otiier — and shake 
bands with my old friends. Nobody had for- 
gotten me then. But now that I come back a 

ragged cripple, houseless and friendless " 

And the old man paused and lifted his wretch- 
ed hat from his thin grey hairs, and passed his 
tattered handkerciiief over his furrowed brow, 
with an air which proved that he was as much 
oppressed by mental suffering, by indignation, 
and disappointment, as by the sultry heat of 
[ an August noon. 

I "There are none left now," thought old | 
I Michael to himself, as, exhausted by his ve- i 
i hemence, he sank into a milder mood, "none 
I left for me to apply to now, except the three 
! orphan children of my poor nepliew, William 
! Leslie, the cousin of these hard-hearted Col- 
I linses, and their mother; and the}', T fear, are 

jthe:nselves in great want and trouble. He,' 

i , 

49* 



lately dead, after a series of undeserved mis- 
fortunes and a long and wasting illness; and 
she, working as hard as ever woman did work, 
to keep herself and her family out of the work- 
house — that Union to whose comforts my pre- 
cious cousin Anthony so tenderly consigns me. 
Poor things ! They may well deny any know- 
ledge of me! for they never saw me; and I 
have had a good sample of the slight impres- 
sion that benefits conferred leave behind them ! 
William was only eighteen when I left Eng- 
land and returned to Jamaica after my last 
visit. A fine, frank-hearted lad he was ! I 
remember wishing to take him with me. But 
my poor sister would not part with him. She 
had maj-ried again after the death of her first 
husband, William's father, and a wretched 
match she made ; for this second husband 
proved to be an habitual drunkard, always 
half-mad when intoxicated, who broke out at 
last into desperate frenzy, and, but for my in- 
terposition, would have murdered the poor boy. 
I seem to see the struggle now," thought the 
old man, closing his eyes ; "he flinging him- 
self upon William with a table-knife, and I 
rushing between them just soon enough to re- 
ceive the blade in my arm. I bear the mark 
of the wound still. The madman was sent to 
an asylum, and there soon died. And my 
poor sister, Well off for her station, could not 
part with this only son. He was a fine lad, 
was William, spirited and generous ; and when 
she also died, he was already attached to the 
girl whom he afterwards married. I helped 
them too, for I loved the boy ; I helped on that 
match, for it was one of sincere affection, and 
they were in the way to earn a handsome com- 
petence; there must have been some impru- 
dence or great ill luck, to have reduced them 
to such poverty." So ran the train of the old 
cripple's reverie. "I never suspected it; he 
never wrote to me, and I engaged in my own 
affairs, and with children then of my own. 
Well, I will see them, however; they are in 
this field gleaning. So said their neighbour. 
Yes ! This is the field ! There they are. 
I '11 see them," thought Michael Norris, 
" tliough it is probable that they too will know 
nothing of me." And, opening the gate, the 
old man limped slowly across the furrows, and 
began gathering the scattered ears of corn in 
his withered hand. 

We have said l/iefeld. although, after pass- 
ing the state which admitted him between the 
two high hedges that bounded it on the north- 
ern side, the wide expanse from which the 
wheat had just been carried, assumed the ap- 
pearance rather of a large open ridge of arable 
land, bordered by the high road, and termina- 
ted by a distant village, than of the small 
wooded enclosures so common in the midland 
counties. A pretty scene it was, as it lay 
before him, bathed in the sunshine, and a lovely 
group was that to which his attention was im- 
mediately directed. A pale young woman, 



582 



EXTRACTS FROM FINDEN'S TABLEAUX. 



I whose regular and beautiful features received 
I additional interest from her close widow's 
I cap, stood before him, holding a fine infant in 
i her arms ; a very pretty girl of twelve or thir- 
j teen was flourishing a tuft of wheat-ears before 
I the baby's eyes, smiling herself at the smile 
j she excited, while her little brother clung to 
the mother's petticoat in momentary fear of 
two high-fed dogs, attending a gentleman and 
' lady riding slowly along the road. 

The poor cripple drew back and sat down 
under a clump of maple and hawthorn, gay 
with the purple wild veitch, the white bind- 
weed, and the pretty clematis, known by the 
! still prettier name of "the traveller's joy;" 
I whilst the riding party called off their dogs, 
j spoke graciously to the child and his mother, 
and passed slowly out of sight. As they left 
her, Mrs. Leslie, for she it was, approached 
the old man, to replace her infant in his cradle, 
niched under the fragrant shade of some over- 
hanging hazel-stems just beside his rude seat. 
Struck by the evidence of poverty, sickness, 
and sorrow afforded by his tattered apparel and 
his wrinkled yet venerable countenance, she 
took up a pitcher which stood by the cradle, 
and, with the kindness which the very poor so 
often show to each other, and a remark upon 
the heat of the day, offered him a small cup- 
full of the milk which formed the contents of 
the jug. He took it with a trembling hand, 
and thanked her with an emotion which our 
readers will comprehend, but which at once 
surprised and interested its object. 

"Your name is Leslie?'' asked he, as, after 
returning the cup with thanks and blessings, 
he made room for her beside him on the thymy 
bank. 

" Your name is Leslie?" 
" Margaret Leslie. It is so." 
" The wife of William Leslie !' 
"His widow. Ah, me! his widow!" re- 
plied she with a sigh. "The widowed mo- 
ther of those children. Michael," added she, 
as the boy came near them, "take some milk 
yourself, and carry a cupful to your sister, and 
bring what wheat-ears she and you have gath- 
ered to my little heap." 

"Michael!" echoed the old man, "your 
husband's name was William ! How came 
you to call his son Michael 1 But the name 
belongs to your family perhaps ; — your father, 
or some favourite brother ?" 

" No," replied the widow, " it was for a 
different reason. A very dear kinsman of my 
husband's bore that name, and in token of 
love and gratitude to him, and in fulfilment of 
an old promise, so our only son was chris- 
tened." 

"I remember," — muttered the cripple to 
himself, — " I remember William said that his 
first boy should b(>ar my name, and I think ho 
wrote to that effect afli^r the child was born; 
but tlie letter must have arrived at that time of 
misery." Then rousing himself, and turning 



to the gentle creature whom a feeling of un- 
usual interest still detained at his side, he 
added aloud, " I do remember now, that Wil- 
liam Leslie had an uncle called Michael Nor-i 
ris, but what peculiar cause of gratitude " j 

" What cause !" interrupted Mrs. Leslie ; | 
"a thousand causes; from a mere infant,! 
when I have heard my husband say that he ! 
gave him the first shilling he ever possessed, — 
that kind uncle, absent or present, was his 
good genius. He insisted upon his being sent! 
to Bel ford school; paid himself for masters 
whom his girordians thought superfluous; res- 
cued him from the frantic frenzy of his step- 
father; saved his life at the most imminent 
peril of his own from the furious assaults of 
that wretched madman; placed him in the 
paper-mill, which, but for the rash specula- 
tions of his partner, would have been not 
merely a comfortable income for himself, but 
an affluent provision for his family; and, last 
and dearest kindness, when William, with his 
characteristic generosity, loved a poor girl, the 
portionless orphan of a naval officer, when in- 
terested connexions and officious friends all 
opposed the union, did not he, from across the j 
wide ocean, send himself not merely his ap- 
probation of the destined marriage, but a por- 
tion for the destitute bride 1 I never saw 
him," continued Mrs. Leslie in a lower tone 
than that which had been dictated by her en- 
thusiastic recoiled ion of her benefactor's good- 
ness ; " but nio-ht and morning I have prayed ■ 
for him, and night and morning do my poor! 
children join in those prayers; and my dear j 
husband amongst his latest words " | 

" Did he too pray for the uncle who seemed 
to have forgotten him?" asked the old man, 
his voice half stifliid with emotion. "Look, 
Margaret," added he, stripping up his sleeve, 
and showing a deep scar extending diagonally 
across his left arm; "this scar was received 
from the knife with which his furious and 
frantic stepfather was pursuing William Les- 
lie. I am Michael Norris. You will not dis- 
dain to acknowledge the cripple who comes to 
your door hungry and ragged. Here too," 
said he, taking from his pocket a bundle of 
papers, "are characters that you well know." 

Tearfully yet joyfully the warm-hearted and 
grateful Margaret returned the embraces of her 
venerable kinsman, presented her three child- 
ren to him one by one, and replied to his ques- 
tions as to their change of circumstances. 

It needed few words to tell the story- No- 
thing is more rapid than a descent. The roll- 
ing of a stone down hill is a true type of falling 
fortune. Taking advantage of a long illness 
with which William Leslie was afflicted, his 
partner enga<red in des|)erate speculations. 
They failed. The rash speculator abscondeil, 
and William remained, a bankrupt without 
friend or resource. Honest to the last, his wife 
resigned her small settlement to satisfy the 
creditors. His debts being paid, he had tried ] 



THE GLEANER. 



583 



every means of living-, and whilst he retained 
his health had supported his family by the most 
persevering industry; but a fever, occasioned 
by over-exertion, had come on ; his constitu- 
tion, impaired by anxiety and labour, had been 
unable to resist the attack, and since that pe- 
riod the wife who had been the faithful partner 
of his cares and his toils had at least so far 
succeeded as to maintain her children without 
the assistance of charity, whether public or 
private. 

" Why not have written to me when this 
bankruptcy took place]" inquired the uncle. 

" Alas, dear sir I we had before heard of that 
terrible hurricane in which " 

" In which," said the old man, filling up 
with stern composure the sudden pause that 
from a mixture of delicacy and sympathy had 
arrested Margaret Leslie's words, " in which 
the plantation where I resided was laid waste, 
my house levelled with the ground, and my 
wife with four hopeful children, buried in the 
ruins ! in striving to rescue them, this thigh — " 
striking the withered limb with a hazel-twig — 
"this thigh was broken. I owe my preserva- 
tion to the gratitude of an emancipated negro ; 
but for months, for years, all life, all nature 
was a blank before me! I have sometimes 
wondered how I could have survived such a 
blow ! — for what purpose I was spared ! The 
doubt was sinful, and finds its rebuke, its 
thrice-merciful rebuke, in tliis blissful hour. 
You heard then of my losses, dear Margaret ] 
Poor William heard of them T' 

" We were sure that something must have 
gone amiss, from receiving no reply to the let- 
ter which announced the birth of our boy, and 
claimed your promise of standing godfather at 
his christening. W' illiam did not like to write 
again upon such an occasion ; it would have 
seemed like encroaching upon your too gene- 
rous spirit. But when the news of that awful 
hurricane arrived, and Nicholas Hume and the 
Collinses made inquiries in London and ascer- 
tained that your plantation had indeed been 
amongst those laid waste, — then your silence 
was too well explained ! I heard this sad 
news first; for it arrived during the dreadful 
illness which preceded my husband's bank- 
ruptcy. And when he regained so much 
breathing time after his own misfortunes as to 
ask news of you, no tidings could be obtained ; 
all trace of you seemed lost. Oh that he had 
lived to see this day ! His will be done ! 
But oh that my poor husband had but lived to 
see once more the kinsman he loved so well !" 

The old man pressed her hand in speechless 
emotion, and Margaret, smiling through her 
tears, went on : 

" You must live with us, dear uncle, and 
we shall wait upon you and work for you, and 
be happy together — as happy as we can be 
without him — after all. My Annie is a good 
girl — oh such a good girl ! and pretty, is she 
not, dear uncle ] and poor Michael, your name- 



sake, is a boy of a thousand. We have had 
niuch to be thankful for. Farmer Rogers, the 
overseer, whose books my husband kept (lit- 
tle Michael keeps them now, as well the far- 
mer says as his father did,) supplies us with 
milk twice a-day . Mrs. Lascelles, the rector's 
wife, employs Anne and me constantly in nee- 
dlework for her large family; and if we can 
but keep our pretty cottage — if we can but 
keep that cottage at whose porch poor Wil- 
liam planted the honeysuckle and the China 
rose, and the vine which now half covers the 
thatch — that cottage where we worked and 
wept together, and where he died the death of 
the righteous — if we can but live together 
there, within sight of the turf that covers his 
dear remains, I should ask for nothing better 
on this side of the grave." 

The widow's tears flowed afresh, and once 
again the old man pressed her hand. 

" Is there any doubt of your retaining this 
beloved habitation, dear Margaret] And does 
my coming cause that doubt]" 

" Oh no ! no ! dear uncle, not in the slight- 
est degree. The cause of doubt is, that we 
have no lease, and that Miss Collins, as she 
calls herself, poor William's cousin, wants it 
for some purpose or other; people say with 
some view of marrying. But this is idle 
talk, — village gossip. W'hat is certain is, 
that she wishes to take it, and is willing to 
give two pounds a-year more rent than I now 
give or can afford to give. If our landlord, 
Mr. Godfrey, had stayed, he and Lady Eliza- 
beth had promised that I should remain ; but 
the Hall, and the village, and the whole estate 
are sold, and the new lord of the manor is 
coming this evening. Hark ! you may hear 
the bells ringing even now. Mr. Godfrey and 
Lady Elizabeth intend staying a iew days at 
the rectory ; you saw them ride by with their 
dogs ; they have promised to speak in my fa- 
vour to the new landlord ; they mentioned it 
even now, and the good rector and his excel- 
lent lady will second my petition; still " 

" Be of good cheer, Margaret ! Even if you 
should leave your pretty cottage, I would wa- 
ger something " The old man checked 

himself, and resumed in an indifferent tone, 
" Who is this new lord of the manor ] What 
is his name V 

" The property was purchased by a Mr. 
Price ; but he is understood to be an agent, 
and I have not heard the name of the real pro- 
prietoi, who is said to be an elderly gentle- 
man, and so rich that he will hardly be tempted 
to turn an old tenant from her cottage for so 
trifling aTi addition of rent. Nevertheles^s " 

"Once again, Margaret, be of good heart!" 
reiterated her uncle. 

" The tenants are to meet him in the ave- 
nue; the farmers and tlieir sons on horseback: 
the cottagers, women, and children, on foot. 
Ought I to join them] I have no shame in 
honest labour, but I do shrink from meeting the 



584 



EXTRACTS FROM FINDEN'S TABLEAUX. 



scorn of those purse-proud kindred who " 

and poor Margaret's tears fell fast. " Ouglit 
I to be there, dear uncle 1 I will go or stay 
as you direct 1" 

"Go, Margaret! Go, and fear nothing. 
Gather up your treasures ; the jug, whose ge- 
nerous draught was the sweetest I ever quaffed; 
the wheat-ears; and the cradle with its crow- 
ing babe, — blessings on its dear face! Go 
boldly. I will not shame you by these un- 
seemly rags ; but will rest awhile under the 
friendly shade of the hazel, while you return 
home and prepare for the procession. Be sure 
that you fail not. We shall meet again soon, 
dear ones. For the present, farewell." 

And something there was about the old man, 
ragged, sick, and lame as he was, that Marga- 
ret found it impossible to disobey. So, heart- 
ened up, she knew not why, (for many have 
felt, without being able to give the feeling its 
true name, the mingled power of sympathy and 
appreciation to comfort and to cheer,) she called 
about her her blooming children and departed ; 
Annie and herself bearing the cradle between 
them, and the boy laden with the gleanings of 
the day. 

The setting sun gleamed brightly between 
the noble elms that formed the beautiful ave- 
nue to Corston Hall, gilding the rugged 
branches and turning into pendent emeralds 
the leaves of the branches which, across the 
wide carriage-road, met and interleaved in a 
lengthened archway that might well have sug- 
gested the rich intricacies of a cathedral aisle 
in the proudest days of Gothic architecture. 
The village bells pealed amain, horses pranced, 
flags waved, the children of the parish schools 
strewed the gaudy flowers of early autumn; 
and as the carriage of the new lord of the ma- 
nor rolled between the ivied lodges to the grey 
old Hall, a quaint irregular structure of Eliza- 
beth's or James's days, with a tame peacock 
sunning himself on the stone balustrade, a 
large old English spaniel barking on the steps, 
and the tenants in their holiday apparel grouped 
around the porch, an artist, whether painter or 
poet, might have envied the accident which 
produced an arrangement so felicitously pictu- 
resque. 

Something of this feeling, however unper- 
ceived or unguessed by herself, mingled with 
the natural emotions of curiosity and interest 
in our friend Margaret's bosom, as, standing 
humbly apart between her two elder children, 
with her infant in lier arms, under a large syca- 
more, she gazed around upon the scene, and 
perceived, gaily adorned in the extreme of the 
country fiishion, the rival candidate for her be- 
loved cottage— tlie buxom landlady of the Red 
Lion, siirrounch'd by the unfriendly kindred of 
her late husband. Neither Margaret nor her 
William had ever applied for assistance to 
these people, and yet she knew instinctively 
that some from pride and some from siiame felt 
the silent reproach of her unassisted poverty 



and her blameless life — that all wished herab- 
sence, and would contribute as far as in them 
lay to turn her from her home; and in spite of 
the encouraging influence of her lately known 
kinsman's cheering forebodings, her heart sank 
within her as the door of the carriage was 
thrown open. An elderly gentleman, very 
neatlydressed, but pallid, emaciated, and lame, 
was assisted by his servants up the two low 
steps that led to the porch. Having ascended 
them with some dilRculty, he turned round, 
took off his hat, bowed with a gracious smile 
to the assembly, and then paused, as if in 
search of some one whom he expected to see. 

The effect of this apparition was a start of 
surprise and horror from the portly landlady, 
seldom equalled on the stage or off; her bro- 
ther the haberdasher, who had just flourished 
his hat preparatory to leading the general 
cheer, let it fall in dismay, looking the curses 
which his habitual hypocrisy scarce repressed ; 
cousin Anthony, the rich miserable miser, 
smothered a groan ; and Nicholas Hume, in 
spite of his consummate impudence, fairly 
stole away. 

What in the meanwhile did our friends in 
their humble nook under the sycamore? Lit- 
tle Michael danced for joy ; Annie clapped her 
hands ; and poor Margaret for the twentieth 
time dui ing the last six hours, burst into tears — 
tears, this time, however, of unmingled joy. 

" Mrs. Leslie ! Margaret ! my dear niece !" 
cried Michael, or as we may now call him, 
Mr. Norris, advancing to meet her; " to you 
alone of all my relations now living do I owe 
any account of my motives for coming amongst 
you as I have done to-day. With the rest of 
my kindred I have done for ever. But I also 
owe some explanation to my tenants and future 
neighbours. You all know tiiat I left Eng- 
land about fifty years ago, a poor and friend- 
less lad. I returned nearly thirty years after- 
wards, with riches honestly obtained, the happy 
husband of a wealthy and excellent woman, 
and the father of four hopeful children. I 
came to Corston; found my relations, some 
indigent, some comfortably situated ; did what 
good I could amongst them, and went back to 
Jamaica, with the view at some future day of 
placing my sons at the head of my plantations 
in tliat island, and coming home to die in my 
native village. A hurricane passed over the 
estate where I lived, destroying my dwelling, 
my wife, my children, and almost myself. 
For many years I was dead to the world ; but 
care had been taken of the large proj)erty that I 
remained to me, and when, by God's mercy, I 
I was restored to health, mental and bodily, I | 
found myself rich indeed, so far as money was I 
concerned — richer than ever ; but in the blessed 
charities of life most poor — a childless, deso- , 
late, bereaved old man. I knew that a report! 
had gone abroad that I was ruined by the hur- 
ricane, and resolved to prove the relations 1 1 
had left in England, by coming amongst them i 



THE VILLAGE AMANUENSIS, 



585 



■in seeminiT poverty. I have done so, and the 
j experiment has answered well. And now, 
my dearest niece, I need not tell you that the 
I cottage is yours ; but for the second time to-day 
I throw myself upon your charity. You will 
not abandon me because I happen to be rich 1 
I You will never have the heart to do so. You 
j will remember your promise that we should 
jlive together; and come with those dear child- 
ren to brighten and gladden the old Hall." 



THE VILLAGE AMANUENSIS. 

" Heaven first taught letters for some wretch's aid." 

Pope. 

Tap! went a modest, timid, shy-sounding 
knock against the old-fashioned oaken door of 
William Marshall's domicil, in the brief twi- 
light of a September evening — the hour of all 
others in which a pretty young woman might, 
with the least risk of observation, pay a visit 
to a handsome bachelor — the best hour to 
shield her from the attacks of village gossip- 
ing, or to cover her own confusion, sho\ild her 
errand be such as to challenge something like 
a jest on the part of her host. 

Tap ! tap ! again went the slender forefinger; 
but although the reiterated summons was a 
thought louder than the first nearly inaudible 
demand for admittance, it was equally unsuc- 
cessful in arousing the attention of the master 
of the dwelling. 

For this abstraction there was a reason 
which the young and tender-hearted will ad- 
mit to be valid ; the poor youth was in love, 
and to enhance that calamity he liad quarrelled 
with the mistress of his affections. 

William Marshall, at the time of wliich I 
write, schoolmaster of Aberleigh, the only son 
of one of the poorest widows in the parish, was 
a person of great merit. Some quickness and 
nauch industry had given him a degree of in- 
formation and refinement unusual in his sta- 
tion, and his excellent conduct and character 
had secured the friends whom his talents had 
attracted. In short, he was one of those in- 
stances — more frequent than the grumblers of 
the world are willing to admit — which prove 
that even in this life desert is pretty certain to 
meet its reward. 

The ancient pedagogue of the vilhgc, a man 
of some learning, who availed himself of the 
large and airy school-house to add boarders, 
who aspired to the accom|)lishments of mathe- 
matics and the classics, to the sturdy country 
lads, whom, by the will of the founder, he was 
bound to instruct in reading and writing, de- 
clared that this his darling scholar caught up, 
untaught and unflogged, all that he painfully 
endeavoured to instil, by book and birch, into 

3 Y ' 



the fortunate pupils whose fathers were rich 
enough to pay for teaching and whipping; and 
he followed up this declaration not only by in- 
stalling him, at the early age of seventeen, into 
the post of his assistant, but by recommend- 
ing him so warmly to the trustees as his suc- 
cessor, that at his death, which occurred about 
six years after, William Marshall, in spite of 
his youth, was unanimously elected to fill the 
place of his old master, and took possession of 
the pretty house upon School Green, with its 
two noble elms in front, as well as the large 
garden, orchard, and meadow, which the brook, 
after crossing the green, and being in turn 
crossed by the road and the old ivied bridge, 
went cranking round so merrily, clear, bright, 
and rapid as ever rolled rivulet. 

Now this, besides its pleasantness as a resi- 
dence, formed a position which, considering 
the difference of the age and times, might be 
reckoned, for our modest scholar, full as good 
as the magnificent proffer of the green gown, 
cows, grass, and four merks a-year, made by 
the good Abbot Boniface to Halbert Glend in- 
ning,* and by the said Halbert Glendinning, 
to the unspeakable astonishment and scandal 
of the assistants, unceremoniously rejected; 
since, in addition to the stipend paid regularly 
as quarter-day came round, and the prospect 
of as many boarders as the house would bold, 
was the probable contingency of the tax-gath- 
ering and rate-collecting, the timber-valuing 
and land-measuring, which usually falls to 
the share of the schoolmaster, together with 
the reversion of the office of parish-clerk, pro- 
vided alwa3rs, that for a " master of scholars, "| 
who taught Latin and Greek and took boarders, 
such offices were not held infra dig. 

William Marshall's humble wishes were 
gratified. He w^as a happy man; for, in addi- 
tion to the comfort of having a respectable 
home for the infirm mother to whom he had 
always been a most exemplary son, he had the t 
gratification (so at least said the gossips of 
Aberleigh) of preparing a suitable abode for 
one of the best and prettiest of our village 
maidens. | 

Ever since the days of Pyramus and Thisbe ' 
proximity has been known for the friend of 
love; and such was probably the case in the' 
present instance, since Lucy Wilmot, the ob- ' 
ject of William Marshall's passion, was his ' 
next neighbour, the brook of which we have ' 
made honourable mention being the sole bar- 1 
rierby which her father's meadows were divi-l 
ded from the garden and orchard of the school. 

A more beautiful boundary was never seen 
than that clear babbling stream, which went! 
wandering in and out, at " its own sweet will," j 
with such infinite variety of margin; now' 
fringed with alders, now tufted with hawthorn; 



* Vide " The Monastery.'' 

t " A scliolar, sir I [ was a mastor of scholai's." ■ 
Lingo, in the Agreeable Surprise. 



586 



EXTRACTS FROM FINDEN'S TABLEAUX. 



and hazel, now rising into a steep bank crowned 
by a giant oak flinging its broad arms across 
tlie waters, the reflection of its rich indented 
foliage broken by the frequent dropping of a 
smooth acorn from its dimpled cup; now slop- 
ing gently down into a verdant bay enamelled 
with flowers of all hues, the intensely blue 
forget-me-not half hidden under the light yel- 
low clusters of the cross-leaved bedstraw, 
while the purple spikes of the willow-herb 
waved amidst the golden chalices of the loose- 
strife, and large patches of the feathery mea- 
dow-sweet, the heliotrope of the fields, spread 
its alinond-like fragrance and its pale and fea- 
thery beauty to the very centre of the stream, 
overhanging the snowy blossoms of the water- 
lily as they rose from their deep-green leaves, 
and mingling with the most remarkable of the 
man)'^ sedges that border our English streams, 
whose flowers placed so regularly on either 
side of their tall stalks, resemble balls of ebony 
thickly set with ivory spikes. Certainly, of 
all possible methods of dividing or uniting 
persons and property, this bright and cheerful 
stream seemed the most propitious to social 
intercourse, as William and Lucy found by 
experience. 

The green in front of the school-house formed 
a commodious natural play-ground for the child- 
ren, sufilciently near for safety, and yet wide 
enough for all iheir sports, the noble game of 
cricket inchuled; so that those sharp little 
eyes which love so dearly to pry into the 
weaknesses of their elders, especially when 
those elders assume the double relation of ex- 
ample and preceptor, were, during the intervals 
of tuition, hnp])ily engaged elsewhere ; and 
really nobody, except perhaps a lover, would 
believe how attentive William Marshall be- 
came to the cow wliich was tethered in the 
orchard, how punctual in culling himself all 
the fruit and vegetables needed from the gar- 
den, how assiduous, above all, in watering his 
mother's little flower-plot sloping down to the 
stream; whilst on her part it was at least 
equally remarkai)le how often Lucy Wilmot 
found cause to fill her pail at the brook, or to 
feed the ducks, geese, chickens, and turkeys, 
which she had dislodged from their old home, 
the farm-yard, to establish by the water-side. 
Never were poultry so zealously looked after. 
It happened to he a dry summer; and it stands 
upon record at the 13rook Farm that Lucy vol- 
unteered to fetch all the water wanted for do- 
mestic use by the whole fmiily. ''To be 
sure," as her sisters would laugliingly observe, 
"they had sometimes to wait fir it, es])ecially 
if it were towards dinner time, or before break- 
fast, or al'ter school broke up." And then 
Lucy would bluxh, and declare that she would 
never go near the place again ; and then, by 
way of keeping lirr word, she would take up 
her little basket of barley, and run across the 
meadow to teed her chickens. 

Halcyon days were these. What a charm- , 



ing spot for a rural flirtation was that mirror- 
like stream ! What tender words floated across 
it! What smiles and blushes looked brightly 
down into the bright waters ! And of how 
many of the small gifts, the graceful homages 
in which love delights, was that clear brook 
the witness ! From the earliest violet to the 
latest rose, from the first blushing cherry to 
the Katherine pear, rich and ruddy as Lucy's 
own round healthful cheek, not an offering 
escaped the assiduity of the devoted lover. 
Halcyon days were these to our friend Wil- 
liam, when an affliction befel him in the very 
scene of his happiness — a shadow fell across 
the sunshine of his love, so hideous and gloomy 
as to darken his whole future prospects, to 
sadden and embitter his very life. Like many 
other swift and sudden poisons, nothing could 
be more innocent in appearance than this im- 
plement of mischief, which wore the quiet and 
unoffending form of an unopened letter. 

Hovering one day by the side of the stream, 
waiting with a basket of filberts, " brown as 
the squirrel whose teeth crack them," as Flet- 
cher has it — filberts firm, juicy, and fragrant, 
the first of the season — waiting until the close 
of evening should bring his Lucy to tend the 
poultry under the great oak — he saw a letter 
on the grass, and springing from bank to bank 
on a spot a little higher up, where the brook 
was sufficiently narrow to admit of this sort of 
lover's leap, be stooped for tiie paper, suspect- 
ing, sooth to say, that it might be some billet- 
doux of his own, with the design of returning 
it to the fair owner. His it was not. On the 
contrary, the epistle was sealed with a pretty 
device of doves drinking from the same shal- 
low bowl — an imitation of the exquisite doves 
of the Vatican — which he himself had given to 
Lucy, his first pledge of love, and directed in 
her well-known hand to 

Mr. WiLLATTS, 

at the Red Boot, 

Bristol Street, 

Be/fvrd. 

W'ell did W'illiam Marshall know this Mr. 
W'illats ! Well did he know and heartily did 
he despise this dandy of the Red Boot, who — 
slim, civil, and simpering, all rings and chains, 
smirks and grimaces, curls and essences — 
skipped about in his second-hand coxcombry, 
as if the vending of earthly boots and shoes 
were too gross for so ethereal a personage, and 
glass-slipper maker to Cinderella were his fit- 
ting designation! W'illiam always had dis- 
liked him, in virtue of the strong antipathy 
which opposite holds to opposite; and now to 
see a letter to him directed by Lucy, — his 
Lucy, — sealed too with that seal ! "But she 
would explain it! of course she would ! she 
must, she should explain what motive she 
could have for writing to such a creature as 
that, after confessing her love for him, after all 
had been arranged between her father and him- 



THE VILLAGE AMANUENSIS, 



587 



self, and everything was prepared for their 
marriage before the ensuing Christmas. He 
had a right to demand an explanation, and 
ought not to be content with anything short of 
the most ample and satisfactory account of the 
whole matter." 

Just as he had worked himself up to the 
very climax of angry suspicion, his fair mis- 
tress, with her eyes cast down ujjon the grass, 
evidently in searcli of the lost letter, advanced 
slowly towards the spot. She started when 
she saw iiim, and when he presented the epistle, 
with a greeting in the true spirit of the above 
soliloquy, in which a stern and peremptory 
demand for explanation was mingled vvitli an 
ironical and contemptuous congratulation upon 
the correspondent whom she had chosen, her 
answer, between confusion at the discovery, 
indignation at the jealousy so openly avowed, 
and astonishment at the high tone taken by 
one who had hitherto shown nothing but the 
gentlest tenderness, displayed so much dis- 
pleasure, vexation, and embarrassment, that 
the dialogue grew rapidly into a quarrel, and 
ended in a formal separation between the lovers. 
Each party returned home angry and grieved. 
William most angry, if we may judge from 
his sending the unlucky filberts, basket and 
all, floating down the stream ; Lucy most 
grieved, if the crumpled letter and defaced ad- 
dress, so nearly washed out by her tears that 
it required all the skill and experience of the 
Belford postmaster to decipher the legend, may 
be accepted as evidence. 

In spile, however, of this token of her fond 
relenting, the first tidings that William Mar- 
shall heard of Lucy were that she had gone on 
a visit to her god-mother twenty miles oflT. 
William, on his part, staid at home instructing 
his pupils as well as he could. In spite of 
lovers' quarrels the work of tlie world goes on. 
To be sure the poor boys wondered why their 
master, usually so even-tempered, was so dif- 
ficult to satisfy ; and his fond mother could not 
comprehend why, when she spoke to him, her 
son, always so mindful of his only remaining 
parent, answered at cross purposes. But 
William, although a lover, was a strong- 
minded man; and before a week had elapsed 
he had discovered his own infirmity, and had 
determined to correct it. Accordingly he 
opened his desk, took out the map of an estate 
whicii he had just finished measuring before 
the unlucky adventure of the hero of the Red 
Boot, and having compared his own mensura- 
tion of the ditferent fields with the estimated 
extent, and completed tlie necessary calcula- 
tion.=!, had just relapsed into a reverie when the 
interruption occurred which formed the com- 
mencement of our liitle story. 

Tap ! tdp ! tap ! sounded once again, and 
this time a little impatiently. Tap ! tap ! tap ! 

" Ah, my good cousin Kate !" said William, 
at last admitting tlie poor damsel, who had 
waited this unmerciful while at the door, of 



which detention our lover had, one hardly 
knows how, a glimmering consciousness ; " I 
hope you have not been long detained ! Why 
did not you knock louder? Do you want my 
mother ? No ; or you would not have come to 
the door of my little room. You want me, 
Kate, I see. So tell me at once what 1 can do 
for you." 

And smiling, blushing, hesitating, Kate con- 
fessed "that she did want her cousin William; 
that she had a letter — " (William started and 
winced at the very sound) "a letter to write; 
and she was such a poor scholar, and the friend 
who used to write her letters was away ; so 
she had come to trouble cousin William." 

" No trouble at all, dear Kate !" replied 
William, recovering from his confusion, and 
too much occupied with the recollections 
awakened by the very name of a letter to ob- 
serve the embarrassment of his pretty visiter; 
" no trouble at all. Here is my paper ready. 
Now begin. Is it to your brother in London T' 

"Oh no!" replied the blushing damsel; 
"not to my brother; to a friend." 

"Very well !" said William. "The days 
draw in so fast that it will soon be dark. Be- 
gin, dear Kate !" 

And after a little hesitation, and playing 
with a folded letter that she held in her hand, 
Kate, in a very low, hesitating voice, began to 
dictate : " Dear Francis — " 

"Dear Frances," echoed her amanuensis, 
unsuspectingly, in a still lower tone ; then 
pausing, and looking up as expecting her to 
proceed. 

" Stop !" said Kate ; " only that it is wrong 
to (rive you the trouble to begin again — but 
that sounds so formal !" 

" I think it does," replied William, dashing 
his pen rapidly through the words ; " and the 
abbreviation is so pretty too. There," con- 
tinued he; " Dear Fanny ! that sounds as well 
again !" 

" Fanny !" exclaimed Kate, half laughing 
in the midst of her blushes. " Fanny, indeed ! 
Why cousin William !" 

And cousin William, awaking immediately 
to the perception of the true state of the case, 
dashed out the second beginning as rapidly as 
he had done the first, and laughing with a very 
good grace at his own stupidity, wrote this 
time in full assurance of being right, — 

" Dear Frank !" 

" Fanny, forsooth !" repeated Kate, still 
laughing. 

" Well, but Kate, remember that I had never 
heard of this friend of yours. To be sure, it 
was very, very stupid. But now shall we 
<ro on with the letter] or may I ask who this 
Frank " 

" Fanny," interposed Kate, archly. 

"Well! who this Francis is] Does my 
good aunt know, dear Kate] or " 

" Oh yes, dear William ! mother knows, and 
f\ither knows, and both like him so much ! It 



588 



EXTRACTS FROM FINDEN'S TABLEAUX. 



has been kept, a secret till now, because his 
friends are so much better to do in the world 
than mine; for he is a tradesman, William, 
going into partnership with his late master; 
they are so much richer and grander than fa- 
ther, that we thought they might not like their 
eldest son to marry a poor working-girl. But 
he said they would only look to good charac- 
ter, and so they say in this letter, and they 
have consented ; and he told them, how you, 
my own cousiti, had got on by your good con- 
duct, yVilliam, and how proud he was of know- 
ing jrou " 

" I know him, then !" interrupted William, 
with pleased curiosity. 

" Yes, to be sure ! Don't you remember 
our all drinking tea together at Farmer Wil- 
latt's last Sunday was three weeks'? Lucy 
knew it all along." 

"Frank! Frank Willatts ]" inquired Wil- 
liam eagerly. " W^as it for you, then, that 
Lucy wrote that letter T' 

"To be sure she did. And were you jeal- 
ous of her, William ] And was that why she 
went away ] Oh, William ! William ! to be 
jealous of dear, good Lucy, because she kept 
my secret! Oh! cousin William !" 

But William was too happy to be very peni- 
tent, and Kate was too pleased and loo busy 
to dilate upon his offences. She had her letter 
to dictate, and, with a little help from her will- 
ing amanuensis, a very pretty letter it was ; 
and so completely in charity with all the world, 
especially with the Frai.ks of the world, was 
this amanuensis, that, before he had finished 
Kate's epistle, he had written himself into such 
feelings of good-will towards hercorrespondent 
as to add a m.ost friendly and cousinly post- 
script on his own account. 

What were the contents nf the far more ar- 
dent and eloquent letter wliich William Mar- 
shall afterwards wrote, and whether he did or 
did not obtain his mistress's pardon for his 
jealousy, and its fruits, we leave to the imagi- 
nation of our fiir readers. We, for our part, 
knowing the clemency of the sex, incline to 
think that he did. 



HOP GATHERING. 

T DO not know whether in the list of organs 
which figure upon the skull-maps in the sys- 
tem of Doctors (iail and Spurzheim, there be 
any which being translated (for of a verity the 
languaffe of phrenology needs translation) 
would indicate a fondness for animals. Most 
assuredly, if no such i)ropensity be therein 
marked, it is an important omission, and should 
be supplied forthwith; for that such an indica- 
tion does exist most strongly in numberless 
individuals of both sexes, and is often devel- 



oped under the most extraordinary disadvan- 
tages, is as certain and far more frequent than 
the powers of music and painting, in language, 
and in calculation, the Mozarts, the Correggios, 
the admirable Crichtons, and American boys, 
those wonders of learning, of science, and of 
art, whose lives crowd our biographical dic- 
tionaries, and whose heads (as handed down 
in books and portraits) form the triumph of the 
phrenologist. Separate from the fondness for 
animals generally, and more elistinctive and 
engrossing perhaps than any other species of 
that very engrossing propensity, is the passion 
for birds. Boys are liable to it as a class ; 
and so they sa}' is that particular order of sin- 
gle women ungallantly termed old maids. It 
prevails a good deal in certain callings, chiefly 
among sedentary artisans, such as tailors, 
shoemakers, and hair-dressers in provincial 
towns. A barber in Belford Regis is amongst 
the most eminent fanciers of the profession, 
and wins all the prizes at canary-shows for 
twenty miles round. Also the taste is apt to 
run in families, descending from father to son 
through many generations. Ours, for in- 
stance, happens to be so distinguished. My 
grandfather had an extensive aviary, and was 
a celebrated breeder of the whole tribe of song- 
birds ; and his brother, my grand-uncle, is even 
now remembered as the first importer of the 
nightingale into Northumberland. He had 
two in cages which he kept for several years, 
to the unspeakable delight of the neighbour- 
hood, who used to crowd round his hospitable 
door to listen to their matchless note — one of 
the few celebrated things in the world which 
thoroughly deserves its reputation. My dear 
father is no deoenerate descendant of his bird- 
loving progenitors. Itwasbutthe othernight 
that he was telling me under what circumstan- 
ces he first went to the play. W^hen a little 
boy at a preparatory school at Hexham, a 
strolling company visited the town, and being 
about to get up 'The Padlock,' recommended, 
I suppose, by the fewness of the characters, 
and in great distress for a bullfinch, a property 
essential to Leonora's song, — 

" Say, little, foolish, fluttering thing, • 
Whither, ah ! whither would you wing 
Your airy flight !" 

the manager, having heard that he possessed 
a tame bullfinch, came to him to reqtiest the 
loan, which he granted with characteristic 
good-htimour, and received in return from the 
grateful manager a free admittance for the sea- 
son. Fancy the pride and delight of the boy 
in seeing his favourite figtiring upon thestage, 
and hearing the applause of the audience as ho 
perched upon the ])rima donna's finger! This 
must have been cf)nsiderabl}' above seventy 
years ago; and (l"or in this respect as well as 
in his general kindness, ' the boy was father 
to the man,') the fancy has remained ever since 
in full force and constant exercise. There is 



HOP GATHERING. 



589 



scarcely any sort of bird thai comes within the 
compass of moderate means which he has not 
possessed at one period or another. Once 
during the twenty years that we lived in a 
large country-house, with its spacious lawn, 
its extensive paddock, and noble piece of wa- 
ter, he assembled a great quantity of domestic 
game, if such a phrase be admissible; pretty 
speckled partridges — too pretty to be eaten ; 
pheasants of all varieties, from the splendid 
English bird to its eastern rivals, the golden 
and the silver ; and a large assortment of wa- 
ter-fowl, from the queenly swan down to the 
trim little Dutch teal. ' King Charles himself 
never had a more extensive collection, or took 
greater delight in tending and cherishing his 
feathered subjects. But these half-civilized 
savages proved attractive to two orders of mis- 
creants, — poachers pursued them by day, and 
thieves by night; and, dead or alive, shot or 
stolen, the domesticated partridges and tame 
wild ducks gradually disappeared. To them 
succeeded all manner of curious poultry — pea- 
cocks, pied and white ; together with that 
commoner but most gorgeous kind, whoflaunts 
his starry train over the grass, and whose 
graceful vanity so becomes his stately beauty, 
adorned our farm-yard, accompanied by Mus- 
covy ducks, Poland fowls, Friezland hares, 
crested bantams, and so forth. Then followed 
pigeons of all denominations — fantails, pouters, 
carriers, nuns, and dragons crowded, our dove- 
cote. But somehow or other our ill-luck con- 
tinued. The poultry had a trick of dying, and 
the pigeons flew away ; so that my father re- 
solved to confine himself to the aviary, and 
took to breeding canaries, and had the honour 
of carrying away the prize for three birds of 
the three orthodox kinds, jonque, pied, and 
mealy, from nearly two hundred competitors. 
Long, too long would it be to tell of all the 
smaller songsters, the larks, linnets, thrushes, 
and blackbirds, the bullfinches, goldfinches, 
and ' all the finches of the grove,' as well as 
of the owls, hawks, crows, and ravens, the 
birds of day and the birds of night, Avhich have 
at different times occupied his attention. Suf- 
fice it to say, that in the month of August last 
our feathered family consisted of two nightin- 
gales, one of which had been in our possession 
for sixteen months, singing all day (for in a 
cage the nightingale only sings during day- 
light) with matchless strength and power, 
from the first of October to the last of June; a 
piping bullfinch, a linnet, two starlings, and 
the magpie whose adventures and accomplish- 
ments form the subject of this true history. 
Amongst our infinite variety of feathered bi- 
peds, the class which in default of a hotter 
name I shall take leave to denominate talking- 
birds, had been upon the whole the most dis- 
tinguished. Even I, who, partly on account 
of the tragical termination of many of our pets, 
])artly because I so dearly love freedom and 
the greenwood, that all the hemp-seed and 

50 



groundsel in the world would never, I am very 
sure, reconcile me to a cage, do not so heartily 
sympathize in this taste of my dear father's as 
1 do in most of his other pursuits — even I, 
albeit no bird-fancier, could not help being oc- 
casionally diverted by the saucy, chattering 
jays, starlings, and jackdaws, wliich it was 
the especial delight of that saucy, chattering, 
diverting personage. Master Ben, our facto- 
tum, (groom, gardener, page, and jester,) to 
bring about the place. Pre-eminent over all 
other talking-birds, and unrivalled since ihe 
days of Vert-vert, was the magpie in question. 
He, for a wonder, was not of Ben's importing. 
Whence he came nobody knew, although the 
old molecatcher, who was also the parish sex- 
ton, and whom he followed for a whole hour 
in the twilight as he was setting his traps to 
catch an underground enemy that infested my 
pansy-beds, alternately shouting to him by his 
name of Peter Tomkins in one ear, and imi- 
tating the tolling of a bell in the other, insinu- 
ated to me, with a look of great horror, that 
' the fewer questions were asked upon that sub- 
ject the better; the creature was certainly no 
better than he should be. Nobody could tell 
for whom that bell would toll next.' And off 
shuffled poor Peter, fancying himself a doomed 
man. For certain, Mag's first appearance had 
been somewhat in character with the good 
sexton's suspicions. He had hopped down 
the walk and stopped opposite the glass-door 
of our garden-room, where we were sitting 
with several friends, and one amongst them 
happened to inquire the hour. ' What 's 
o'clock ■?' reiterated Mag, in a soft, slow, dis- 
tinct voice; ' Half-past four.' And upon con- 
sulting watches, and that very true time-teller, 
the sun, as he threw his beams upon the old 
dial, half-past four it was ; and everybody 
stared at the bird as he stood upon one leg, 
with his head a little on one side, looking very 
knowing and exceedingly ragged and dirty, as 
your tame magpie is apt to do. Everybody 
stared at the bird, and laughed, and said that 
it was a strange coincidence, as everybody 
does say upon such occasions. 

Mag's further proceedings were in keeping 
with this oracular entree. A saucy bird he 
was, and a mischievous; singing, whistling, 
sneezing, coughing, blowing his nose, laugh- 
ing, crying, knocking at doors, ringing of 
bells, thieving, and hiding with singular dex- 
terity. He caught up and repeated with re- 
markable facility all that was said, and really 
seemed as if he understood its purport. For 
instance, I one day said to him, ' Mag, if you 
bite my finger, I will never give you any more 
fruit or sugar.' And although I regularly did 
feed him every day with sugar and fruit, mine 
were the only fingers in the house that remained 
unbitten. He certainly, too, could apply names 
to their right owners. One of his great delights 
was to summon all the servants about him ; 
sometimes in his own soft, distinct tone ; some- 



590 



EXTRACTS FROM FINDEN'S TABLEAUX. 



times by imitating, with a wonderful clearness, 
my voice or his master's. ' Ben ! John ! Mar- 
tha ! Lucy ! Marianne !' And when he had got 
them all around him, 'Go,' he would say, 
'Go to ;' and when everybody was ex- 
pecting something as naughty as Vert-vert 
would have said, after his voyage in the coche 
d'eau had contaminated his manners, he would 
suddenly break into a laugh, and finish his sen- 
tence with 'Go to Jerusalem! Go to Jerusalem!' 
He never failed to call over this bead roll of 
names at least once a day, and if the wrong per- 
son answered, Lucy for Marianne, or Martha for 
Lucy, he would stamp his little foot, and scold, 
and storm, and refuse to be pacified until the 
offender begged pardon and asked him to begin 
his catalogue again. Sometimes he added the 
dogs to the list, and the greyhounds — a sim- 
ple, credulous, innocent race — readily an- 
swered to his call. Once, and but once, he 
took in Flush, a beautiful little brown cocking 
spaniel, a greater pet even than himself, and 
infinitely more sagacious. ' Flush !' said 
Mag, with an imitation of my voice that was 
even startling ; and Flush, who was looking 
forward to our evening walk, threw down his 
bone and ran to answer the summons. ' Flush !' 
repeated Mag, in the same tone, with a nod and 
a laugh ! Li my life I never saw such a mix- 
ture of shame and anger as my beautiful pet's 
large bright eyes exliibited. Mag tried the 
trick again. But it failed. The perfect good 
faith of the gentle and faithful little creature, 
who, neverdeceiving, could not suspect deceit, 
had enabled the knavish bird to cheat him 
once i but the imposition once detected, be- 
came, so far as Flush was concerned, altoge- 
ther powerless. 

Nevertheless, there was no resisting a cer- 
tain degree of liking for the poor bird, whose 
stock of drollery — for every day he came out 
with something fresh — really seemed inex- 
haustible. He had a cage, to which, being 
generally fed there, he frequently retired of his 
own free-will. One day, however, he was 
missing; that tongue of his was a thing to be 
missed, just as the near neighbours of a mill 
or a church-steeple would soon feel the absence 
of the clapper and the chimes. He had left 
the premises more than once before, and had 
led Ben and John a dance amongst all the 
trees and cottages of Aberleigh — appearing and 
disappearing — now on the ground and now on 
the house-top, and playing at bo-peep among 
the roofs and chimneys in a manner more pro- 
voking than words can tell ; so that Ben, after 
fairly lodging his new straw baton the branches 
of a pear-tree from the topmost bough of which 
Mag, swinging much at his ease, had thought 
fit to hail him with his usual ' How d'ye do. 
Master Ben ]' had fairly given up the chase in 
despair. Once, twice, thrice, had Mag eloped ; 
but then the tricksy spirit had never failed to 
make itself audible ; and even when, upon one 
occasion, he had absented himself for one en- 



tire night, he had taken care to re-appear in 
the morning at Ben's bedroom window with 
his usual tap, tap, tap, against the glass, and 
the grave business-like summons, — ' Past six 
o'clock, Ben! Time to get up!' — wherewith 
he was wont, as regularly as the clock struck, 
to awaken that trusty domestic. Only the 
Tuesday before, Mag had been absent for a 
longer period than common ; but, directed by j 
a singular noise of fierce and angry jabbering, 
something like the scolding of women in a : 
passion, he had been discovered in a field at [ 
the bottom of the garden, engaged in a furious 
disputation with two wild birds of his own 
species, earnestly defending a bare and dirty 
bone, his own property doubtless, from the in- 
cursions of these intruders. That Mag had 
fought with other weapons than his tongue, 
and been worsted — that he was very glad when 
our approach frightened away his opponents — 
was quite plain; but they being gone, he 
gladly followed us home in the opposite direc- 
tion, and had, up to this unfortunate Friday, 
(for it was upon this day of ill-luck that we 
missed our poor bird,) conducted himself with 
a degree of prudence and discretion that showed 
him to have taken warning by his contest and 
discomfiture. On that Friday, however, he 
was missing from noon to night ; the next 
morning dawned — six o'clock struck — but no 
magpie tapped at the window to call Ben; he 
was neither in the house nor the garden, on 
the trees or the chimneys. That the poor bird 
was lost seemed indisputable; and so strong 
was the general impression of his attachment 
to us, and of his sagacity, that we were pretty 
generally convinced that he must have been 
stolen. Who might be the thief was not so 
easy to determine. Aberleigh is situated upon 
a well-frequented road leading from one great 
town to another, and our cottage stands in the 
centre of the village street. Moreover, hold- 
ing a sort of middle station between the gentry, 
to whom we belong by birth, and habits, and 
old associations, and the country people, al- 
most our equals in fortune, who all resort to 
my dear father for advice and assistance in 
their little difficulties, there is scarcely a per- 
son within ten miles who does not occasionally 
pay a visit to our hvibitation. Then Ben's ac- 
quaintance ! gardeners, gamekeepers, cricket- 
ers, grooms ! Ben know'S the whole county ! 
And although itwould be rather too affronting 
to suspect one's friends and acquaintances of 
thievery, yet they amongst whom the magpie 
was deservedly popular, had of course con- 
tributed to diffuse his reputation. 

On that unlucky Friday, too, we had had 
even more visiters than common. Two or 
three sets of peoph^had come from London by 
railway; five or six neighbouring families had 
called ; the coursing-season was coming on, 
and two or three brace of greyhounds had been 
brought by their respective owners to be com- 
pared with our dogs ; a flower-show was ap- 



HOP GATHERING. 



■yii 



proaching, and half-a-dozen gardeners had 
been backward and forward amongst zinnias 
and dahlias; a cricket-mutch was pending, and 
the greater part of tlie two elevens had come 
to arrange the day and the iiour; one constable 
had arrived for orders to send otf an encamp- 
ment of gipsies, who had established them- 
selves in Woodcock-lane, and another had 
come for a warrant to take up a party of va- 
grants caught in the fact of poaching and sus- 
pected of sheep-stealing at Hinton-Down. 
Who was the thief was still a mystery ! But 
when day after day had passed over, and no 
tidings arrived of our bird, that he was stolen 
became the firm conviction of our whole 
family. Sorry, however, as we were for the 
merrry, saucy little creature, whose spirit of 
enjoyment and activity of intellect seemed so 
disproporiioned to his diminutive form and low 
rank in the scale of living beings, still the 
recollection began to wear away; and when, 
at the expiration of a week, we sallied forth to 
partake of a dejeuner in the beautiful grounds 
of Aberleigh Great House, our domestic cala- 
mity was, to say the truth, pretty nearly for- 
gotten. Never was a more delightful little 
party than assembled by the side of the clear 
brimming Loddon on a glorious afternoon, 
near the end of August. The day was so 
sultry that the tables vs'ere laid under some 
magnificent elms upon the lawn, forming, with 
Its adjuncts of picturesque architecture, of ex- 
quisite scener}", of lovely young women and 
thrice lovely children, a picture of gay and 
courtly elegance worthy of Watteau. The 
dejeuner, however, sumptuous and luxurious 
as it was, formed by no means the chief at- 
traction of the day. Under the long, lofty 
terrace, crowned with old firs and lime trees, 
which forms the boundary of Aberleigh Park, 
the Loddon, spreading for nearly a mile into 
an almost lake-like expanse, rivals the Thames 
in consequence, whilst it far surpasses it in 
beauty; and then, narrowing as it is spanned 
by the low arches of the bridge, glides along 
amongst quiet water-meadows with a pastoral 
seclusion and tranquillity which would have 
enchanted Izaak Walton. A row up this 
bright river was the express intention of the 
party ; and accordingly, the grand question of 
oars or sculls being decided, water bailed out, 
rowlocks and thowls examined, we set forth 
in three as pretty skiffs as may be seen be- 
tween Battersea and Putney Bridge ; ourselves 
as merry and happy a set of people as are often 
assembled in this work-a-day worW. 

Some were sailors — one especially, most 
worthy of that honoured name, which is the 
synonyme of all that is frank, and kind, and 
true-hearted in man ; and one who, by some 
mistake in destiny, is not really a sailor, but 
who possesses all the attributes and almost 
the skill — some were sailors, some were sol- 
diers, some gentlemen at large ; but the charm 
of the party was felt to be the freight of one 



of the boats, consisting of four lovely young 
women, singing like nightingales, and, as it 
seemed, from the same im])ulse of a full and 
joyous heart, who went backward and forward 
upon the water, spreading abroad melody, as 
the sun diffuses light, or the roses their per- 
fume. That craft was naturally looked to as 
the one from which we should derive most 
pleasure, but we hardly, on embarking, anti- 
cipated the kind of amusement which it was 
destined to afford. It so happened, that one 
of their rowers was accidentally detained, 
and another compelled to take the manage- 
ment of the boat containing the children, so 
that our pretty songstresses fell to the charge 
of one solitary boatman, who, taking care that 
no real harm should befall them, seemed to 
find some diversion in plunging them and him- 
self into small difficulties ; and, the rudder 
being unshipped, they, so to say, staggered 
about upon the water as if the boat were tipsy ; 
now running aground upon an island, now 
taking a snag, (to borrow a phrase current 
upon the Mississippi ;) now caught (by veil 
and bonnet) in the bushes upon one bank, now 
entangled in the sedges upon the other, until | 
the sirens of the Loddon, half-frightened and 
half-amused, mixed screams and squalls with 
the sweet strains of the Canadian boat-song, 1 
and shrieks of laughter with 'A boat, a boat] 
unto the ferry.' I 

After shooting the bridge, matters grew 
worse. They had sailed from harbour so lo.ng ' 
before our boat, that we had hitherto only 
looked and laughed at the strange tacks, vol- 
untary and involuntary, which their skiff had 
taken. But now, gallantly manned and ably 
steered, we shot ahead of them, drowning ' O 
Pescator dell' onde' by such a torrent of river 
wit as shall not be exceeded from Gravesend 
to Kew. At last, when, amid laughing and 
singing, and quiet enjoyment, the mists were 
rising in the meadows, and the moon looking 
down into that bright mirror, the still smooth 
stream., we took our fair damsels in tow, and 
prepared to return homeward. Looking up as 
we were about to shoot the centre arch of the 
bridge, I saw a strange vagabondizing gipsy 
sort of light cart, that looked as if it had never 
paid any duty, passing above it; and while 
our mermaids were singing, with a delightful 
unity of their young voices, 

" Oft in the stilly night, 

' Ere slumber's charm has " 

'bound me,' they would have added, but that 
charm was broken by a well-known voice from 
above, which pronounced with startling dis- 
tinctness, 'Go, go, go to Jerusalem !' Was 
it my magpie, or was it his wraith 1 Of course, j 
by night, a good mile from our landinir-place, 1 
and then a mile hack again to the bridge, all j 
search or inquiry was hopeless, I told the i 
story when T got home, and found the whole j 
village divided in opinion. Some thought with I 



592 



EXTRACTS FROM FINDEN'S TABLEAUX, 



rae that the gipsies had hold of him ; some 
with my father that he had been stolen by the 
more regular thieves; some thought that it was 
a trick ; some that it was a mistake ; and some 
held with Peter Tompkins that the magpie was 
no magpie after all, but an incarnation of the 
Evil One in black and white plumage. Again 
was poor IMag forgotten, as, one bright Sep- 
tember morning, we set forth towards Farn- 
ham, a pretty old-fashioned town, overlooked 
by the bishop's palace, with its stately trees 
and extensive park, and famous for its hop- 
gardens, and for Mr. Garth's geraniums, where 
in one small greenhouse he rivals in splendour, 
although not in extent, Mr. Foster's exquisite 
collection, and equals him in hospitality and 
kindness. It is something remarkable, I 
think, something pleasant as well as remark- 
able, and peculiar to our age and country, that 
two English gentlemen should surpass, by the 
mere effect of taste and skill, the efforts of the 
working gardeners, whose livelihood depends 
upon their flowers, with the strong stimulus of 
the desire of gain on the one hand, and the 
enormous resources of wealth as lavished in 
the green-houses of our great noblemen on the 
other. To raise a magnificeirf geranium is to 
increase and multiply beauty, and to strengthen 
and ditfuse the feeling of the beautiful in this 
work-a-day world. Art herself does little 
more. The road from Aberleigh to Farnham 
passes through very pretty and very interesting 
scenery. We leave Strathfieldsaye and Sil- 
chester, emblems of the present and the past, 
to the right; and Sir John Cope's magnificent 



old mansion of Bramshill, and the parsonage 
at Heckfield, where Mrs. TroUope passed her 
early days, to the left. Then we pass through 
a succession of wild woodland country, to the 
little town of Odiham ; plunging again into 
forest-like glades, until we cross a high, bar- 
ren, heathy ridge called the Hog's Back, the 
view from the top of which forms a superb and 
extensive panorama. Descending this long, 
steep, and lofty hill, we find ourselves once 
more amidst cultivation ; quaint old-fashioned 
villages, sunk deep in the valley, and patches 
of hop-gardens intersecting the fields. The 
hop-gatherers were busy in taking down and 
stripping the long poles, the English vintage ; 
and the vines hung like garlands in rich 
wreaths of leaves and flowers intertwined one 
with another, and diifusing around the bitter 
racy aroma of the fragrant plant, dear to the 
lovers of mighty ale. A pretty scene it was 
and a stirring. We stopped the carriage at 
the gate, to view it more closely, and listen 
to the gay jests and merriment of the many 
groups collected on the ground. There is 
something contagious in real, hearty mirth, 
and Ben, our driver, without knowing why, 
joined in the laugh. Apparently his peculiar 
laughter was recognised ; for in a moment we 
heard from the other side of the gate, ' Ben! 
how d'ye do, Ben ] Glad to see you, Master 
Ben ! Go to Jerusalem !' in Mag's most tri- 
umphant tones ; and this time we did not hear 
in vain. We recovered our bird ; and here he 
is at this moment, happiest, sauciest and most 
sagacious of magpies. 



;kd cy PRosa ajhks. 



MISS MITFORD'S POETICAL WORKS. 



FOSCARI, A TRAGEDY. 



PREFACE. 



The subject of the following Play is taken from a 
domestic tragedy in the history of Venice, and was 
suggested to the Authoress by an interesting narra- 
tive of that event in Dr. Moore's Travels. It is 
scarcely, perhaps, necessary to say here in prose, 
what the Prologue repeats in verse, that her piece 
was not only completed, but actually presented to 
Covent Garden Theatre, before the publication of 
Lord Byron's well-known drama : a fact which hap- 
pily exculpates her from any charge of a vain imita- 
tion of the great Poet, or of a still vainer rivalry. 



PROLOGUE. 



For riches famed of yore, and once as free 

As her own element, the bounding sea. 

Fair Venice now, fall'n from her " palmy state," 

Broods o'er her palace-city desolate; 

Each mart deserted, each Palladian hall 

Vacant and ruinous, proclaims her fall. 

Yet still one triumph of her ancient fame 

Gilds her decay, and lingers round her name ; 

'Tis that beneath the proud Venetian dome 

The Tragic Muse halh fixed her favourite home; 

'T is that her very name makes young hearts glow 

With deep remembrance of some glorious woe. 

There Shylock whetted his relentless knife ; 

There poor Othello won his murdered wife; 

There Pierre, stout traitor, the awed State defied ; 

There Jaffler loved, and Belvidera died. 

And there the immortal Bard, who all too soon 

Fell in the blaze of Fame's effulgent noon, 

Lamented Byron ! twice a tale halh told 

Of princely anguish in the days of old: 

How 'gainst the Senate Faliero fired 

With vengeful hate by their stern doom expired ; 

And his severer fate, condemned to try 

His guiltless son, the good Doge Foscari. 

That tale of woe, but with an humbler flight 

And weaker wing, our Authoress of to-night 

Hath brought before ye. Deem not of it worse 

That '.t is a theme made sacred by his verse. 

Ere his bold Tragedy burst into day. 

Her trembling hand had closed this woman's play. 

50* 



A different tra k she follows — Oh ! forgive 
Her errors ye, who bid the Drama live I 
To your indulgence she commends her cause. 
And hopes, yet dares not ask, your kind applause- 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 



Foscari, Doge of Venice. 
Francesco Foscari, his Son. 
•Count Erizzo, ) 
Count Zeno, > Venetian Senators. 

DONATO, J 

Cosmo, Donato's Son. 

Celso, a follower of Count Erizzo. 

Senators, Jailors, Officers, and Gentlemen. 

Ladies. 
Camilla, Donato's Daughter. 
Laura, his Niece. 



Scene — Venice. 



FOSCARI. 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. 

St. Mark's Place. 

Count Erizzo and Celso meeting Donate. 

Don. GooD-morrow, Count Erizzo, you are early. 
Are you bound to the Palace ? 

Eriz. Ay, Donato, 

The common destination ; but I go 
With an old friend. 

Don. What, Celso, thou turned courtier! 

Cel. I am a suitor to his Highness, Sir, 
With Count Erizzo's aid. 

Don. What is your suit ? 

Eriz. One of the procurators died last night; 
And honest Celso here would fain succeed 
To that good office. 

Don. None more capable. 

You will not fail. 

Eriz. Scarcely, I think; and yet 

I hardly know. The old Doge likes me not: 

593 



594 



FOSCARI. 



[Act I. 



There have been murm'irs in the senate, cousin, 
At these long wasting wars ; and he, I hear. 
Suspects me. 1 have doubts. From you, indeed. 
One word 

Don. It shall be said. Give me the paper. 

Yes, at one word from me — the Doge and I 
Are friends, old friends, the friends of forty years ; 
Besides we have a pair of hopeful sons. 
Friends from the cradle upwards. 

Eriz. And those friends 

May soon be brothers. Will not thy Camilla 
Be Foscari's bride, when his rough mistress War 
Shall loose him from her arms ? 

Don. Ay; he'll return 

Too soon, whene'er he comes, to steal away 
My age's darling. Yet is he a boy 
Full of high thoughts, a noble, princely boy, 
Kindly and generous; one that may deserve 

Even her. Well, give me this petition, Count. 

Look on the post as certain. [Exit. 

Cel. How can I 

Repay He's gone. Think'st thou he will succeed ? 

Eriz. I know not. Either way works well for us. 
If he succeed, then will our party gain 
A firmer foot in Venice ; if he fail. 
We gain Donato. 

Cel. Say'st thou so ? 

Eriz. I know him. 
He's of a temper kind, and quick, and warm ; 
A powerful partizan, but easily svvay'd 
By flattery or anger. Of such tools 
Are Faction's rank coiiposed, not officered. 
Celso, we'll have this Doge unbonneted. 
This Doge who wears his load of four-score years 
Easier than I my forty. He contemns 
Me and my brother nobles ; he may learn 
To know and fear our power. I tell you. Sir, 
These brows of mine do ache for that same bonnet. 
And ere this day be ei ded 

Cel. 'Tis, my Lord, 

A golden moment. The young Foscari 
Is safe with Sforza in the Milan wars. 

Eriz. Would I were sure of that! This is indeed 
The only moment. Celso, I have here. 
How intercepted boots not, letters from 
Both generals to the Senate. They have gained 
A signal victory; Brescia is Ireed ; 
And Sforza gives the unshared, unmingled praise 
To Foscari. We must unthrone the Doge 
Ere this news reach the city ; for the people 
Adore the E'oscari. Faugh! 1 am weary 
Of this good Doge, this venerable Doge, 
This popular Doge, this Doge who courts and wooes 
The noisy rabble, whilst the Senators 
He elbows from their seats. And for the son, 
With his hot valour and proud lack of pride — 
I hate them both. We must not lose an hour — 
The people must not hear — 

Cel. The Senate hates them. 

Eriz. Ay, but the Senate — 

Cel. Well, my Lord, the Senate — 

Eriz. Fy ! I am one of them ; I must not tell 
The secrets of the Council. Wo are not 
So stubborn as we seem ; the popular voice 



Finds there an echo; and besides, the Doge 
Hath friends. Here comes one. 

Enter Count Zeno. 

A foir morning to you, 
Count Zeno. I have scarcely seen you since 
Your lingering sickness. You look cheerily. 

Zeno. The air of this new day is sweet and fresh- 
ening. 
And breathes a health into the veins. I trust 
You need no renovating ; yet to step 
From a sick bed and a dark silent room 
Into the pure and balmy air of June, 
With the bright sun lighting so blue a sky. 
And sparkling on the waters all around. 
Full of the living noise of trade or mirth. 
Air, earth, and sea, all motion — it is like 
Returning from the tomb to this fair world 
Of life and sunshine ! Such delight is well 
Worth a sharp fever. 

Eriz. Nevertheless am I 

Content with your report. A homelier joy 
Suffices me. 

Zeno. You are the happier man. 

Are you for the palace 1 

Eriz. No. We wait a friend. 

Zeno. Then I must say good-morrow. I am some- 
what 
In haste to-day. 

Eriz. Good-morrow, Count. [Exit Zeno. 

That man 
Wears in his courtly smile the consciousness 
Of his high influence — the prime favourite he! 
Did you not see how graciously he stooped 
To me his equal, even as he had been 

Himself a prince — proud minion! Doge, beware! 

Beware I Look, look, Donato loo hath found 

A check ! See, how he chafes ! See ! 

Enter Donato. 

Don. Take thy paper ! 

I am refused. Good-morrow ! 

Eriz. Nay, come back. 

Can this be possible ? Refused I Donato 
Refused by Foscari! 

Don. I was a fijol 

To ask ; — a double fool to pin my faith 
Upon this Doge's ermine. 

Celso. I regret 
More than my failure the indignity 

Don. Forget it, Sir. How go these Milan wars? 

I say, Erizzo, could'st thou have believed 
The proudest he in V^enice would have dared 
To treat me with such scorn ? 

Eriz. What ! did he scorn thee ? 

Don. He chid me, schooled me, blamed my easy 
teinper. 
That lent an ear to every cunning tale, 
A voice to every false designing knave. 

Cel. Dared he! 

Don. And this to me! ^^'hy art thou not 
Amazed, Erizzo ? 

Eriz. No. It but confirms 

What I have heard and scarce believed. The Doge 



Scene II.] 



FOSCARI. 



595 



Is grown so old that he forgets his friends. 
Men say — it can't be true — and yet men say — 

Don. What? 

Eriz. That the Doge repents his son's betrothraent 
To thy Camilla. 

Don. He shall never wed her. 

Sir, if this Doge were king of all the earth, 
He might have found a higher, prouder title 
In father to Camilla ! They are free. 
Camilla's claims shall never interrupt 
What is his project ? 

Eriz. Our great enemy, 
The Duke of Milan, hath a young, fair daughter, 
And she, they say 

Don. Tush ! I have seen her, man! 

A dark-browed wench, a beetle-browed — no more 
To match with my Camilla than that Gondola 
With the Bucentaur ! — I will back, and tell him 
That Foscari is free. Mine own Camilla ! 
My prattling, pretty one ! I '11 back and tell him. 

Eriz. No ; rather come with me. What I have said 
Is hearsay or conjecture ; what is true 
Is the misgoveriiment, Ihe public wrongs 
Of this old Foscari, loo old to sway 
The power of Venice. This is not a place 
For such discourse. Come with me to my palace. 

Don. I thought he loved my daughter I 

Cel. Thou art sure. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 

An Apartment in the Ducal Palace. 

The Doge and Count Zeno. 

Zeno. Good-morrow to your Highness. 

Doge. Dearest Zeno, 

This is no common pleasure. Thou the latest 
Of our late revellers, whom the sun scarce sees 
Till half his course be run — 

Zeno. Oh ! good my Lord, 

I meet him often ere I go to bed. 
The bright reproachful tell-tale ! 

Doge. To see thee, 

But lately risen from a sharp sickness too, 
Afoot so early! There must be some cause. 
Some kind or pleasant cause — What brings thee, 
Count ? 

Zeno. This letter ! 

Doge. No petition for the post 

Vacant by poor Venoni's death ? 

Zeno. Oh ! no. 

Doge. I should have grieved within one little hour 
To say twice No to two dear friends. You met 
Donato ? 

Zeno. Yes, so chafed he saw me not. 
Your Highness knows his temper. 

Doge. And I fear 

Tried it too much. He asked of me that office 
For a known villain, an unusual compound 
Of ruffian and of knave, the follower 
Of his kinsman, Count Erizzo. 

Zeno. Then the Count 

Was wailing for Donato. T am grieved 
He should be so companioned. 



Doge. He flung from me 

Ere I could tell him that the post was given 
To Signer Loredano, a ripe scholar 
Pining in penury, at the pressing instance 
Of his own son. 

Zeno. Cosmo ! How like is that 

To his unwearied kindness. 

Doge. There is not, 

Unless I may except my Foscari, 
A youth in Venice who can vie in aught 
With Cosmo. 

Zeno. And they are as different 

As the bright sun and gentle moon, the sea 
In sparkling motion and the quiet land. 
The one a stirring, brave, and honest soldier, 
The other a pale student. 

Doge. Bless them both, 

Mynoble boys! They have always loved like brothers, 
And soon I hope my pretty sweet Camilla 
Will give them that dear title. 

Zeno. Have you had 

Tidings of Foscari lately ? 

Doge. Not lor long, 

Longer than common. 

Zeno. Last night at St. Mark's 

There was a rumour floating — none could trace 
Its source — of a great victory obtained 
By Foscari and Sforza. 

Doge. Heaven grant it! 

Sure we shall hear to-day, — Now, dearest Count, 
What is your will? You led the old man on 
To talk of his dear children, till in sooth 
He had forgotten the whole world. Now say 
What is that scroll ? 

Zeno. My lord — I almost fear — 

Dost thou believe in soothsayers? 

Doge. No !— Yes !— 

Not much. Why dost thou ask ? 

Zeno. Wilt thou not answer ? 

Doge. Count Zeno, thou art one to whom, being 
wise, 
A wise man may confess the cherished folly 
That lurks within his breast. But tell it not 
To fools, good Zeno. 

Zeno. Then thou dost believe ? 

Doge. I have some cause. What! didst thou never 
hear 
Of the old prediction that was verified 
When I became the Doge ? 

Zeno. An old prediction ! 

Doge. Some seventy years ago — it seems to me 
As fresh as yesterday — being then a lad 
No higher than my hand, idle as an heir. 
And all made up of gay and truant sports, 
I flew a kite, unmatched in shape or size. 
Over the river — we were at our house 
Upon the Brenta then ; it soared aloft. 
Driven by light vigorous breezes from the sea, 
Soared buoyantly, till the diminished toy 
Grew smaller than the falcon when she stoopa 
To dart upon her prey. I sent for cord. 
Servant on servant hurrying, till the kite 
Shrank to the size of a beetle : still I called 
For cord, and sent to summon father, mother. 



596 



FOSCARI. 



[Act I. 



I My little sisters, my old halting nurse, — 
! I would have had the whole world to survey 
Me and my wondrous kite. It still soared on, 
And I stood bending back in ecstasy, 
My eyes on that small point, clapping my hands, 
And shouting, and half envying it the flight 
That made it a companion of the stars, 
When close beside me a deep voice exclaimed— 
Ay, mount ! mount ! mount ! -I started back, and saw 
A tall and aged woman, one of the wild 
Peculiar people whom wild Hungary sends 
Roving through every land. She drew her cloak 
About her, turned her black eyes up to Heaven, 
And thus pursued: — Ay, like his fortunes, mount, 
The future Doge of Venice ! And before 
For very wonder any one could speak, 
She disappeared. 

Zeno. Strange ! Hast thou never seen 

That woman since ? 

Doge. I never saw her more. 

After a slight brief search, the wonder sank 
Into a jest. My mother for a while 
Called me her pretty Doge, her madcap Doge, 
And ran a thousand fondling changes through 
On that proud title ; and my sisters long 
Talked of the tall Hungarian. None believed 
But my old nurse. 

Zeno. And thou ? 

Doge. Long time in me 

The seeds of faith lay dormant ; till at last 
As youth's gay wildness sobered, and ambition 
Grew stronger in my soul, the prophecy 
Knocked at my thoughts, and I by fits believed 
That which I wished were true. Now for thy scroll ; — 
Whence comes it? 

Zeno. Even such an aged crone, 

So tall, so habited, stayed me last night 
At my own door, and with an earnest voice. 
Her shaking hand prest on my arm, imj)lored 
That, as I loved the good Doge Foscari, 
I would at his first waking give him this. 

Doge. She must be dead ! Full seventy years ago — 
And then her locks were grizzled I — She is dead. 
And what, at fourscore years, have I to do 
With iate or fortune! My long race is run. 

Zeno. Read it at least. 

Dnge. (reads.) " The ducal bonnet trembles on thy 
" brow, Doge of Venice, trembles — and will fall, though 
" the stars themselves show me not when. Grant the 
" first boon that shall be asked of thee to-morrow, or 
" before the next sun rises thy very heart shall bo rent 
" in twain." 

Grant the first boon ! Why, my good Signer Celso, 
This is too palpable. Grant the first boon ! 
Make thee the Procurator! Fy ! Fy! Fy ! 
Erizzo's talent hath forsaken him ; 
This cheat is shallow. They have heard the tale 
I told thee, and this paltry poor device — 
Off to the waves and winds! 

Zeiio. Yet hath the Count 

A parly in ttie state ; and for Donato, 
Kind, hasiy, generous and beloved, his power 
May vie with thine. 



Doge. But never will be used 

Against me, Zeno. I should hate myself 
Could I suspect Donato. Count, we'll go 
Together to the Senate. Thou shalt see 
The quick relenting of his sudden wrath, 
His graceful self-rebuke, his honest love. 

Zeno. I'll gladly be converted. 

Doge. Doubt him not. 

[ExeunU 

SCENE HI. 

An Apartment in the Donato Palace. 

Camilla and Laura. 

Cam. Laura, hast thou seen Cosmo ? 

Lau. Not to-day. 

Cam. Sure, he'll not cheat us of his early smiles. 
His gay good-morrow, that best joy of home 
When dear friends meet in morning cheerfulness. 

Lau. And such a cheerfulness ! and such a smile ! 
None are hke his. 

Cam. None ! Hast thou never seen 
The heaven of kindness that in Foscari's eyes 
Shines under those dark brows ? And Fm the sister 
Of that dear Cosmo, the selected bride 
Of that still dearer Foscari ! Oh, cousin, 
I am the blessedest creature that e'er trod 
This laughing earth! There is but only one 
Can hope to be so happy ; — thou, perchance, 
When Cosmo 

E7iter Cosmo. 

We were speaking of thee. 

Cos. Well, 

T trust, fair maids. My gentle lady Laura, 
Say yes to that. 

Cam. Feed not man's vanity ; 

Let not thy blushes answer. 

Cos. Sister mine, 

'T is thou art clothed in blushes. Why the daWTi 
Opening her ardent eyes, and shaking wide 
Her golden locks on the Adriatic wave. 
The bright Aurora, she is sad and pale 
And spiritless compared to thee. Hast thou 
Been Psyche's errand ? Or hath some fair vision 
Lapt thee in loveliness ? 

Cam. I think I dreamt 

Of heaven ; for I was in a place where care 
And fear and sorrow came not, sell-sustaiiied 
On wings such as the limner's cunning lends 
To the Seraphim, and singing like a bird 
From the deep gladness of a merry heart 
The whole night long. And when the morning came 
And I awakened in this work-day world. 
The spell was on me still ; and slill is on 
The buoyancy, the joy, the certain hope 
Of happine.ss. Brother, are there no news 
Of Foscari ? 

Cos. None certain. Yet is there 
A balminess of hope; and stirring rumours 
Come paltering round us, with a pleasant sound. 
Like the large dro|)s before a summer shower. 
They talk of Foscari and victory 

Cam. There hath then been a battle. Is he safe? 

Cos. As safe as I myself. 



Scene III.] 



FOSCARI. 



597 



Cam. Fy ! what a fool 

Am I to tremble so! And art thou sure ? 

Cos. There is no certainty, but such a hope 
As is her forerunner. Hath not my father 
Heard of this victory ? 

Lau. He hath been long 

Gone to the palace, and wished you to follow. 

Cos. Gladly. I have a good man's gratitude 
To pay to Ihe good Doge. I must away 
Or I shall miss the Senate. 

Cam. Thou wilt send 

The tidings, Cosmo ? 

Cos. Surely. 

Cam. Quickly ? 

Cos. Yes. 

Cam. Good tidings, Cosmo. 

Co.<!. Yes. My pretty cousin. 

Hast thou no charge to give ? 

Lau. Why bring this tale, 

Tliis happy tale thyself 

Ca7n. Ay, come thyself, 

Dear Cosmo, and farewell. [Exit Cosmo. 

Now, Laura mine. 
Let us to the high balcony. I need 
Fresh air and sun and sparkling sights and sounds 
To help sustain this happiness, this hope, 
Which weighs almost like fear. My dearest, come. 

[Exeunt. 



ACT IL 

SCENE L 

The Senate. 

Count Erizzo, Donaio, and Senators. 

Eriz. He rules us as a king — this Fosoari, 
An absolute king, haughty and imbecile 
As any Eastern sovereign ! He degrades 
The old Nobility, contemns the Senate, 
And cringes to the people — a mob courtier! 
A greedy swallower of popular praise! 

Sen. He hates the Nobles. 

Eriz. But this very day 

Did he refuse to my dear kinsman here 
A post, that he requested for a man 
Who long hath served the state. 

Sen. Refuse Donato ! 

Eriz. Even so. He is of the Senate, is the head 
Of an old povv-erful house, is rich, is noble. 
Is nobly loved. Are not these crimes enough 
To stir our Doge's wrath ? 

Don. No more of this ! 

Eriz. Then his misgovernment, his tedious wars, 
His waste of blood and treasure, that his son, 
That idol of the soldiery, may glut 
His lust of glorious battle I Senators, 
Why should we thus submit to what we hate? 
Why bow to whom we made ? The Doge is now 
Too old for his high office. Good my lords, 
Let us resume our power. Is there no brow 
In Venice that may bear this ducal crown 
Save one ? Will it not sit as gracefully 
On vigorous manhood's clustering curls? On thine, 
Donato? Or Pisani, upon thine? 



Or any man of us ? Lords, have ye changed 
Your purpose ? That the Doge may be deposed 
Is the fixed law of Venice. Are ye firm? 
This is the moment. 

Sen. He must be unthroned. 

Eriz. Then be it done to-day. 

id Sen. I '11 join thee, Count. 

3d Sen. And I. 

Eriz. Donato, thou wilt best propose 

Don. Oh no ! He hath been harsh but I have 

loved him 

We are old friends. 

Sen. Do it thyself, Erizzo. 

Don. But gently, reverently. 

Enter Doge, Count Zeno, and other Senators. 

Doge. My gracious lords, 

I greet ye well ! We are no truants. Sirs, 
This full assemblage honours our fair Venice, 

Honours her senators. Signor Donato 

Nay shun me not That post was promised to 

Thou wilt not hear ! I have too often borne 
With thy infirmity. Forget not. Sir, 
That thou 'rt my friend, or I must needs remember 
That I 'm thy prince. Now to our business, lords. 

Eriz. Are there no letters from the army ? 

Doge. None. 

But there is through the city a loud bruit 
Of victory. 

Eriz. In a well-ordered state 
There is no pause for rumour; certainty 
Outspeeds her lying rival. 

Doge. Think'st thou. Count, 

That my old heart is quiet in this pause ? 
Thou hast no boy in yonder battle-field. 
Or thou would'st know how thirstily the soul 
Of a father pants in his suspense for truth, 
One single drop of sweet or bitter truth. 

Enter Cosmo. 
Who's that? 

Sen. Cosmo Donato, please you. Sir. 

Doge. Oh, our young Secretary ! Sit by me, 
I had just missed thee, Cosmo. Was thy friend 
Content ? 

Cos. Oh never gratitude was clothed 
In such pure joy. I would your Highness saw 
The happiness you caused. 

Doge. Hush ! Count Erizzo, 

You were about to speak. 

Eriz. I w-as ; and yet 

I gladly would delay, gladly resign 
A painful duty. 

Doge. If it touch me. Sir, 

Speak. 

Eriz. Is there not, my lord, a law in Venice, 
That if the Doge, by sickness, grief, or age. 
Become incapable, he be removed ? 

Doge. There is. Say on. 

Eriz. What need I to say more . 

Know we not all the good Doge Fosoari 
Is turned of fourscore years ? Fitter for him 
To lay down the proud bonnet, which doth weigh 
So heavily on those white hairs, and pass 



598 



FOSCARI. 



[Act II. 



In calm serene repose the evening hours 

Of his unsullied life. So shall his sun, 

Setting in tranquil beauty, leave a train 

Of pure and cloudless light; so praised and loved 

Shall he sink down to rest. 

Doge. This is not all. 

On, on, my lord I 

Eriz. Fitter for us a man 

Who shall remember in this state of Venice 
There is another power great as himself. 
And greater than the people. Howsoe'er 
Thou hast the bearing, Doge, of a born prince, — 
To us, thy subjects, thou art but the head 
Of the Venetian nobles. Thy proud rank 
Was given by them, thy equals. Each great name 
That now surrounds thee halh in turn adorned 
Thy splendid office. Not a noble house 
But is a link in the resplendent chain 
Of old Venetian story. VVe are born 
Lords of the Adriatic ; not a name 
But hath been vowed her spouse. Think not such 

names 
Are common sounds ; they have a music in them, 
An odorous recollection, they are part 
Of the old glorious past. Their country knows 
And loves the lofty echo which gives back 
The memory of the buried great; and we 
Their sons — Oh our own names are watchwords to us 
That call to valour and to victory. 
To goodness and to freedom. This hast thou 
Forgotten. Every creeping artisan. 
Every hard-handed smoky slave is nearer 
To our great Doge than we : to them all smiles 
And princely graciousness — to us all frowns 
I And kingly pride. Fitter for us a Doge 
t Of a congenial spirit, to preside 
I Over our councils, and to guard and guide 
The Senate and the State. 

Zeno. Perhaps Erizzo 

Would deign to wear this care-encompass'd cro-wn ? 
Fy! Fy! 

Eriz. My voice is for Donato, Sir ! 

Cos. My father Doge of Venice ? Never ! Never! 
He will not, must not, shall not! All the world 
Would join in one reproach ; the very stones 
Of Venice would cry out ; and we, his children — 
Oh we should die of grief and shame! What, he 
Supplant his friend, his dearest friend ! Oh never! 
Father, thou wilt not? 

Sen. Silence ! 

Eriz. Signor Cosmo, 

Thou art not yet a Senator. 

Cos. My lords, 

I pray your pardon ; but if I had seen 
A venomed serpent coiling round his limbs 
And pressing him within its deadly clasp. 
Would ye have blamed the cry that Nature sent? — 
Thou wilt not be the Doge ? 

Don. Never ! 

Cos. My father. 

Forgive me that I feared. How could I fear! 
Forgive me. 

Doge. Noble boy ! — Hast thou said all ? 
That 1 am old, and that I love the people? 



Are these my crimes? Oh I arn doubly guilty! 

I love ihem all, even ye that love me not ! 

I cannot choose but love you, for ye are 

Venetians, quick, and proud, and spnrkling-eyed, 

Venetians brave and tree. Ye are the lords 

Of the bright sea-built city, beautiful 

As storied Athens ; or the gorgeous pride 

Of Rome, eternal Rome ; greater than kings 

Are ye, Venetian nobles — ye are free; 

And that is greatness and nobility, 

The source and end of power. That I have made 

Liberty common as the common air, 

The sun-light, or the rippling waves that wash 

Our walls; that every citizen hath been 

Free as a Senator; th^it I have ruled 

In our (iiir Venice, as a fether rules 

In his dear household, nothing intermitting 

Of needful discipline, but quenching tear 

In an indulgent kindness; these ye call 

My crimes. These are my boasts. V'es, I do love 

The honest artisans ; there 's not a face 

That smiles up at me with a kindly eye 

But sends a warmth into my heart, a glow 

Of buoyant yoiithfulness. Age doth not freeze 

Our human sympathies; the sap fails not. 

Although the trunk be rugged. Age can feel. 

And think, and act. Oh noble Senators, 

Ye do mistake my crime. I am too young ; 

I am not like to die; and they who wait 

Wax weary fur my seat. I do not dote, 

My Lord Erizzo ; Y'et — 

{Shouts without. 
Foscnri ! Foscari ! 

Doge. What mean those shouts ? 

Cos. Francesco Foscari ! 

There lives no other, whom a grateful people 
Would greet as with one heart. 

Enter Foscari. 

Zeno. My Lord Francesco ! 

Doge. My son, my very son ! Now I am young 
And great and happy ! Now I reign again. 
My noblest son ! 

Fos. Father! Why this is joy 

Deeper than victory! Dost feel my heart? 

Doge. Art thou unhurt? 

Fos. Untouched. I almost shame i 

To want one glorious scar. How well he is! 
What fire is in his eyes ! Cosmo, thou too ! — • 
But I have tidings that the Doge must hear 
Upon his throne. High tidings, gracious lords! 
My father, — take thy state. 

Eriz. {aside.) Lost! lost! All lost! 

Another hour and that most hated boy 
Had been most welcome! 

Fos. {to Cosmo.) Still as lovely, Cosmo? 

And still as true? 

Cos. Yes ! Yes ! 

Fos. Will not the Doge 

Assume the accustomed scat? 

Doge. My son, these lords, 

These Senators, these mighty ones of Venice 
Have li)und thy father old. Hadst thou returned 
Some half hour later, thou hadst seen the throne 



Scene I.] 



FOSCARI. 



599 



Filled by Donalo, or his cousin Count. 
Which hath thy voice, Francesco ? 

Fos. Thou not Doge ! 

Erizzo climb into thy honoured seat, 
Honoured by thee ! Or thou, Donato, thou 
Join with this false, ungrateful, heartless senate, 
This shadow and this mockery of wisdom, 
To cast aside the best and truest heart 
That ever made our Venice rich and proud 
And great and happy, to throw off thy Prince 
Like an old garment ! Shame ! Thou that didst call 
Thyself his friend ! Shame ! shame ! My dearest 

Cosmo, 
This was a grief to thee. Oh shame! shame! shame! 

Don. Rated again, and by a boy! I tell thee 
I would not be the Doge. 

Zeno. My Lord Francesco, 

Thy tidings. 

Fos. Take thy state, Doge Foscari. 

From thee did I receive my maiden sword. 
From thee rny high commission ; to none other 
Will I resign them. Senators of Venice! 
Ingrates! I bring ye victory and peace. 
Victorious peace ! Brescia is free, and Milan 
Sues at your feet for peace. Her haughty Duke 
Is Sforza's prisoner, — my prisoner. Doge, 
And Sforza weds his heir. 

Don. Ha ! 

Fos. (givine letters to the Doge.) Eight days hence 
He will be here. See what he writes, my lord. 
The Senate is amazed ; yet from the field 
We sent ye somewhat of this glorious tale. 

Eriz. Those letters reached not Venice. 

Fos. Count Erizzo, 

I met the messenger, and staid my horse 
To ask him of my fiither. He had stopt 
Short of the palace, but had safely given 
The packet to a Senator. Erizzo, 
Thou wast the man. Look at him, ye that ever 
Saw guilt ooze out in shame ! Nay, tremble not ; 
I pardon thee. There is no other vengeance 
For low dishonour. It would stain my sword 
To dip it in ihy blood. 

Eriz. My Lord Francesco, 
I yet may find a time 

Fos. I pardon thee. 

Doge. Sforza says here, this Brescian victory 
Was gained by thee. Zeno, read ihere^ust there. 

Fos. Here is the treaty, Doge, already signed 
By Milan, Sforza, and myself; add thou 
Thy venerable name. Doge Foscari. 
So — having crowned a lotig and glorious reign 
With glorious peace, let me, thy son, pluck off' 
This envied bonnet from thy honoured head. 
Wear it the worthiest ! Never will it clip 
Within its golden circlet such high thoughts, 
Such a brave love of freedom, such a warm 
And generous faith in man. Proud lords of Venice, 
Ye ne'er deserved him. My good sword, lie there! 
I am no more your general. Pass we forth 
Together, my dear father, private men — 
Rich in the only wealth the world can give, 
A spotless name. 

Doge. Richest in thee. Nay, Zeno! 



Zeno. Ye must not leave us, lords. Doge, if again 
We had to choose, our choice again would fall 
On Foscari. Is 't not so ? 

Eriz. {apart to a Sen.) Sail with the stream 

Foscari ! — I '11 find a time — 

Senators. Foscari ! Foscari ! 

Doge. One still is silent. 

Cos. Now, my father, now ! 

For thy fame's sake. 

Don. On Foscari. 

Cos. Thanks! Thanlis! 

Now dare I look upon that reverend face. 
And grasp this hand again. 

Fos. Did we not know thee ! 

Doge. Senators, countrymen, at your behest 
I wear once more the crown. 

Fos. Oh, no ! no ! no ! 

Bear not again that burthen. 

Doge. My Francesco, 

Take up thy sword again, thy knightly sword — 
I am too proud of thee !— thy stainless sword ! 
Now, good my lords, our fellow-citizens 
Must be made happy in this glorious tale. 
First to proclaim the peace; then, with meek hearts 
Lowlily, with a steadfast thankfulness 
Pour out our homage to the Lord of Peace 
In his own temple. This high duty o'er, 
I bid ye to the palace ; we must grace 
Our soldier with some revelry. Donato, 
Thou wilt be there, and Cosmo — will ye not ? 
And our Camilla, lady of the feast, 
And of the heart. Come to us, dear Donato. 

Eriz. (apart to Don.) Are all his taunts forgotten ? 

Don. No ! I cannot. 

Doge. Think better of it, Zeno ! — Follow soon, 
Francesco ! — Zeno, is this storm the end 
Of our dark prophecy ? 

[Ex. Doge, Zeno, and Sen. 

Fos. Signer Donato, 

I have a feeling here of deep old love 
That tells me I have wronged thee. If I have, 
Forgive me ! 

Cos. Father, can'st thou turn away 

When Foscari speaks those words which mortal ear 
Ne'er heard him utter ? 

Fos. If I did mistake, 

'T was in my father's cause ; 't was such a wrong 
As Cosmo would have done for thee. Forgive me. 
For her dear sake. 

Eriz. {to Don.) Remember, " Shame !" 

Don. Erizzo, 

Think'st thou I can forget! Not even for her. 
Stay me not, Cosmo. [Exit Donato. 

Cos. Go, for I can trust 

Thy kind heart, father ! Love, who is so strong 
In gentleness. Love and his bondsman Time 
Will conquer anger. We must now submit. 
To-morrow 

Fos. Oh ! what a long life of love 

Must I give up! To-morrow! lam here, 
Here in this happy Venice, which she makes 
The palace of her beauty, where the air 
Is sweetened by her breath, and her young voice 



600 



FOSCARI. 



[Act II. 



Floats on the breeze like music. I am here — 

Divided from her but by envious walls, 

Clouds that conceal my sun. Ilad'st thou but seen 

How I urged on my mettled courser's speed, 

My matchless Barbary horse, till his pure jet 

Was pounced with snowy flakes ; or how I strove 

To graft my hot impatience on the dull 

And sluggish boatmen: or with what a stroke 

I cleft the water: or how leapt ashore 

Cos. I can believe 't 

Fos. That r might sooner gain 
By one half hour her presence ! And to bear 
This longing till to-morrow ! Thou must say 
All this and more, much more, of love and hope 
And fond impatience. Tell her 

Cos. Thou thyself 

Shalt tell her these sweet things, mixed with a world 
Of lovers' eloquence, of looks and sighs. 
And broken words. Ay, Foscari, thou thyself! 

Fos. But how? Where? When? 

Cos. To-night. For one short hour 

Steal from the feast its hero. My good father, 
Who, like a bird, fore-runs the summer sun, 
Seeks his nest early. Thou may'st ask for me 
And find Camilla. 



Blessings on thee, friend ! 



Fos. 

Eriz. To-night! [Erit. 

Fos. We have a hearer. 

Cos. He is gone. 

Fos. Beware that smooth Erizzo, dearest Cosmo, 
Beware ! 

Cos. Nay, Foscari, let me caution thee 
Beware suspicion ! Think him innocent 
Till thou hast proved him guilty. Blackening doubt 
Beseems not thy clear breast. Sweep it away. 

Fos. Oh, how I love the beautiful mistakes 
Of thy unbounded charity! That man — 
Didst thou not see him whispering Donato ? 
We will not think of him. Doth my Camilla 
Talk of me often ? 

Cos. Yes. 

Fos. Oh, I was sure ! 

But it is such a joy to hear that yes ! 
Doth she (Shouts without.) 

Cos. Hark ! thou art called. The citizens 

Demand their General. Go! 

Fos. I'd rather face 

An enemy in battle. 

Cos. Thou wast wont 

To love the people, Foscari. 

Fos. I would drain 

The last drop in my veins for them and freedom ; 
But these loud shouts, this popular acclaim, 
This withering, perishing blast of vulgar praise, 
Whose noisy echoes do shake off the flush 
Of Fame's young blossoms — Oh, I hate them all ! 
True honour should be silent, spotless, bright, 
Enduring; trembling even at the breath 
That woos her beauty. 

Cos. Come. [Exeunt. 



SCENE n. 

A Room in the Erizzo Palace. 

Count Erizzo entering. 

Eriz. Seek Signer Celso. — Baffled, spurned, con- 
temned. 

Pardoned — the insolent ! But he shall feel 

All lost! For old Donato, shallow fool. 

Hath in his anger a relenting spirit, 

And will yield easy way. at the first tear 

The fair Camilla sheds — the very first! 

She has but to cry Father, and to hang 

About his neck, and his light wrath will melt 

Like snowflakes in that rain. How the dull Senate 

Cowered at the haughty soldier's feet ! Even I 

Thinks he I too can pardon ! He shall find 
My hate immortal. Nothing stands between 

Me and the crown but Foscari. To-night 

This Celso, as I have good cause to know. 
Can wield a dagger well— to-night he goes 
To meet his lady love — to-night — alone — 
I can detain yomig Cosmo. 

Enter Celso. 

Celso, friend, 
Thou comest at a wish. Where hast thou been ? 

Cel. Where I am stunned with shouts of Foscari, 
And dazzled with the glare of tinselled gauds 
Hung out to honour him. The palaces 
Are clothed with tissues, velvets, cloths of gold 
And richer tapestry. The canals all strewed 
With floating flowers, through which dark gondolas 
Dart as through some bright garden. All is last. 
And I must leave dear Venice. Count, liirewell! 

Eriz. Why must thou go ? 

Cel. Ask my hard creditors. 

Eriz. Celso, I have a thousand ducats here 
For him that rids me of a clinging plague. 

Cel. A thousand ducats ! 

Eriz. Hast thou still thy dagger? 

In, and I'll tell thee more. This very night ! 

[Exeunt. 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. 

An Apartment in the Donato Palace. 

Donato, Camilla, and Laura. 

Laura. Camilla, why so drooping? 

Cam. This hath been 

A long and weary day; there is a heat, 
A gloom, a heavy closeness. See, this rose 
Is withering too, that was so fresh and fair — 
The white musk-rose — that which he used to love. 

Laura. It was no day for Venice. 'T would have 
been 
A calm sweet stillness in our country home, 
Bowered amid green loaves and growing flowers, 
With fragrant airs about us, and soft light. 
And rustling birds. 

Don. The sky [wrtends a storm: 

To bed, Camilla ! 



Scene I.] 



FOSCARI. 



601 



Cam. Father ! dearest father, 
Have I displeased thee ? 

Don. No! To bed! To bed ! 

Laura, good night. [Exit. 

Cam. He used to call me child. 

His dearest child ; and when 1 grasped his hand 
Would hold me from him wilh a long fond gaze, 
And stroke my hair and kiss my brow, and bid 
Heaven bless his sweet Camilla! And to-night 
Nought but to bed ! to bed ! 

Laura. Believe it, cousin, 

A thing of accident. 

Cam. And Cosmo comes not ; 

He sends not to me — he that never broke 
His plighted word before ! And Laura! Laura! 
Foscari is in Venice, is returned 
Triumphant, and he comes not, sends not, Laura, 
And when I ask of him, my father frowns 
Sternly on his poor child. 

Re-enter Donato. 

Don. My pretty one, 

I could not go to rest till I had said 
Heaven bless thee ! 

Cam. My dear father ! 

Don. What is this ? 

A tear ? 

Cam. Oh ! gratitude, and love, and joy 
Are in that tear, dear father! — and one doubt — 
One fear — 

Don. Sweetest, good night ! 

Cam. Foscari, father? 

Don. To bed, my own Camilla! [Exit. 

Cam. Not a word. 

Lau. Something works in him deeply. 

Cam. Yet how kind, 

How exquisitely fond ! Cosmo must know, 
And, Laura, Cosmo never Hies from thee. 
And thou raay'st ask — 

Lau. I will, I will, sweet coz ! 

Look, dearest, at the glancing gondolas 
Shooting along, each with its little light. 
Like stars upon the water. Whither go they ? 

Cam. To the proud Ducal Palace, where they hold 
High feasting in his honour. There the dance. 
And the quaint masqtie, and music's softer strains 
Minister to his praises. 

Lau. And the ear 

That would drink in so eagerly that sweet praise. 
The heart that would leap up at every sound 
Rejoicing, the glad eyes — Would thou wert there ! 

Cam. Ah! would I were, since Foscari is there; 
That is enough for me ! Where'er he is. 
In tent or battle-field — Hark ! what is that? 
That music ? Oh 't is he ! 'tis Foscari ! 
Dost thou not know the strain, the wandering strain. 
Trembling and floating like a spirit's song, 
With many a — Hark again ! — 'Tis he! 'lis he! 
That air belongs to him even as a name; 
It thrills my very heart. Ami not pale ? 

Lau. No ; the bright blood floats trembling in thy 
cheek, 
Mostiike that wandering music. 



51 



Cam. 
In this excess of joy. 
Lau. 



There is pain 



He comes. 



Elder Foscari. 

Fos. Camilla ! 

Sweetest Camilla ! 

Cam. Thou art come at last, 

Francesco ! 

Fos. My Camilla — Come at last ! 

Why this is chiding! Can'st thou chide, Camilla? 

Lau. Ay, or she were no woman. 

Fos. Lady Laura! 

Forgive me that I saw you not. Camilla, 
Chide on — nay, thou art smiling — Come begin! 
I 'd rather hear thy chidings than the praise 
Of all the world beside. Let me but hear 
Thy voice, whate'er thou speakest. 

Cam. Dear Francesco, 

Thou hast been long away. 

Fos. Oh very long ! 

Cam. And where ? 

Fos. Away from thee. That is enough ; 

Where thou art not I keep no count of place. 
Nor time, nor speech, nor act. 

Cam. Yet tell me where. 

Fos. Where I have dreamt of courts and camps 
and fields 
Of glorious battle. A long weary dream 
To him, who loves to bask him in thy smiles, 
And live upon thy words. 

Cam. Yet hast thou lost 

Ten weary hours to-day. 

Fos. Why this, indeed, 

Is chiding, my Camilla. I have been • 
At the Palace, at the Senate hall, at Church, 
Have undergone a grand procession, love. 
And a long dreary feast. 

Cam. And is that all ? 

Fos. And is not that enough ? Would'st thou 
crowd in 
More tediousness? Oh thou unmerciful! 

Cam. But why not first — sure he is thinner, Laura, 
Thinner and paler ? 

Lau. Nay, he is the same. 

Cam. Why not first come to me ? 

Fos. Perhaps I love 

To visit my heart's treasure by that light 
When misers seek their buried hoards; to steal 
Upon the loved one, like a mermaid's song. 
Unseen and floating between sea and sky ; 
To creep upon her in love's loveliest hour. 
Not in her daylight beauty with the glare 
Of the bright sun around her, but thus pure 
And white and delicate, under the cool moon 
Or lamp of alabaster. Thus I love 
To think of thee, Camilla ; thus with flowers 
About thee and fresh air, and such a light. 
And such a stillness; thus I tlream of thee, 
Sleeping or waking. 

Cam. Dost thou dream of me ? 

Fos. Do I ! without that lovely mockery. 
That sweet unreal joy, how could I live 
When we are parted >. Do I dream of thee .' 



602 



FOSCARI. 



[Act in. 



Dearest, what ails thee ? Thou art not to-night 
As thou art wont, thine eyes avoid my gaze. 
Thy white hand trembles and turns cold in mine. 

What ails thee, dearest? Hast thou heard What 

fear 
Disturbs thee thus, Camilla ? 

Cwn. I will tell thee. 

Cosmo is absent ; my dear father grieved ; 
There is high feasting in thy princely home. 
And I not there ; and thou not here till now. 
At midnight, when my father sleeps, and Cosmo 
Is still away. Are ye all friends ? Say, Foscari, 
The very truth. 

Fos. Well ! Thou shalt hear the truth. 

Cheer thee! 'Tis nought to weep for. At the Senate 
There were to-day some hasty words. — Erizzo, 
Thy subtle kinsman, he was most to blame — 
1 was too hot, too rash; but I implored 
Donato's pardon, and am half forgiven ; 
Though yielding to the crafty Count, he shunned 
To sup with us to-night. 

Cam. Ah! I had feared — 

Fos. There is no cause for fear. This sudden storm 
Is but a July shower that sweeps away 
The o'erblown roses. Cosmo is our friend, 
Our truest warmest friend ; and viell thou know'st 
Thy father's kindly heart; he loves thee so; 
Ay, and he loves me too; and he shall love me 
Better than ever. 

Lau. He shall love! Lord Foscari, 

Thou 'rt a true soldier. Wilt thou conquer love ? 

Fon. Surely. 

Lau. And how ? 

Fos. By love, and gratitude, 

And deep respect, and true observance, Laura. 
Shake not fhy head, Camilla. He shall love me. 
What ! is he not thy father ? Smile on me. 
Think'st thou that if I feared to lose thee, I 
Should be thus tranquil ? [Exit, Laura. 

Cam. No. But at my heart 

There is a heavy sense of coming pain, 
A deep and sad foreboding. 

Fos. Thou hast been 

Vexed to-day, sweetest, and thy weary thoughts 
Tinge the bright future with the gloomy past. 

Cam. Well, be it so. And yet I would to heaven 
That this one night were over! — Where is I>aura? 

Fos. She glided off, with a kind parting smile, 
And a quick sparkle in her eye, that said 
Ye will not miss me ! 

Cam. Ay, her merry glance ; 

But we do miss her. "I'was a saucy thought, 
My pretty gentle Laura ! 

Fos. She is grown. 

Cam. Yes, tall and beautiful and rarely good. 

Oh 'tis the kindest heart! We think she'll make 

What is that noise ? 

Fos. Nothing. A distant door. 

What startles thee, Camilla? 

Cam. My own heart. 

Hark how it beats, painfully, fearfully ! 
Hush! hush! Again that noise ! 

Fo$. 'Tis thunder, love. 

And that hath stirred thy spirits. Cheer thee, dearest; 



[Exit. 



A soldier's wife should be as brave as steel. 
What didst thou say of Laura ? 

Cam. She will make 

A sweet wife for our Cosmo. 

Fos. And doth he 

Love the young beauty ? 

Cam. He hath scarce forgot 

To treat her as a child, the dearest child. 
The loveliest and the gentlest, — but a child. 

Francesco, thou must praise her Ha! again! 

That is no thunder-clap. My father's door 

Oh go ! go ! go ! 

Fos. My dear Camilla, no! 

Thou canst not fear me, I will be as calm, 
As humble 

Cam. Go! go! go! I die with fear; 

He is so rash, so sudden ! — He will kill thee I 

Fos. Here! under his own roof! In thy dear sight! 
Thy own dear father ! 

Cam. lie will part us, Fuscari! 

Go! 

Fos. Well, I go. But my Camilla 

Cam. Go! 

Fos. Dearest, farewell ! 

Ca7n. P'f ot that way !— That ! there ! there ! 

Leap from the window in the corridor, 
From the low balcony ! 

Fos. Farewell ! 

Cam. I 'm glad 

That he is gone. Fear hath so mastered me 
I stumble on the level floor. Thank heaven 
They are both safe, my dearest Foscari, 
My dearest father ! There 's no danger now ; 
And yet the night grows wilder. What a flash! 
And I have sent him forth into the storm, 
I, that so love him! I have sent him fi)rth 
Into this awful storm! Protect him, Heaven ! 
I thought I heard the window — Can those steps 
Be his? 

Don. {without.) Help! help! base traitor! Foseari! 
Murder! 

Enter Laura. 

Lau. What's that? 

Cam. Undo the door — I cannot — 

Undo the door! My father! [Exeunt. 

Lau. {behind the Kcnes.) Who hath done 
This horrible deed ? 

Cam. {behind the scenes.) My father! murder! mur- 
der! 

SCENE II. 
An illuminated Hall in the Ducal Palace. 
Doge, Count Zcno, Ladies and Gentlemen. 
Doge. Now for some stirring air to wake the spirits 
Of mirth and motion. Sweet ones, to the dance ! 
Where is this Foscari ? Gentles, in my youth 
He had been held a recreant that forsook 
The revel, and tli* light of ladies' eyes. 
And play of twinkling feet. Degenerate boy! 
Gent. Degenerate days! Ah! we could tell such 
tales 
Of the deep merriment, the gorgeous banquet. 



Scene II.] 



FOSCARI. 



603 



The high festivity of our old time! 
Thou niay'st smile, Zeiio, but his Highness knows 
Bright mirth is on the wane. Our puny sons 
Show but faint flashes pf their fathers' fire. 

Zeno. Helieve him not, fair maids! T is but the 
vaunt 
Of vaunting age. Believe him not. Why, Moro, 
Thy iather in those mirthful days hath said 
The same to thee, and his to him ; yet still 
'T is merry Venice. Forty years to come 
We, too, may boast us of our jovial prime, 
Nor yet the world grow sadder. Fear it not. 
His Highness will not join thee, Signor Moro; 
He is too youthful-hearted. 

Doge. What a bribe 

Is that to aid thy cause ! But Moro's right ; 
We were fine gallants. Niece, I pr'ythee see 
That all are welcomed. Where's thy sister, Melfi ? 

2d Gent. JNot yet returned from Rome. 

Doge. I would have had 

All ihe fair stars of Venice here to-night 
Shining in one bright galaxy. 

Genl. We miss 

Signor Donato's daughter. 

Doge. Ay, indeed, 

My pretty sweet Camilla! — Fair Oliva, 
Let Trevisano lead ihee to the dance. 
Were I one ten years younger, trust me. Sir, 
I'd not resign this hand. JNow a light measure. 

[A dance. 
Is't not a peerless nymph ? The youngest Grace 
Leading her linked sisters through the maze 
Of blossom'd myrtles u(ion Ida's side, 
Is not so light of foot. Rest thee, dear maid. 
What is that I Thunder l 

Zeno. Yes : a fearful storm. 

It rages awfully. Hark! there again ! 

Doge. Well ; we must keep such coil of merriment 
As shall outroar the rattling storm. 
Enter Foscari. 

Ah, truant ! 
How wilt thou make thy peace ? 

Fos. I read no war 

In these fair looks. 

Zeno. Peace is more perilous. 

Fos. Ay, truly, Zeno. 

Zeno. Whither hast thou been ? 

Watching her lattice but to catch a glimpse 
Of the swift slender shadow that glides past 
So gracefully, clouding the soft dim light ? 

Fos. Pooh! Pooh! 

Zeno. And with a true devotion bent 

Uncovered at her shrine? Why thou art wet! 
This is some new device of gallantry, 
Some trick of Milan courtship. 

Fos. Tush, man, tush ? 

Ho! a brisk measure! Drown with merry notes 
Count Zeno's merry riddles! Wilt thou dance 
With me, dear lady ? Do not say me No! 

Lad I/. Oh, no ! 

Fos. Why that should mean, Oh yes! 

Doge. Good niece, 

Will not the Lady Claudia join the dance ? 
Seek her. I'm young and light enough to-night 



To mingle there myself What ails the music ? 
Quicker ! Why break they off? Dear Zeno, ask. 

Fos. Murdered! Impossible! I only left — 
I am myself— It cannot be. Play on ! 
On with the dance ! 

Gent. Here is a man hath seen him, 

One who still shakes with fear. 

Fos. Bring him to me ! 

Where is he ? Where ? 

Doge. Zeno, what is this tale ? 

Zeno. A tale of horror ! 

Enter Erhzo. 

Eriz. Justice, Doge of Venice ! 

A Senator lies reeking in his blood. 
Murdered in his own palace. Justice, Doge ! 

Fos. What Senator? 

Eriz. Canst thou ask that ? Donate. 

Doge. Donato murdered! the beloved Donato! 
The second name of Venice ! Mine old friend ! 
Lords, to the council. This is not a tale 
For woman's gentleness. Good night to all. 

[Exeunt Ijadies, and some Gentlemen. 
Would he had ta'en my hand ! 

Fos. He is not dead — 

It must be false, it shall be ! 

Eriz. What ! dost thou 

Doubt of Donato's death ? Thou ? 

Fos. Hearken, Doge ! 

His voice hath mockery in it, sharp and loud 
As the clear ring of metals: he speaks not 
As we, who heard the tale, in broken words 
And breathless ; his teeth chatter not ; his lips 
Are firm; there is no trembling in his limbs. 
No glare in his keen eyes. None but a fiend, 
Fresh from the reek of murder, could so master 
The human sympathy, the fellowship 
Of Nature and of kind. 

Doge. Yet wherefore — 

Enter Cosmo. 

Cos. Justice ! 

Fos. Beloved friend ! 

Cos. Off! Off! I come for justice. 

For equal justice! 

Doge. Thou shalt have it. 

Cos. Doge ! 

For equal justice ! 

Doge. Was he not my friend ? 

Am I not thine ? 

Cos. Ay — so the murderer said ! — 

Friend ! the word chokes me. 

Fos. Grief hath turned his brain. 

Doge. Thou shalt have justice. 

Cos. 'T is no midnight thief, 

No hired assassin, no poor petty villain ; — 
This is a fall as of .a morning star, 
A death such as the first great slayer saw 
When Abel lay at his feet, — but I'll have justice ! 
There be hearts here will crack, old valiant hearts. 
When they shall hear this tale, — but I'll have justice! 

Doge. Go some one call the guard. [Exit Enzzo. 
Name the assa-ssin. 

Cos. Have I not ? Whither doth he fly ! 



604 



FOSCARI. 



[Act III. 



Camilla ! 



Fos. 
My poor Camilla! 

Cos. Thine! And ihe earth hears him 

And opens not her womb! The heavens hear 
And lanch no thunderbolts! This work is mine. 

Hold firm my heart. Cousin! Erizzo! 

Enter Erizzo and Guard. 

Enz. Seize 

Francesco Foscari. Nay, stand not thus 
Gazing on one another. Seize him. Doge, 
He is the murderer. 

Doge. Away with thee, 

Traitor and slanderer! He is my son 

Stir not a man of ye! — My son, the idol 
Of city and of camp. His life hath been 
One blaze of honour. Come to my old arms, — 
Speak not a word — thy name is pledge enough, 
My son ! 

Eriz. Ye know your duty. Seize him, soldiers. 

Fos. Approach me at your peril. Know you not 
This very morning how yon serpent lay 
Under my heel unbruised, a thing of scorn ? 
Look not upon us, lords, with doubting eyes, 
Ye dare not doubt me — even to deny 
Is in some sort a stain ! — My shield is bright. 
Ye force me to these vaunts! I could not think 
A crime. 

Eriz. Bear hence the murderer. (Aside.) Palsies 
wither 
The cowardly arm and plotting brain that feared 
To strike him dead at once! (Aloud.) Seize him, Isay. 

Fos. Now he that dares! 

Cos. Francesco Foscari, 

I do arrest thee for this murder. 

Fos. Thou ! 

Come forth into the light! Off with those plumes! 
Look at me ! Is this Cosmo ? lialh some fiend 
Put on that shape ? Speak to me ! 

Cos. Murderer! 

Fos. To-day he called me brother! — Deal with me 
Even as ye will. 

Eriz. Look to him, soldiers, well. 

That he escape not. 

Fos. Sir, the Foscari 

Know not what that word means. I wait your pleasure. 

Cos. Doge ! Doth he hear me ? Once I could have 
wept 
For such a grief, for him ; now I am steeled 
By merciless misery, made pitiless- 
By one that hath no pity. Look! he stands 
With such a calm of virtue on his brow, 
As if he would outface the all-seeing God 
With that proud seeming. Foscari, the dead 
Shall cry aloud in heaven, and I on earth. 
Till vengeance overtake thee. Doge of Venice, 
I call on thee for justice on thy son. 

Fos. Father! — Oh, start not! — I am innocent. 
Hear that, and breathe again. Sir, I commit 
My life, my honour, the unsullied name 
Of my great ancestors, of him the greatest. 
My living father — even his name I trust 
To my just cause, and the just laws of Venice. 
1 am your prisoner. 

[Exeunt Foscari, guarded, Erizzo, and Cosmo. 



Zeno. Doge ! 

Doge. Those lights! Those lights! 

They pierce my eye-balls, dart into my brain! 
If there be any pity left i' the ;ivorld. 
Make me a darkness and a silence, Zeno, 
That I may pray. 

Zeno. Lead to his chamber, Sirs. 

[Exeunt, 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. 

A Hall of Justice. 

Cosmo, Erizzo, Senators, and Officers. 

Eriz. Is all prepared for trial ? 

Officer. All. The Doge 

Approaches. 

Sen. Will the Doge preside ? 

2d Sen. He comes. 

How different from his step of yesterday! 
How hurried, yet how slow! 

Enter Doge and Count Zeno. 

Zeno. Let me assist 

Your Highness. 

Doge. No. 

Zeno. His robes encumber him; 

Support them. 

Doge. Why will you torment me. Sir, 

With this oflicious care ? These flowers are nought 
Go bring me pungent herbs, hyssop and rue 
And rosemary ; odours that keep in sense — 
I have forgot my handkerchief 

Zeno. Take this. 

Doge. I am an old man newly stung with grief— 
Thou hast fiirgiven me, Zeno ? Are ye ready ? 
Where is the accuser ? 

Eriz. May it please your Highness, 

Call forth the prisoner. 

Enter Foscari guarded. 

Cos. Oh not thou, good Doge ; 

Spare those white hairs! 

Doge. Dare not to pity me! 

Sir, those white hairs are lichens on a rock. 
I tell ye. Sirs, since yesternight my blood 
Is dried up in my veins, my heart is turned 
To stone; but I am Doge of Venice still. 
And know my office. Fear me not, Francesco! 
Francesco Foscari — Sir, is he there? 
My eyes are old and dim. 

Fos. I am here, father! 

Doge ! I am here. 

Doge. Francesco Foscari, 

Thou art arraigned for the foul midnight murder 
Of the senator Donato. Art thou innocent ? 
Or guilty? 

Fos. Can'st thou ask ? The fresh-born babe 

That knows not yet the guiltiness of thought. 
Is not from such crime whiter. 

Doge. Gracious heaven, 

I thank thee ! Now the weight is off my soul. 



SCKNE I.] 



FOSCARI. 



605 



I sinned in my black fear. Where 's the accuser ? 
Let him stand forth. Cosmo — Signor Donato, 
Speak. 

Eriz. Look with how cahn and proud a mien 
The murderer stands, whilst the poor son conceals 
His face against the wall. 

Doge. Speak, pr'ythee, speak. 

Cos. Alas ! alas ! I cannot. We were friends 
Even from earliest childhood. I loved him — 
Oh how I loved him! Ay, and he loved me 
With a protecting love, the firmest love ; 
For stronger, bolder, hardier, he to me 
Was as an elder brother. And his home 
Was mine, and mine was his — Oh he has sate 
A hundred times on that dear father's knee, 
His little head nestling against tiiat breast. 
Where now — Oh Foscari, had'st thou slain me, 
My last word had been pardon ! But my father, 
And with a steadfast and unaltering cheek 
To listen 

Fas. Cosmo ! I am innocent. 
Yet, Heaven knows, I grieve 

Cos. Camilla's father — 

Poor, poor Camilla ! 

Eriz. (aside.) Ah thou hast it now! 

'Tis a fair woman's soft and liquid name 
That stings thy soul ! Good, good. — Ho! Officer! 

[Apart to an Officer, giving Mm a paper. 
Deliver that and bring the witness hither, 
Look thou take no excuse. [Exit Officer. 

Doge. Signor Donato, 

1 pray you checl^these pardonable tears. 
Were this a place for passion, what 's thy grief 
Measured with mine ? The death of all thy name 
To this suspense, this agony, this shame, 
That eats away the soul ? What is thy grief — 
Master thyself, I say. Francesco Foscari 
Stands there to answer to thy charge of murder: 
Produce thy proofs. 

Eriz. Bring in the corse. My Lord, 

And ye, the equal judges, spare the son 
This miserable duty. I can tell. 
For I by chance was there, this tale of blood 
And mystery. The late unhappy feud 
Is known to all. Returning from St. Mark's 
With my young kinsman in his gondola — 
For I had missed of mine — we landed close 
To the Donato Palace, as the bell 
Was tolling midnight. 'T was an awful storm ; 
But by the flashing lightning we saw one 
Leap from the balcony — a cavalier. 
Splendid in dress and air. The lightning glared 
Full on his face and habit, unconcealed 
By hat or cloak, and instantly we knew 
Francesco Foscari. 

Ze7w. Art sure of that ? 

Cos. Oh sure ! Too sure ! 

Eriz. He passed so close. Count Zeno, 

That my cloak brushed his vest ; but sprang aside, 
As he had met an adder, and leaped down 
Into a vvailing gondola. I call'd, 
But Foscari answered not ; and Cosmo spake. 
Betwixt a sigh and smile, of fair Camilla, 



Of their long loves, and of the morning's ire. 

And how he hoped this dark and sudden cloud 

Would speedily pass away. Even as he spake. 

Whilst loitering on the steps, we heard a shriek 

Within the house, so piercing, so prolonged, 

So born of bitter anguish — to this hour 

That shriek is ringing in mine ears! And when 

With trembling hearts and failing limbs, we scaled 

The stairs, we saw Donato bathed in blood. 

And poor Camilla lying on his breast. 

Her arms strained round his neck, as if she tried 

To keep in his dear life. [The corse brought in. 

The bloody witness 
Of this foul deed is here. 

Fos. Poor good old man ! 

This is a grievous sight. 

Doge. Oh ! Would to Heaven 

That I so lay, and so — I pray thee, on. 
Where are tliy proofs ? 

Eriz. Tiiey shall come soon enough. 

Donato, rouse thee ! Look upon those wounds! 
Think on the honoured dead ! 

Cos. I dare not think. 

For thought is frenzy. Lords ! The Count Erizzo 
Hath told ye how we found the corse. This sword. 
The well-known sword of Foscari, was plunged 
Deep in his gory breast; beside him lay 
This hat and cloak, the splendid soldier's garb 
Of Foscari ; no man had approached the house 
Save only Foscari ; and his last word. 
Mingled with cries of murder and of help. 
Was " Foscari." Is that sword thine ? Disown it. 
And, against oath and proof and circumstance, 
Thy word — thy naked word — Disown that sword. 
And give me back the blessed faith that trusts 
In man my fellow ! Look upon it well. 

Fos. 'Tis mine. 

Cos. He 's guilty. 'Twas the last faint hope 
On this side Heaven. 

Doge. Cosmo ! It is not his — 

He knows not what he says — Give me the sword. 

Fos. 'Tis mine ; that which lay sheathed in victory 
Before ye yesterday ; that which I bore 
Triumphing through the battle. What a blaze 
Streamed from the sparkling steel — how bright, how 

pare. 
How glorious, how like the light of Fame — 
A wild and dazzling fire! Both, both are quenched. 
The sword is mine ; but of this foulest deed 
1 am as ignorant as the senseless blade. 

Zeno. Who heard Donato call on Foscari ? 

Eriz. Doge, thou hast asked for proofs, for wit- 
nesses; 
I have one here. Officer, hast thou brought 
The lady? 

Officer. She attends. 

Eriz. Go, lead her in. [Exit Officer. 

Cos. What lady ? Sure thou canst not mean 

Enter Officer leading Camilla. 

Fos. Camilla ! 

Cos. She walks as in a heavy dream; her senses 
Are stupified by sorrow. Count Erizzo, 
Why didst thou send for her ? Why bring her here ? 



51 



606 



FOSCARI. 



[A.vT IV. 



Had we not breaking hearts enow before 
Without poor, poor Camilla ? 

Eriz. She alone 

Heard his last dying words. Lady Camilla ! 

Cos. She neither sees nor hears; she is herself 
A moving corse. 

Eriz. Camilla! Speak to her. 

Cos. Sister! Heaven shield her senses! She is deaf 
Even to my voice. Dear sister I 

Eriz. Lead her towards 

The body. So ! she sees it. 

Cam. Father! Father! 

Have I found thee, dear father ? Let me sit 
Here at thy feet, and lean my aching head 
Against thy knee — Oh how it throbs! — and bury 
My face within thy cloak. What ails me, father. 
That my heart flutters so ? Feel here — He 's cold ! 
He 's dead ! He 's dead ! 

Eriz. Camilla ! 

Cam. Who art thou ? 

Where am I ? Wherefore have ye dragged me forth 
Into the glare of day — Oh cruel ! cruel ! — 
Amongst strange men ? Where am I ? Foscari ! Now 
I have a comforter. Have they not told thee 
That I am fatherless ? Dost weep for me ? 
For me ? 

Eriz. Leave him ; he is a murderer. 
Thy father's murderer! 

Cam. Who dared say that ? 

Francesco, speak to me ! 

Eriz. Pollute her not! 

Touch not her garments ! Fly his very sight — 
He slew thy father. 

Cam. Ha! Again! Again! 

Cosmo, this man is false. Is he not, Cosmo ? 
Is he not all one falsehood ? Answer me. 
I will kneel to thee, Cosmo, for a word, 
A sign. Press but my hand. He lets it fall ! 

Cos. Sister — I cannot tell her. 

Eriz. Thou tnyself 

Art witness to his crime. 

Cam. I never knew 

Aught of him but his virtues. 

Eriz Noble lady, 

Thou art before the assembled power of Venice, 
Before thy father's corse, before high Heaven — 
Answer me truly, lady — Didst thou hear 
Thy murdered liither call on Foscari ? 

Cam. Ah ! — He is innocent. 

Eriz. Didst thou not hear 
Foscari's name mixed with his dying shriek? 

Cam. He's innocent! Oh I would stake my life 
On Foscari's innocence. 

Doge. Beloved child ! 

Cam. Ah! Art th(>u there? Release him! Set him 
free ! 
Thou art the Doge, the mighty Doge of Venice. 
Thou hast the power to free him. — Save him now 
From my tiard kinsman! Save him ! 1 remember, 
When I was but a little child, I craved 
The grace of a poor galley-slave, and thou 
Didst pardon him and set him free as air ;— 
Wilt thou not save thy son, and such a son. 



Who is as clear of this foul sin as thou ? 
Cosmo, kneel with me ! 

Cos. I have knelt for justice; 

And now again — 

Cam. For mercy ! mercy ! 

Eriz. Answer! 

Demand her answer. Doge. She is a witness, 
Command her by thy power ; thou art the Judge. 

Doge. I am, I am. Ye should have Dukes of stone. 
But this is flesh. Camilla, I am not 
A King, who wears fair mercy on the cross 
Of his bright diadem; I have no power 
Save as the whetted a.\e to strike and slay, 
A will-less instrument of the iron law 
Of Venice. Daughter — Thou that should 'si have been 
My daughter, we are martyrs at the stake, 
And must endure. Shall we not copy him, 
Who stands there with so brave a constancy. 
Patient, unfaltering ? Let us choose the right, 
And leave the event to Heaven. Speak, my dear 
child. 

Ca?n. Heaven guide me then! Lords, I am here 
an orphan, 
The orphan of one day. — But yesternight — 
Oh ! did ye ever see a father die ? 

Cos. Calm thee, my sister. 

Cam. And ye drag me hither — 

Ye call me to bear witness — me, a woman ; 
A wretched helpless woman! — Against him. 
Whom — ye are merciless — ye have no touch 
Of pity or of manhood ! Do your worst ; 
I will not answer ye 

Fos. Oh woman's love, 

Pure nurse of kind and charitable thoughts, 
Wiser than wisdom, instinct of the soul. 
How do I bless thee, holiest love! Camilla, 
My brave and true Camilla, thou hast dropt 
Balm in the festering wound. Yet answer them. 
I cannot fear the truth. Ask her once more. 

Eriz. Were not the last words that Donato spake 
Foscari and murder ? 

Cam. Yes. 

Eriz. Take her away ; 

She hath confessed enough. 

Cam. Oh no ! no ! no ! 

Foscari is guiltless ! Hear me ! — He is guiltless ! 

Doge. Can'st thou prove that ? Thy sweet face 
always brought 
A comfort. Prove but that. 

Eriz. (aside.) All curses on 

The coward Celso! He'll escape me yet. 
(Aloud.) The facts ? The proofs ? The witnesses ? 

Cam. His life ; 

My heart, my bursting heart. If I had seen 
With these poor eyes that horror — had seen him 
Slabbing — Oh, thoughts like these may make me mad. 
But all the powers of earth and hell can never 
Shake my true faith ! Foscari! I will share 
Thy fate, will die with thee, will bo thy bride 
Even in that fatal hour, and pass away 
With thee to Heaven — So! so! 

Fos. She sinks ; she sinks ; 

Her strength is overwrought. Oh die not yet 
Till I may die with thee ! Awake, revive. 



Scene I.] 



FOSCARI. 



607 



My plighted love ! The bridal hour will soon 
Unite us, my Camilla. Help! she fhinls. 

Eriz. Fold her not thus within thy arms ! Resign 
her ! 

Fos. To thee ! While still this arm hath marrow 
in it! 
To thee ! Cosmo — thou — thou — Be tender of her, 
Be very tender — 't is a broken flower — 
And pardon her her love. Take her. The pain 
Of death is over now. Proceed, mj' lords. 

Zeno. Let me support her, Cosmo. Thou dost 
stagger 
Under her slender form. 

Cos. He spake to me, 

He gazed on me — I felt the long sad look 
Dwell on my face — he, at whose crime my soul 
Shudders, he spake — and I — men would have thought 
I was the guilty one! He bade me love 
This dearest, wretchedest. Tell him — No! no! 
Not even a last word. 

[Exeimt Cosmo and Zeno, with Camilla. 

Eriz. This hapless maid 

Hath owned enough. Foscari, wilt thou confess 
The murder? 

Fos. I am innocent. 

Eriz. Confess ; 

Or we must force confession. To the rack ! 

Doge. Never whilst I have life ! Am I not still 
The Doge of Venice ? Rather stretch these stiff 
.And withered limbs upon ihy engines. Count! 
Rather crack these old joints! I thouglit-that I 
Was steeled against all strokes — but this — 

Eriz. The rack! 

Fos. Bethink thee of the Roman fathers. Doge, 
Of Brutus and of Manlius ; ihy son 
Will not disgrace thee. Come, the rack, the rack! 
I will front pain as a brave enemy. 
And rush to the encounter. What is the sense 
Of bodily agony to that which I 
Endure even now ? Disgrace, suspicion, scorn. 
Hatred and haughty pity, and that last 
Worst pang — her love, her misery. These are tor- 
tures ! 
Let me have something that a wanior's soul 
May strive against and conquer. Come, the rack ! 

Doge. Never. 

Eriz. I must not hear thee, Doge. The question ! 

Re-enter Cosmo, and Zeno. 

Cos. Stop, on your lives ! Forbear this cruelty! 
This cowardly cruelty ! He will endure — 
He will call up the courage of the field. 
And die before he groans. His eye surveys 
That engine steadily, whose very sight. 
Makes my flesh creep. Remove it. Oh to see 
That butchery — and the old man — the poor old man! 
Remove it. 

Eriz. Well. Proceed we then to sentence. 

Zeno. First listen to the prisoner. Foscari ! speak. 

Sen. Yes; let us hear his tale. Defend thyself 

Fos. To ye who doubt ! To ye who disbelieve ! 
Sir, there are spirits that can never stoop 
To falsehood ; nor for wealth, or power, or fame. 



Or life, or dearer love. Oh, were ye cast 
In the old chivalrous mould, pure diamond souls 
On which the dim polluting touch of doubt 
Rests not a breathing time ! Were ye built up 
Of honour — But to ye — Why should I speak 
When I have nothing but my knightly word 
To prove me innocent? 

Eriz. You are well paid 

By this contempt. Count Zeno. Now to judgment. 
[The Doge, Zeno, Erizzo, and the Senators retire to 

the hack of the stage, leaving Cosmo and Foscari 

in the front. 

Fos. Father ! He" passes on and doth not speak ; 
He cannot; he has no words, nothing but tears. 
Oh, what must the grief be that forces tears 
From his proud heart — his proud and bursting heart! 
The flame of youth burnt in him yesterday 
At fourscore years; to-day hath made him old. 
What groan was that? What other wretch? Donate! 
Cosmo! Wjlt thou not answer ? 

Cos. Oh that voice 

Which was such perfect music, — which seemed made 
For truth and thought, fit organ, how it jars 
My very soul ! What wouldst thou ? 

Fos. I would thank thee 

That thou hast spared one pang to a brave heart. 

That rack ^To have seen me stretched there, to 

direct 
Each fresh progressive torture — He had died 
Before our eyes ! I thank thee. Sir. No more. 
Unless a dying man, for I am sentenced — 
Look how he sinks his head upon his clenched 
And withered hands! I am condemned, and we 
Shall meet no more. Thou wilt not join the headsman 
To see the axe fall on my neck, nor follow 
The shouting multitude, who yesterday 
HaiTd me a god, and, with like shouts, to-morrow 
Will drag me to the block. We meet no more ; 
And as a dying man I fain would part 
In charity. We were friends, Cosmo. — 

Cos. Friends ! 

I sinned in listening; but whilst he spake, 
A world of kindly thoughts, a gush of the deep 
Old passionate love came o'er my heart — Forgive me, 
Oh blessed shade ! Friends ! Why thy crime were 

common 
Wanting that damning dye— a simple murder! 
What though of one kind, noble, generous. 
Whose princely spirit scattered happiness 
As the sun light — a single sin ! But 'twas 
My father, mine — avenging angel, hear ! — 
Mine, that so loved thee. 

Fos. That, at the first glance 

Of wild suspicion, the first crafty word 
Of treacherous hate, doubted, accused, condemned — 
Chasing through shameful trial to shameful death — 
Yet daring lo call down the wrath of God 
On a false friend ! Oh cunning self deceit! 
Oh wondrous cheat of blind mortality! 
Thus doth the Evil Spirit cast about 
To win a soul from heaven. They come. They come. 
Now gentle death. 

[The Doge, Erizzo, Zeno, and Senators advance. 



608 



FOSCARI. 



[Act V. 



1 



Speak ! I can better bear 
Thy words than that long gaze of agony. 
I am prepared. 

Doge. Oh why did I resume 

This bonnet, which thy fihal hand had plucked 
From my old brow, this fiital coronet, 
Predoomed to fall, that scorches me like fire — 
Stings me like twisted serpents ! Would I were 
A naked slave, chained to his weary oar, 
A worm that hath no sense but sufferance, 
Any thing vilest and most miserable, 
Rather than Doge of Venice ! I must plunge 
A dagger in thy breast. Francesco Foscari, 
The council doth pronounce thee guilty. 

Fos. Ha! 

Eriz It works. It works. 

Doge. Thou saidst thou wast prepared. 

Fos. Ay — but the word ! The first sound of the 
word ! 

Doge. The council doth condemn — 

Fos. All, father? All? 

Doge. No; there were two — Count Zeno could not 
join 

Guilty and Foscari ; and I my son, 

Thou could'st not do this deed ! 

Fos. Thank heaven ! Thank heaven ! 

Eriz. The sentence, Doge ! 

Fos. Yes, father. The one pang. 

The worse than death, — the infamy is past. 
The dagger's in my breast; now drive it home, 
And with a merciful speed. 

Eriz. Sir, thou wilt find 

Justice hath bowed to mercy. 

Cos. Doge, the sentence ! 

Doge. The penalty is death. But for thy rank, 
Thy services and mine, it is exchanged 
For banishment to Candia. Thou must live 
In Candia, an exile, till thy days 
Be ended, my dear son. 

Fos. Live! Give me death! 

Ye that give infamy, and dare to talk 
Of mercy, give me death, painfullest death 
And I will thank ye, — bless ye ! Give me death! 
Ye cannot give me life. Sooner the bay. 
That wreathes the warrior's brows, shall spread and 

flourish 
In a dark mine, shut up from sun and air, 
Than I can live without a proud respect, 
A white unblemish'd name, the light and breath 
Of honour. Death, I say ! — a murderer's death ! 
Ye dare not change the laws. 

Cos. Live, and repent. 

Fos. Cosmo, if e'er you loved me, call on them 
For justice — bloody justice ! Doge of Venice, 
Maintain the insulted laws ! Send me to death, — 
To instant death ! Oh father, free thy son 
From this dread load of misery! VVouldst thou see 
Thy only child shunned as a leper, father? 
Sent out into the world a second Cain ? 
Oh give me death! death! death! 

Doge I knew that life 

Would be a lingering agony; and yet 
To kill thee— my dear son ! Oh prophecy 
Accurst, I feel thee now! 



Eriz. Remove the prisoner. 

What ! doth he struggle ? 

Doge. Touch him not, vile slaves . 

Fos. A moment pause, and ye may lead me hence 
Tame as a fondled kid. Ye Senators, 
Ye kings of Venice, I appeal irv<ra you 
To the Supreme Tribunal. 

Eriz. To thy father? 

Fos. To Ilim that is in heaven. Ye are men, 
Frail, erring, ignorant men, guided or driven 
By every warring passion: some by love 
Of the beloved Donati ; some by hate 
Of the high Foscari ; by envy some ; 
Many by fear; and one by low ambition. 
This ye call justice, lords! But I appeal 
To the All-righteous Judge of earth and heaven, 
Before whose throne condemners and condemned 
All shall stand equal, at whose leet I swear, 
By what my soul holds sacred — by the spurs 
Of knighthood — by the Christian's holier Cross, 
And by that old man's white and reverend locks, 
That I am innocent. Ye, who disbelieve. 
And ye who doubt, and ye, the grovelling few, 
Believing who condemn, I shower on all 
Contempt and pardon. Now, guards, to the prison. 

Zeno. Look to the Doge. 

Fos. Zeno, when I am gofle, 

Thou wilt be kind to him ? 

Zeno. Even as a son! 

Even as thyself 

Fos. Thou truest friend, farewell ! 

Zeno. Look to the Doge. 



ACT V. 

SCENE L 
An Apartment in the Donalo Palace. ^ 
Cosmo and Erizzo. 

Cos. Gone to the prison ! No ! my lord Erizzo. 
I know Camilla. 

Eriz. Well — I might mistake. 

Cos. Straight from her father's bier, where all 
night long 
She watch'd and wept, to seek — Go to, thou'rt wrong! 
Thou 'rt wrong. 

Eriz. Think no more of it. Doth the Senate 

Meet to-day? 

Cos. Was she veil'd ? 

Eriz. Who ? 

Cos. Whom thou saw'st. 

She^not my sister ! — Was she veil'd ? 

Eriz. She was. 

Cos. How couldst thou know her ? 

Eriz. By the pliant grace 

Of the young form — the goddess step — the charm 
Of motion. With such port the queenly swan 
elides o'er the waters. Dost thou not remember 
When Foscari once 

Cos. Avoid that name. Avoid iL 

Eriz. She 's here. 



Scene I.] 



FOSCARI. 



609 



Enier Camilla. 

Cos. And veil'd ! Whence com'st thou, sister? 
speak ! 
Why hast ihou borne those tears and that wan face 
Abroad amongst the happy ? Whence com'st thou? 

Cam. From one whose heart drops blood for this 
great grief. 

Cos. Whence ? 

Cam. From St. Mark's. 

Cos. The Doge ! The poor old Doge ! 

Eiiz. The Doge ! It was not by the Ducal cham- 
bers 
That I thi.s morning saw — 

Cam. My lord Erizzo, 

I seek not to deceive ye. I have seen 
The Doge. But 't was another wretrheder 
Of whom I spake, — one who hath long to live. 
I come from where beneath the leaden roofs 
Foscari lies. 

Cos. And she can speak that name 

Sighingly, ftndly ! She can cast aside 
Even maiden modesty! F'orgive me, friend. 
That trusting her I doubted thee. Approach not! 
Thou art contaminate. 

Cam. He's innocent! 

Turn not away, shake me not off, as though 
I were some loathed reptile. Cosmo! Brother! 
We two are left alone in the wide world, 
And I that sate upon that rainbow throne 
Of happiness, I am fallen, fallen. 

Cos. What would'st thou ? 

How may I comfort thee ? S.weet gentle soul. 
Her tears are daggers. Speak. 

Cam. And thou wilt listen ? 

Cos. Patient as infancy. 

Cam. He goes to-night ; 

And I nay, start not. 

Cos. What of thee ? 

Cam. And I — 

We were betroth'd ; he goes a sentenced wretch — 
But innocent, most innocent! He goes 
To scorn, to exile, and to misery. 
And I — I came to say farewell to thee, 
My brother — I go with him. 

Cos. Ha ! 

. Eriz. She raves. 

Look how she trembles; she is overwatched ; 
This is a frenzy. 

Cam. Sir, I am not mad ; 

I'm a Donato born, and drank in courage 
Even with my mother's milk. What if I shake! 
Within this trembling frame there is a heart 
As firm as thine. Speak to me ere we part. 
My brother ! Speak to me, whatever words, 
However bitter! Any thnig but silence, 
Cold withering silence ! 

Cos. Sister ! 

Cam. Bless thee, bless thee. 

For that kind word ! 

Cos. My sister, sit thee down — 

Misery hath brought her to this pass. — Camilla, 
We had a father once: — he's slain. Wouldst thou 
Join this white hand, which he so loved to mould 



Within his own, the soft and dimpled hand, 
With one — 

Cam. Oh pure as thine ! Believe it, Cosmo; 
Pure as thine own! 

Cos. We have no father now. 

And we should love each other. Stay with me. 
I am no tyrant-brother: I '11 not force 
Thy blooming beauty to some old man's bed 
For high alliance; I'll not plunge thy youth 
Into that living tomb where the cold nun 
Chants daily requiems, that thy dower may swell 
My coflers; I but ask of thee to stay 
With me in thy dear Venice, thy dear home. 
Thy mistress, mine. I'll be to thee, Camilla, 
A father, brother, lover. Stay with me. 
I will be very kind to thee. 

Cam. Oh cruel! 

This kindness is the rack. 

Cos. I would but save thee 

From exile, penury, shame — 

Cam. ' He said so. 

Cos. He ! 

Cam. Ay, he urg'd all that thou canst say against 
Himself and me in vain. My heart is firm. 
I go. But love me still, oh love me still. 
My brother! 

Cos. Listen. 

Cam. He said all. 

Cos. Camilla! 

I'd save thee from a crime, a damning crime — 
Did he say that ? From such a parricide. 
Such unimagined sin — I tell thee, girl. 
The Roman harlot, she the infamous 
That crush'd her father with her chariot- wheels. 
She'll be forgotten in thy monstrous guilt. 
Whitened by thy black shame. 

Cam. Oh father, father, 

I call upon thee! Look on me from heaven, 
Search my whole soul — 'tis white. Oh when some 

tale 
Of woman's truth brought tears into my eyes. 
How often hath he said — Be thou, too, faithful 
In weal or woe! And now — farewell! forew ell ! . 

Cosmo, my heart is breaking Say farewell. 

Only farewell! 

Cos. Stay with me. 

Cam, No. 

Cos. Then go. 

Outcast of earth and heaven, of God and man ! 
Abandon'd, spurn'd, abhorr'd, accurst! Go forth 
A murderer's bride — worse ! worse ! What impious 

priest 
Will dare profane the holy words that join 
The pure of heart and hand for ye, for ye. 

The parricides Oh that she had but died 

Innocent in her childhood! 

Cam. One day, brother. 

Thou 'It grieve for this. Kow bless thee ! 

[Exit Camiitu 

Cos. ' Stay ! 

Eriz. She's gone. 

Cos. Why let her go, foul stain upon our house ! ' 
She was his daughter still, and yesterday j 

An angel ! And he loved her and she him i 



610 



FOSCARI. 



[Act V. 



With such a dotage ! 'Twas a sight to see 
How ere the pretty babe could speak its will, 
The chubby hands would cling and fix themselves 
Round it.s dear father's neck. Mother, or nui-se. 
Or r, the elder child that played with her 
Full half the day, were nothing if she caught 
One glimpse of that dear father. 

Eriz. Now she'll hang 

Around his murderer's neck. 

Cos. Do ye all forget 

That I'm her brother? Ho, Camilla? 

Eriz. 'Twill be 

A triumph 'mid their shame to these misproud 
Revengeful Foscari to bear off thus 
The glory of your house. 

Cos. I'll rescue her. 

Where is she ? Is she gone ? What ho, Camilla ! 
I'll follow her to the end of the earth. The laws 
Give me a fiither's power. I'll save her yet. 
Camilla! Ho, Camilla! 

Eriz. You must seek her 

With him. The time draws near. [Cosmo rushes out. 

Now, Foscari, 
I have thee at my feet. [Exit. 

SCENE II. 

The Sea Shore. 

Doge, Foscari, Guards. 

Fos. Here then we part. Those Guards — send 
them away. 
Let them not listen to the last faint word. 
Nor gaze en the last lingering look. Why doubt'st 

thou? 
Fear me not — I 'II he a true prisoner. 
I am a Foscari still, bound by one chain. 
Honour. Send them away. 

Doge. Leave us. [Exeunt. Guards. 

Fos. Ay, now 

My soul is free again. That tallest slave 
Stood brushing against my vest— he with the hard 
Cold stony eyes — and I — let not that man 
Go with me. 

Doge. He shall not. 

Fos. How can I waste 

A word on such a reptile ! I 'd a world 
Of sad and loving things to say to thee. 
But there's a weight just here — Oh father! father! 
I thought to have been a comfort to thy age, 
But I was born to spread a desolation 
On all I love. 

Doge. I would not change my son, 

Banish'd although he be, with the proudest sire 
In Christendom. But we must part. These men 
Are merciless. 

Fos. Implore no grace of them. 

And yet to leave this brave and tender heart 
To wither in its princoly solitude, 
Friendless, companioiilcss. 

Doge. Age hath one friend, 

One sure friend — Death. 

Fos. Oh I shall not be by 

To close thine eyes or kneel beside thy couch, 
Or gather from thy lips the last fond sound 



Of blessing or of pardon. Bless me now 
Parting is dying. 
Doge. Bless thee, my dear son. 

Enter Camilla. 
Camilla ! 

Fos. Bless her too. She is thy daughter; 
She goes with me to exile. 

Doge. She is blest 

In her high constancy. Beloved child. 
Thy virtuous love hath softened the sharp pang 
Of this dread hour. 

Cam. Father ! My only lather ! 

Foscari, the bark awaits us. 

Fos. What, already ? 

Cam. All is prepared. 

Doge. I should have told thee so; 

But when I would have said. Go! go! my tongue 
Clave to my mouth. 

Fos. Already! Write to me 

Often. Is that forbidden ? Yet the Doge 
May ask my Candiote jailer if his prisoner 
Be strictly kept. Then I shall sometimes see. 
For surely he will show it me, thy name, 
Thy writing, something thou hast touched. 'Twill be 
A comfort. 

Doge. I will write to thee. 

Fos. And think 

Of me when the pale moon lets fall her cold 
And patient light upon the Adrian wave 
That Sighs and trembles. Think of me then. 

Doge. Always. 

By sun, or moon, or star ; in the bright day, 
In the night's darkness, but one single thought 
Will dwell in my old heart — My banished son. 

Cam. Alas! Francesco, why wilt thou prolong 
This useless agony ? 

Fos. He hath not said 

Farewell. One last embrace, one blessing more — 
The last! 

Cam. What step is that ? 

Enter Zeno. 

Zeno. I crave your pardon: 

But I must pray the Doge to come with me 
Straight to the Senate. 'T is an earnest business. 
I do beseech your Highness. Leave him, Foscari! 
Cling not together as your very souls 
Were interlaced. The Senate, Doge, demands thee 

Fos. The Senate! What! hath he another son 
To try, to torture, to condemn ? Hath he 
Another heart to break? Yet go. For once 
Their cruelty is mercy. Go. 

Doge. Whilst still 

These eyes may gaze on thee ! Ere yonder cloud 
Shall pass across the sun, a darker cloud 
Will wrap me in its blackness; then the throne, 
The jn<]gment seat, the grave — no matter where 
The old man rests his bones !— One dim eclipse 
Will shadow all — but now— say to the senate 
That at their bidding 1 am sending forth 
My son to e.vile. 

Fos. Go! go! 

Zeno. Doge, thy duty, 

Thy princely duly calls thee. 



Scene II.] 



FOSCARI. 



611 



Doge. To that word, 

Which was lo me a god, have I not offered 
My chihi upon tlie altar? Is the sacrifice 
Still incomplete? farewell! farewell! 

Zeiio. Francesco, 

Emhurk not till ye hear from me. — My lord. 
This way. 

Doge. I pray you pardon me — I 'm old — 
I 'm very old. [Exeunt Doge and Zeno. 

Cam. Nay, sit not shivering there 

Upon the ground. Hast thou no word for me, 
Francesco ? 

Fos. Is he gone ? Quite gone ? For ever ? 

Cam. Take coinlbrt. 

Fos. Is he gone ? I did not say 

Farewell, nor God be with thee ! When men part 
From common friends for a slight summer voyage, 
They cry Heaven speed thee ! and I could not say 
Farewell to my dear father, nor call down 
One beiiison on that white reverend head 
Which I shall never see again. There breathes not 
A wretch so curst as I. 

Cujn. Foscari, the lips 

That I have kissed are cold. 

Fos. Oh bruised flower. 

Whose very wounds do shed an odorous balm! 
My gentle comforter I could I Ibrget 
Thy misery ! Forgive me. 

Cam. I have left 

His bier, his bloody bier. 

Fos. Ay, there it is! 

Fortune, and friends, and home, to fly from them 
Were nothing — but she leaves the unburied corse 
Of her dead father, the dear privilege 
To sit and watch till the last hour, to strew 
His body with sweet flowers like a bank in spring. 
Making death beautiful, to ibilovv him 
To his coid bed, and drop slow heavy tears 
To the bell's knollmg. She leaves grief to go 
With me, whom the world calls — Oh matchless love, 
Life could not pay thee ! Matchless, matchless love ! 

Cam. He, that blest spirit, knows thy innocence : 
And I — I never doubted. 

Fos. Matchless love ! 

We'll never part, we'll live and die together. 
There is a comfort in the word. Camilla, 
Where are the guards, the ship? My heart beats high 
.At thy exceeding truth. We shall set forth 
As to a victory. 

Enter Cosmo and Erlzzo. 

Cos. She 's here ! She 's here ! 

Move not a step. Dare not to stir. Camilla, 
Follow me. 

Fos. Who is he that dares obstruct' 

The mandate of the Senate? I'm an exile 
Travelling to banishment. All Venice knows 
The piteous story of the Doge's son 
Condemned by his own father, and of her 
His true and faithful love. Now leave us, Sir; 
Let us depart in peace. 

Cos. Murderer! Ravisher! 

I seek my sister. 



Fos. She stands there. Ask her 

Whom she will follow. 

Cam. He knows well. Francesco, 

The whole world shall not part us. 

Fos. Mine ! Mine own ! 

My very own ! I've lost wealth, country, home. 
Fame, friends, and father; I have nothing left 
Save thee, my dear one ; but with thee I'm rich, 
And great, and happy. JVow let us go forth 
Into our banishment. Give mc thy hand. 
My wife. 

Cos. Camilla, I command thee stay — 
The laws of Venice give to me a power 
Absolute as a father's. Loose her, Sir. 
Let go her hand. I warn ye part. They'll drive me 
Into a madness. If thou be a man 
Let's end this quarrel bravely. 

Cam. Heed him not! 

Fos. Calm thee! He is thy brother. 

Cos. I disclaim her. 

Fos. Tremble not so! I am unarmed, Camilla. 

Cos. Dost hold her as a shield before thy breast ? 
Dost palter with me, coward ? 

Fos. (breaking from Camilla.) Off! — A sword ! 
A sword for charity ! 

Cam. Help! Help! The Doge! 

The guard ! Stay with them ! Part them ! Leave them 

not! 
Hold them asunder, Count, and in my prayers 
Thou shalt be sainted ! Help. [Camilla rushes out. 

Fos. Give me a sword ! 

Cos. Ay his or mine. I am so strongly armed 
In my most righteous cause, I would encounter 
A mailed warrior with a willow wand. 

Eriz. There is my weapon. 

Fos. Why thou wast my foe ! 

But this is such a bounty as might shame 
The princely hand of friendship. Not the blade 
Girt by a crowned Duke around my loins, 
An Emperor's gift, the day I won my spurs 
In the Simbian victory, not that knightly sword 
Was welcomer than this. 

Co.i. Foscari, come on ! 

Fos. I would thou wert a soldier! 

Cos. Now. 

[They Jiglit, and Foscari falls. 

Eriz. The fiites 

Work for me. — Ha ! 

Cos. Erizzo. 

Eriz, Is he dead ? 

Cos. Alas ! alas! Lift up his head. 

Cam. {he/iind tJie scene.) Here! Here! 

Canst thou not hasten ? 

Enter Camilla and the Doge. 

(entering) Foscari ! He's slain ! 

Oh bloody, bloody brother! Kill me too! 
Be merciful ! Help ! 

Cos. Doth he live ? 

Cam. Away! 

Thy hands are bloody ! — Help, Doge Foscari ! 
Help, father! — The old man stands stiffening there 
Into a statue— He'll die first! Off! Off! 



612 



FOSCARI. 



[Act V. 



Wouldst kill him o'er again? — He bleeds to death! 
Father, it is thy blood. 

Doge. My son ! My son ! 

Who halh done this? 

Cam. He is not dead. Support him. 

See how his eye-lids quiver. Foscari ! 
'Tis I, thy wile! 

Fos. Mine own ! 

Cos. Thanks, gracious heaven ! 

Enter Zeno and Guards. 

Zeno. Seize Count Erizzo, Guard. Have ye not 
heard — 
What spectacle is this ? — Know ye not, Sirs, 
That Foscari is guiltless, that the murderer 
Is found ? 

Fos. Hear that! I'm innocent! Hear that ! 
The murderer is found ! Nay, hold me not — 
I 'm well — I 'm strong. Father, there is no stain 
In the long line of Foscari ! Camilla, 
My faithruUesl— 

Doge. He falls. 

Cam. There wanted this 

To crown the brimming cup of my despair. 
W^e should have been the happiest two, Francesco, 
Since the first pair in Paradise — but he 
That was my brother — 

Cos. Peace. Who slew Donato ? 

Zeno. Celso, bribed by Erizzo to destroy 
Francesco Foscari, by Donato Ciossed 
Slew him, and aided by the sword and cloak 
Dropped by Francesco, cast this deed of horror 
On the most innocent. 

Cos. Hath he confessed ? 

Zeno. All. Seize Erizzo, bind him. 

Em. There 's no need. 

The work is done, well done — Signer Donato, 
I thank thee still for that — and such revenge 
Is cheaply bought with life. 

Cos. Oh, damned viper! 

Eriz. Ay ! Do ye know me ? Not a man of ye 
But is my tool or victim. I 'm your master^ 
This was my aim when old Donato died. 
And hut that Celso dared not cope with Foscari, 
And sought to catch him in a subtler springe, 
I had been now your Doge. And I am more. 
I am your master, Sirs. Look where he lies 
The towering Foscari, who yesterday 
Stood statelier than the marble gods of Rome 
In their proud beauty. Hearken I It is mute. 
The tongue which darted words of fiery scorn. 



And cold contempt, and bitter pardon — dared 
To hurl on me fierce pardon ! Ha! he shivers! 
His stout limbs writhe ! The insect that is born 
And dies within an hour would not change lives 
With Foscari. I am content. For thee 
I have a tenfold curse. Long be thy reign. 
Great Doge of Venice ! 

Doge. Ay, I am the Doge ; 

Lead him to instant death. [Exit Erizzo guarded. 
My son ! 

Cos. 'T is I 

That am the only murderer of the earth — 
I that slew him. Bring racks and axes — 

Doge. Live ! 

I p:irdon thee. He pardons Ihee. Live, Cosmo; 
It is thy Prince's last behest. I've been 
O'erlong a crowned slave. Go ! dross to dross. 

[Flinging off the Ducal bonnet 
And bruise the stones of Venice! Tell the senate 
There lies their diadem. Now I am free! 
Now I may grieve and pity like a man ! 
May weep, and groan, and die ! My heart may burst 
Now ! Start not, Zeno — Didst thou never hear 
Of a broken heart? Look there. 

Zeno. Hush ! He revives. 

Cam. My Foscari ! 

Fos. Camilla! Is 't Camilla? 

Is she not weeping? What! canst thou weep now. 
When honour is redeemed and a bright name ? 
Why there should be no tear in all the world ; 
Gladne.ss is come from Heaven. 

Cam. Death ! Death ! 

Fos. This joy 

Is life. Who talked of death ? I cannot die 
In such a happiness. I'm well. 

Zeno. He sinks ; 

Support him. 

Cos. Is he dead ? 

Doge. Beloved son. 

How art thou ? 

Fos. Strong at heart. What are those shapes 

That hover round us ? There! There! There! 

Dnge. Thy friends. 

Fos. Friends! Have they heard that I am innocent? 
That I'm no murderer? That I do not shame 
My father's glory ? Let it be proclaimed — 
Tell Venice— tell— [dies. 

Zeno. He 's gone. 

Cam. JNIine! Still mine own! 

Bury me with him! He is mine. 



Wr 



Scene I.] 



JULIAN. 



613 



JULIAN, A TRAGEDY. 



TO 

WILLIAM CHARLES MACREDY, Esd- 

WITH HIGH ESTEEM FOR THOSE 
ENDOWMENTS WHICH HAVE CAST NEW LUSTRE ON 

HIS art; 

WITH WARM ADMIRATION FOR THOSE POWERS 

WHICH HAVE INSPIRED, 

AND THAT TASTE WHICH HAS FOSTERED, THE TRAGIC 

DRAMATISTS OF HIS AGE; 

WITH HEARTFELT GRATITUDE FOR THE ZEAL 

WITH WHICH HE BEFRIENDED THE 

PRODUCTION OF A STRANGER, FOR THE 

JUDICIOUS ALTERATIONS WHICH HE SUGGESTED, 

AND FOR 

THE ENERGY, THE PATHOS, AND THE SKILL 

WITH WHICH HE 

MORE THAN EMBODIED ITS PRINCIPAL CHARACTER ; 



STJjfsr STrafletrw 



IS MOST RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED ' 
BY 

THE AUTHOR. 



PREFACE. 



The Story and Characters of the following Tra- 
gedy are altogether fictitious. Annabel's cautions 
to silence in the first Scene, and the short dialogue 
between her and Julian, after he awakens, will be 
recognised by the classical reader as borrowed from 
the fine opening of the Orestes of Euripides; the 
incident of uncovering the body in the last Act is 
also taken from the Electra of Sophocles. Of any 
other intentional imitation, the Author is unconscious. 



DRAMATIS PERSOX.E. 



JULIAN. 

Alfonso, King of Sicily, a borj, disguised as Theo- 
dore. 

The Duke of Melfi, Uncle to Alfonso, and Regent 
of the Kingdom. 

Julian, MeJfi's Son. 

Count D'Alba, a powerful Nobleman. 

Valore, ■) 

Leanti, > Sicilian Nobles. , Ann. No; still he sleeps! 'Twas but the myrtle 

Calvi, j bud 

Paolo, Julian's Servant | Tapping against the casement, as the wind 

52 ~~^ 



Bertone, Servant to Count D'Alba. 
Renzi, an old Huntsman. 
An Archbishop. 

Annabel, Julian's Wife. 

Nobles, Prelates, Officers, Guards, Murderers, ^c. 

The Scene is in and near Messina; the time of action 
two days. 

PROLOGUE. 
written by a friend. 



They who in Prologues for your favours ask. 

Find every season more perplex their task ; 

Though doubts and hopes and tremblings do not fail, 

The points fall flatly and the rhymes grow stale ; 

Why should the Author hint their fitting part.s, 

In all the pomp of Verse, to " British hearts?" 

Why to such minds as yours with ardour pray, 

For more than justice to a first essay ? 

What need to show how absolute your power ? 

What stake awaits the issue of the hour — 

How hangs the scale 'twixt agony and joy. 

What bliss you nourish, or what hopes destroy? — 

All these you feel ; — and yet we scarce can bring 

A Prologue to " the posey of a ring." 

To what may we allude ? — Our plot untold 

Is no great chapter from the times of old ; 

On no august association rests. 

But seeks its earliest home in kindly breasts, — 

Its scene, as inauspicious to our strain. 

Is neither mournful Greece, nor kindling Spain, 

But Sicily — where no defiance hurled 

At freedom's foes may awe the attending world. 

But since old forms forbid us to submit 

A Play without a Prologue to the Pit; 

Lest this be missed by some true friend of plays. 

Like the dull colleague of his earlier days; 

Thus let me own how fearlessly we trust 

That you will yet be mercifully just. 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. 

An Apartment in the Royal Palace. Julian sleeping 
on a couch. Annabel. 



614 



JULIAN. 



[Act I. 



Stirred in the leafy branches. Well he loved 
That pleasant birdlike sound, which, as a voice, 
Summon'd us forth into the fresher air 

Of eve or early morn. Ah! when again 

And yet this. sleep is hopeful. For seven nights 
He had not tasted slumber. Who comes here ? 

Enter Alfonso as Theodore. 

The gentle page ! Alas, to wake him now ! 
Hush, Theodore ! Tread softly — sofdier, boy ! 

AJf. Doth he still sleep ? 

Ann. Speak lower. 

Alf. Doth he sleep ? 

Ann. Avoid the couch ; come this way ; close to me. 
He sleeps. He hath not moved in all the hours 
That thou hast been away. 

Alf. Then we may liope ; 

Dear lady, we may hope. 

Ann. Alas! Alas! 

See how he lies, scarce breathing. Whilst I hting 
Over his couch I should have thought him dead, 
But for his short and frequent sighs. 

Alf. Ah me! 

Not even in slumber can he lose the sense 

Of that deep misery; and I he wakes! 

Dost ihou not see the quivering mantle heave 
Wiih sudden motion ? 

Ann. Thou hast wakened him. 

Thy clamorous grief hath roused him. Hence ! Be- 
gone ! 
Leave me ! 

Alf And yet his eyes are closed. He sleeps. 

He did not move his hand. 

Ann. How changed he is! 

How pale ! How wasted ! Can one little week 
Of pain and sickness so have faded thee. 
My princely Julian ! But eight days ago 
There lived not in this gladsome Sicily 
So glad a spirit Voice and step and eye 
All were one happiness ; till that dread hour, 
When drest in sparkling smiles, radiant and glowing 
With tender thoughts, he flew to meet the King 
And his great father. He went forth alone; 
Frenzy and grief came back with him. 

Alf. And I, 

Another grief. 

Ann. Thou wast a comforter. 

All stranger as thou art, hast thou not shared 
My watch as carefully, as fiiithfully 
As I had been thy sister! Ay, and he. 
If ever in this wild mysterious woe 
One sight or sound halh cheered him, it hath been 
A glance, a word of thine. 

Alf. He knows me not. 

Ann. He knows not me. 

Alf. I never heard before 

That 't was to meet the King yon fatal night — 
Knowingly, purposely — How could he guess 
That they should meet? What moved him to that 
thought? 

Ann. Stranger although thou be, thou can'st but 
know 
Prince Julian's father is the Regent here. 
And rules for his young kinsman, King Alfonso ! 



Alf. Ay — Poor Alfonso! 

Ajin. Wherefore pity him ? 

Alf I know not — but I am an orphan too ! 
I interrupt thee, lady. 

Ann. Yet in truth 

A gentle pity lingers round the name 
Of King Alfonso, orphaned as Ihou say'st. 
And drooping into sickness when he lost 
His father, ever since the mournful boy 
Hath dwelt in the Villa d'Oro. 

Alf. Hast thou seen him ? 

Ann. The King? No. I'm of Naples. When 
Prince Julian 
First brought mo here a bride, his royal cousin 
Was fixed beside his father's dying bed. 
I never saw him : yet I know him well ; 
For I have sate and listen'd, hour by hour. 
To hear my husband talk of the fair Prince, 
And his excelling virtues. 

Alf Didhe?— Ah!— 

But 't was his wont, talking of those he loved, 
To gild them with the rich and burnish'd glow 
Of his own brightness, as the evening sun 
Decks all the clouds in glory. 

Ann. Very dear 

Was that young boy to Julian. 'T was a friendship 
Fonder than common, blended with a kind 
Protecting tenderness, such as a brother 
Might fidy show unto the younger born. 

Alf. Oh, he hath proved it ! 

Ann. Thou dost know them both ? 

Alf. I do. Say on, dear lady. 

Ann. Three weeks since 

The Duke of Melfi went to bring his ward 
Here to Messina 

Alf. To be crowned. They came not 

But wherefore went Prince Julian forth to meet them? 

Ann. Father nor cousin came ; nor messenger, 
From Regent or from King ; and Julian chafed 
And fretted at delay. At length a peasant. 
No liveried groom ; a slow foot-pacing serf, 
Brought tidings that the royal two that morn 
Left Villa d'Oro. Glowing from the chase 
Prince Julian stood; his bridle in his hand, 
New lighted, soothing now his prancing steed. 
And prattling now to me ; — for I was still 
So foolish fond to fly into the porch 
To meet him, when I heard the quick sharp tread 
Of that bright Arab, whose proud step I knew 
Even as his master's voice. He heard the tale 
And instant sprang again into his seat. 
Wheeled round, and darted oflT at such a pace 
As the fleet greyhound, at her speed, could scarce 
Have matched. He spake no word ; but as he passed, 
Just glanced ba(^k at me with his dancing eyes. 
And such a smile of joy, and such a wave 
Of his plumed bonnet ! His return thou know'st 

Alf. I was its wretched partner. 

Ann. IIp on foot, 

Thou on the o'er-travelled horse, slow, yet all stain'd 
With sweat, and panting as if fresh escaped 
From hot pursuit; and how he called fiir wine 
For his poor Theodore, his faithful page ; 
Then sate him down and shook with the cold fit 



Scene I.] 



JULIAN. 



615 



Of aguish fever, till the strong couch rocked 
Like a child's cradle. There he sate and sighed ; 
And then the frenzy came. Theodore! 

Alf. Lady ! 

Aim. He utters nought but madness; — yet some- 
times, 
Athwart his ravings, 1 have thought — have feared — 
Theodore, thou must know the cause ? 

Alf. Too well. 

Ann. Oh tell me — 

Alf. Hush ! lie wakes. 

[AJfunso retires behind the couch out 
of Julian's sight. 

Ann. Julian ! Dear Julian ! 

Jul. Sure I have slept a long, long while ! Where 
am I ? 
How came I hither? Whose kind hand is this? 
My Annabel! 

An7i. Oh what a happiness 

To see thee gently wake from gentle sleep! 
Art thou not better ? Shall I raise thee up? 

Jul. Ay, dearest. Have I then been ill? I'm weak. 
I trouble thee, my sweet one. 

Ann. 'T is a joy 

To minister unto thee. 

Jul. Wipe my brow. 

And part these locks that the fresh air may cool 
My forehead ; feel ; it burns. 

A?in. Alas ! how wild 

This long neglect hath made thy glossy curls, 
How tangled ! 

Jul. I am faint. Pray lay mc down. 

Surely the day is stifling. 

Ann. There. Good boy. 

Throw wide the casement. Doth not the soft breeze 
Revive thee ? 

Jul. Yes. I 'm better. I will rise. 

Raise me again; — more upright; — So! Dear wife, 
A sick man is as wayward as a child ; 
Forgive me. Have I been long ill? 

Ann. A week. 

Jul. I have no memory of aught. 'T is just 
Like waking from a dream ; a horrible 
Confusion of strange miseries; crime and blood 

And all 1 love Great heaven how clear it seems! 

How like a truth! I thought that I rode forth 

On my white Barbary horse Say, did I ride 

Alone that day ? 

Ann. Yes. 

Jul. Did r? Could I? No. 

Thou dost mistake. I did not. Yet 'tis strange 
How plain that horror lives within my brain 
As what hath been. 

Ann. Forget it. 

Jul. Annabel, 

I thought I vias upon that gallant steed 
At his full pace. Like clouds before the wind 
We flew, as easily as the strong bird 
That soars nearest the sun ; till in a pass 
Between the mountains, screams and cries of help 

Rang in mine ears, and I beheld Oh God ! 

It was not — Could not — No. I have been sick 
Of a sharp fever, and delirium shows. 
And to the l?(jdily sense makes palpable, 



Unreal forms, objects of sight and sound 
Which have no being save in the burning 'oram 
Of the poor sufferer. Why should it shake me! 

A7in. Julian! 

Could'st thou walk to the window and quaff down 
The fragrant breeze, it would revive thee more 
Than food or sleep. Forget these evil dreams. 
Canst thou not walk? 

Jul. I'll try. 

Aim. Lean upon me 

And Theodore. Approach, dear boy. support him. 

Jul. {seeing Alfonso) Ha ! Art thou here ? Thou ! 
I am blinded, dazzled ! 
Is this a vision, this fair shape that seems 
A living child ? Do I dream naw ? 

Ann. He is 

Young Theodore. The page, who that sad night 
Returned — 

Jul. Then all is real. Lay me down 

That I may die. 

Ann. Nay, Julian, raise thy head. 

Speak to me, dearest Julian. 

Jul. Pray for me 

That I may die. 

Alf. Alas! I feared too surely 

That when he saw me — 

Ann. Julian ! This is grief, 

Not sickness. Julian ! 

Alf. Rouse him not, dear lady ! 

See how his hands are clenched. Waken him not 
To frenzy. Oh that I alone could bear 
This weight of misery. 

A7in. He knows the cause. 

And I — It is my right, my privilege 
To share thy woes, to soothe them. I'll weep with 

thee. 
And that will be a comfort. Didst thou think 
Thou could'st be dearer to me than before 
When thou wast well and happy ? But thou art 
Now. Tell me this secret. I '11 be faithful. 
I 'II never breathe a word. Oh spare my heart 
This agony of doubt! What was the horror 
That maddened thee ? 

Jul. Within the rifted rocks 

Of high Albano, rotting in a glen 
Dark, dark at very noon, a father li 
Murdered by his own son. 

Ann. And thou didst see 

The deed ? An awful sight to one so good ! 
Yet— 

Jul. Birds obscene, and wolf, and ravening fox, 
Ere this — only the dark hairs on the ground 
And the brown crusted blood! And she can ask 
Why I am mad ! 

Aim. Oh a thrice awful sight 

To one so duteous ! Holy priests shall lave 
With blessed water that foul spot, and thou 
Pious and pitying, thou shalt — 

Jul. Hear at once. 

Innocent Torturer, that drop by drop 
Pour'st molten lead into my wounds — that glen — 
Hang not upon me ! — In that darksome glen 
My father lies. I am a murderer, 
A parricide, accurst of God and man. 



61U 



JULIAN. 



[Act I. 



Let go ray hand ! purest and whitest saint, 
Let go ! 

Ann. This is a madness. Even now 
The fever shakes him. 

Jul. Why, the mad are happy! 

Annabel, liiis is a soul-slaying truth. 
There stands a witness. 

AJf. Julian knew him not. 

It was to save a life, a worthless life. 
Oh that I had but died benealh the sword 
That seemed so terrible ! That I had ne'er 
Been born to grieve thee, Julian ! Pardon me, 
Dear lady, pardon me ! 

Ann. Oh, gentle boy. 

How shall we soothe this grief? 

Alf. Alas ! alas ! 

Why did he rescue me ! I 'm a poor orphan ; 
None would have wept for me ; I had no friend 
In all the world save one. I had been reared 
In simpleness ; a quiet grave had been 
A fitter home for me than the rude world ; 
A mossy heap, no slone, no epitaph. 
Save the brief words of grief and praise (for Grief 
Is still a Praiser) he perchance had spoke 
When they first told him the poor boy was dead. 
Shame on me that I shunned the sword ! 

Jul. By Heaven, 

It could not be a crime to save thee ! kneel 
Before him, Annabel. He is the King. 

Ann. Alfonso ? 

Alf. Ay, so please you, fairest Cousin, 

But still your servant. Do not hate me. Lady, 
Though I have caused this misery. We have shared 
One care, one fear, one hope, have watched and wept 
Together. Oh how often I have longed, 
As we sale silent by his restless couch, 
To fall upon thy neck and mix our tears, 
And talk of him. I am his own poor cousin. 
Thou wilt not hate me? 

Ann. Save that lost one, who 

Would hate such innocence ? 

Jid. 'T was not in hate. 

But wild ambition. No ignoble sin 
Dwelt in his breast. Ambition, mad ambition. 
That was his idol. To that bloody god 
He offered up the milk-white sacrifice, 
The pure unspotted victim. And even then. 
Even in the crime, without a breathing space 
For penitence or prayer, my sword — Alfonso, 
Thou would'st have gone to Heaven. 

Ann. Art thou certain 

That he is dead ? 

Jul. I saw him fall. The ground 

Was covered with his blood. 

Ann. Tell me the tale. 

Didst thou — I would not wantonly recall 
That scene of anguish — Didst thou search his wound ? 

Jul. Annabel, in my eyes that scene will dwell 
For ever, shutting out all lovely sights. 
Even thee, my Beautiful ! That torturing thought 
Will burn a living fire within my breast 
Perpetually; words can nothing add. 
And nothing take away. Fear not my frenzy ! 



I am calm now. Thou knowest how buoyantly 

I darted from thee, straight o'er vale and hill, 

Counting the miles by minutes. At the pass 

Between the Albano mountains, I first breathed 

A moment ray hot steed, expecting still 

To see the royal escort. Afiir off 

As I stood, shading with ray hand my eyes, 

I thought I saw them ; when at once I heard 

From the deep glen, east of the pass, loud cries 

Of mortal terror. Even in agony 

I knew the voice, and darting through the trees 

I saw Alfonso, prostrate on the ground. 

Clinging around the knees of one, who held 

A dagger over him in act to strike, 

Yet with avert. 4 head, as if he feared 

To see his innocent victim. His own face 

Was hidden; till at one spring I plunged my sword 

Into his side ; then our eyes met, and he 

That was the mortal blow ! — screamed and stretched 

out 
His hands. Falling and dying as he was, 
He half rose up, hung speechless in the air. 
And looked — Oh what had been the bitterest curse 
To such a look ! It smote me like a sword ! 
Here, here. He died. 

Ann. And thou ? 

Jtil. I could have lain 

In that dark glen for ever; but there stood 
The dear-bought, and the dear, kinsman and prince 
And friend. We heard the far-off clang of steeds 
And arraed men, and, fearing some new foe. 
Came homeward. 

Ann. And did he, then, the unhappy. 

Remain upon the ground ? 

JuL Alas I he did. 

Ann. Oh, it was but a swoon ! Listen, dear Julian, 
I tell thee I have comfort. 

Jul. There is none 

Left in the world. But I will listen to thee. 
My faithfullest. 

Ann. Count D'Alba sent to crave 

An audience. Thou wast sleeping. I refused 
To see him ; but his messenger revealed 
To Constance his high tidings, which she poured 
In my unwilling ears, for I so feared 
To wake thee, that ere half her tale was told 
I chid her from me ; yet she surely said 
The Duke thy fother— 

Jul. What? 

Ann. Approached the city. 

Jul. Alive? Alive? Oh no! no! no! Dead! Dead! 
The corse, the clay-cold corse ! 

Ann. Alive, I think; 

But Constance — 

Alf. lie will sink under this shock 

Of hope. 

Aim. Constance heard all. 

Jul. Constance ! What ho, 

Constance ! 

Ann. She hears thee not. 

Jul. Go seek her ! Fly ! 

If he 's alive — Why art thou not returned. 
When thai one little word will save two souls ! 

[Exit Annabel. 



Scene I.] 



JULIAN. 



617 



Alf. Take patience, dearest Count ! 

Jul. Do I not stand 

Here like a man of marble ? Do I stir ? 
She creeps ; she creeps. Thou would'st have gone 

and back 
In hair the time. 

Alf. Nay, nay, 'tis scarce a minute. 

Jul. Thou may'st count hours and ages on ray 
heart. 
Is she not coming ? 

Alf. Shall I seek lier! 

Jul. Hark! 

They've met. There are two steps; two silken gowns 
Rustling ; one whispering voice. Annabel ! Constance ! 
Is he — one word ! Only one word ! 

Enter Annabel. . 
Ami. He lives. 

[Julian sinks on his knees before the 
couch ; Alfonso and Annabel go to 
him, and the scene falls. 



ACT 11. 

SCENE I. 

A splendid Hall of Audience in the Royal Palace. 

D'Alha and Bertone. 

D'Alba. Again refuse to see me ! 

Bert. Nay, my lord, 

She's still beside her husband's couch, and Paolo 
Refused to bear the message. 

D'Alba. Even her lacquey 

Reads my hot love and her contempt. No matter ! 
How's Julian? 

Bert. Mending fast. 

D'Alba. He '11 live ! He'll live ! 

She watches over him, making an air 
With her sweet breath ; — he"ll be immortal ! Yet 
If that dark tale be true — or half— Bertone, 
Haste to the Court of Guard ; seek Juan Castro, 
A Spanish soldier ; lead him home. I '11 join ye. 
Hence ! I expect the Barons, w horn I summoned 
To meet me here. Come back. See if the Princess 
Will now admit me. No! 'twould wake suspicion. 
Hence to the Court of Guard. [Exit Bertone. 

I think that scorn 
Doth fan love more than beauty. Twice to-day 
Have r paced patiently these royal halls, 
Like some expecting needy courtier. Swell not. 
Proud charmer, thy vast debt! Where lag these 

Barons ? 
Methinks this change might rouse — 

Enter Calvi, followed by other Nobles. 

Ha ! Calvi, welcome. 
Calvi. A fair good morrow, D'Alba! 
D'Alba. Hast thou heard 

These heavy tidings ? The young King — 

[Approaching to meet tlie other Lords as 
they enter. 

My Lords, 

52* 



Good morrow 's out of date. Know ye the news? 
So men salute to-day. 

Calvi. Alfonso dead ? 

D'Alba. Murdered. 

Calvi. And Melfi king. 

D'Alba. Ay. Here 's a letter. 

[giving a letter to Calvi. 
From the great Regent — Pshaw! how my rude tongue 
Stumbles at these new dignities! — the King. 
Therefore I summoned ye. He will be here 
Anon. 

Enter Valore and other Nobles. 
Valore, thou art late. 

Valore. This tale 

Puts lead into men's heels. How fell it ? 

D'Alba. Read, 

Count Calvi ! Read ! 

Calvi (reads). "Alfonso being dead, and I hurt 
" almost to death, they left me fainting on the ground, 
" where I lay till a poor but honest muleteer bore me 

" to his hut" 

He hath been wounded ! 

D'Alba. He 's alive. The boy ! 

Only the pretty boy ! Read on. Read on. 

Calvi {reads). " Make known these missives to our 
" loyal people. We shall follow them straight. From 
" your loving cousin, 

"The King." 

Valore. The King. How he will w ear his state ! 
Why, D'Alba, 
Thy w-orshipped Annabel chose well ; she '11 be 
A Queen. 

D'Alba. Yet my poor title, had she graced it. 
Comes by unquestioned, sheer descent, unstain'd 
By dark mysterious murder. My good fathers — 
Heaven rest their souls I — lie safely in the church-yard, 
A simple race ; whilst these high Princes — Sirs, 
These palace walls have echoes, or I 'd tell ye — 
'Tis a deep riddle, but amongst them all 
The pretty boy is dead. 

Enter Leanli. 
Leanti ! 

I^eanti. Lords, 

The King is at the gate. 

D'Alba. The King ! Now, Sirs, 

Don your quick smiles, and bend your supple knees ; — 
The King! 

Enter Melfi. 

(Aside.) He's pale, he hath been hurt. (Aloud.) 
My liege, 
Your vassals bid you welcome. 

Melfi. Noble Signers, 

I greet you well. Thanks, D'Alba. Good Leanti, 
I joy to see those reverend locks. I never 
Thought to behold a friendly face again. 
And now I bring ye sorrow. Death hath been 
Too busy; though the ripe and bearded ear 
Escaped his sickle — but ye know the tale ; 
Ye w-elcomed me as King ; and I am spared 
The painful repetition. 

Valore. Sire, we know 

From your own royal hand enough for joy 



618 



JULIAN. 



[Act II. 



And sorrow: Death hath ta'en a goodly child 
And spared a glorious man. But how 

Melf.. My Lord, 

Whai would'st thou more ? Before I entered here 
Messina's general voice had hailed her Sovereign. 
I Lacks but the ceremonial form. 'T were best 
' The accustomed pageant were performed even now, 
Whilst ye, Sicilian Barons, strength and grace 
Of our Sicilian realm, are here to pledge 
Solemn allegiance. Say I sooth. Count D'Alba? 

D'Alba. In sooth, my liege, I know not. Seems to me 
One form is wanting. Our bereaved slate 
Stands like a widow, one eye dropping fears 
For her lost lord, the other turned with smiles 
On her new bridegroom. But even she, the Dame 
Of Ephesus, the buxom relict, famed 
For quick dispatch o'er every widowed mate. 
Woman, or state — even she, before she wed. 
Saw the good man entombed. The Funeral first; 
And then the Coronation. 

Melfi. Scoffer! Lords, 

The corse is missing. 

Calvi. Ha ! /Perchance he lives ! 

Mplfi. He fell, I tell thee. 

Valore. And the assassin ? 

Melji. He 

Escaped, when I too fell. 

D'Alba. He ! Why, my liege. 

Was there but one ? 

Melfi. What mean ye, Sirs ? Stand off 

D'Alba. Cannot your Highness guess the murderer ? 

Melfi. Stand from about me. Lords! Dare ye to front 
A King ? What, do ye doubt me ; you, or you ? 
Dare ye to doubt me ? Dare ye look a question 
Into mine eyes ? Take thy gaze off! A King 
Demands a modester regard. Now, Sirs, 
What do ye seek ? I tell ye, the fair boy 
Fell underneath the assassin's sword ; and I, 
Wounded almost to death, am saved to prove 
My subjects' faith, to punish, to reward, 
To reign, I tell ye, nobles. Now, who questions ? 
Who glares upon me now ? What ! are ye mute ? 

Isanti. Deign to receive our homage. Sire, and 
pardon 
The undesigned offence. Your Highness knows 
Count D'Alba's mood. 

Melfi.. And he knows mine. Well! Well! 

Be all these heats forgotten. 

Calm {to D'Alba.) How his eye 

Wanders around the circle ! 

Melfi- Ye are met. 

Barons of Sicily, in such august 
And full assemblage as may well beseem 
Your oflice, honour well yourselves and me ; 
Yet one is missing,— greatest, first and best, — 
My son. Knows not Prince Julian that his father 
Is here ? Will he not come ? Go some one say 
That I would see him. [Exit Calvi 

Valore. Sire, the prince hath laia 

Sick of a desperate malady. 

Melfi. Alas! 

And I — Sick didst thou say ? 

Valore. Eight days have passed 

Since he hath left his couch. 



Leanli. He 's better now. 

The gentle Princess, who with one young page 
Hath tended him 

Melfi. What page ? 

Leanli. A strange boy, 

Seen but of few, young Theodore. 

Melfi. A stranger! 

Say on. The Princess ? 

Leanli. As I crossed the hall 

I met her, with her own glad step, her look 
Of joy; and when [ asked how fared Prince Julian? 
She put her white hands into mine, with such 
A smile, and then passed on. 

Melfi. Without a word ? 

Leanli. Without a word, save the mute eloquence 
Of that bright smile. 

D'Alba. (aside.) Oh 't was enough ! on him ! 
Smile on that dotard ! Whilst I — {aloud) Why my 

lords 
Here 's a fine natural sympathy ; the son 
Sickens at the father's wound ! The veiy day ! 
The very hour ! He must have known the deed — 
Perhaps he knows the assassin . 

Melfi. Stop. 

D'Alba. My liege, 

I speak it in his honour. Many an heir 
Had been right glad to step into a throne 
Just as the mounting pulse of youth beat high ;— 
A soldier too ! and with a bride so fair. 
So delicate, so fashioned for a Queen 
By cunning nature. But he — for full surely 
He knew 

Melfi. Stop. No, no, no, he knew it not ! 

He is my son. 

Enter Calvi, followed by Julian. 

Calvi. My liege, the Prince ! 

Melfi.. Already! 

Pardon me, good my lords, that f request 
A moment's loneliness. We have been near 
To death since last — Have touched upon the grave. 
And there are thoughts, which only our own hearts 
Should hear. 1 pray ye pardon me. I'll join ye 
Within the hour for the procession. 

[Exeunt D'Alba, Leanli, Valore, Calvi, ^c. 
Julian ! 
Approach ! Come nearer ! Speak to me ! 

Jul. Mj Lord ! 

Melfi.. Has he forgot to call nie father! 

Jul. Father ! 

Melfi. I know what thou would'st say. The hat 
And sable plumes concealed — No more of it. 

Jul. Oh, father! 

^telfi. Rise, my son. Let us forget 

What — How is Annabel ? They say she has been 
A faithful nurse. Thou hast been sick 1 

Jul. I 'm well. 

Melfi. Fie ! when thou tremblest so. 

Jul. I'm well ! I have been 

Sick, brainsick, heart.sick, mad. I thought — I feared — 
It was a foretaste of the pains of Hell 
To be so mad and yet retain the sense 
Of that which made me so. But thou art here. 



Scene I.] 



JULIAN. 



619 



And I Oh nothing but a father's heart 

Could ever have forgiven! 

Mflfi. No more ! No more ! 

Thou hast not told me of thy wile. 

Jul. She waits 

To pay her duty. 

Melfi. Stay. Count D'Aiba looked 

With evil eyes upon Ihee, and on me 
Cast his accustomed tauntings. Js there aught 
Amiss between ye? 

Jul No. 

Melfi. He hath not yet 

Perhaps forgotten your long rivalry 
For Annabel's fair hand. A dangerous meaning 
Lurked in those bitter gibes. A dangerous foe 
Were D'Alba. Julian, the sea breeze to thee 
Brings health, and strength, and joy. I have an errand 
As far as Madrid. None so well as thou 
Can bid it speed. Thou shalt away to-day ; — 
'T is thy best medicine ; — thou and thy young wife. 
The wind is fair. 

Jul. To-day ! 

Melfi,. Have I not said ? 

Jul. Send me just risen from a sick couch to Mad- 
rid ! 
Send me from home, from thee! Banish me! Father! 
Canst thou not bear my sight? 

Melfi. I cannot bear 

Contention. Must I needs remind thee, Julian, 
I also have been ill ? 

Jul. I'll go to-day. 

How pale he is! I had not dared before 
To look upon his face. I'll go to-day. 

Melfi. This very hour! 

Jul. This very hour. 

Melfi. My son ! 

Now call thy — yet a moment. Where 's the boy — 
He shall aboard with thee — thy pretty page ? 

Jul. The King? Mean'st thou the King? 

Melfi. He whom thou call'st 

Jul. Wilt thou not say the King? 

Melfi. Young Theodore. 

Hearken, Prince Julian! I am glad, right glad 
Of what hath chanced. 'T was well to bring him 

hither, 
And keep him at thy side. He shall away 
To Spain with thee, that Theodore — Forget 
-•^U other titles. He'll be glad of this. 
A favourite page, a spoilt and petted boy, 
To lie in summer gardens, in the shade 
Of orange groves, whose pearly blossoms fall 
Amidst his clustering curls, and to his lute 
Sing tenderest ditties, — such his happy lo| ; 
Whilst I Go, bring thy wife. 

Jul. He is the King. 

Melfi. Call lady Annabel. 

Jul. The King, I say, 

The rightful King, the only King! I'll shed 
The last drop in my veins for King .Alfonso. 

Melfi. Once 1 forgave thee. But to beard me thus. 
And for a weak and peevish youth, a faintling, 
A boy of a girl's temper; one who shrinks 
Trembling and crouching at a look, a word, 
A lifted finger, like a beaten hound. 



Jul. Alas, poor boy! he hath no other friend 
Since thou, who should'st defend him — Father, Father, 
Three months have scarcely passed since thy dear 

brother, 
(Oh surely thou lovedst him !) with the last words 
He ever spake, besought th)' guardian care 
Of his fair child. Next upon me he turned 
His dying eyes, quite speechless then, and thou — 
I could not speak, for poor Alfonso threw 
Himself upon my breast, with such a gush 
Of natural grief, I had no utterance — 
But thou didst vow for both protection, faith, 
Allegiance ; thou didst swear so fervently. 
So deeply, that the spirit flew to Heaven 
Smiling. I'll keep that oath. 

Melfi. Even if again 

Thy sword — 

J)d. Urge not that on me. 'T is a fire 

Here in my heart, my brain. Bethink thee, father. 
Soldier or statesman, thine is the first name 
Of Sicily, the General, Regent, Prince, 
The unmatch'd in power, the unapproach'd in fame ; 
What could that little word, a King, do more 
For thee ? 

Melfi. That little word ! Why that is fame, 
And power, and glory! That shall fill the world. 
Lend a whole age its name, and float along 
The stream of time, with such a buoyancy. 
As shall endure when palaces and tombs 
Are swept away like dust. That little word ! 
Beshrew thy womanish heart that cannot feel 
Its spell ! [Guns and shouts are heard without. 

Hark! bark! the guns! I feel it now. 
I am proclaimed. Before I entered here 
'Twas known throughout the city that I lived. 
And the boy-king was dead. 

{Guns, bells, and shouts again. 
Hark, King Rugiero! 
Dost hear the bells and shouts ? Oh 't is a proud 
And glorious feeling thus at once to live 
Within a thousand bounding hearts, to hear 
The strong out-gushing of that present fame 
For whose uncertain dim futurity 
Men toil and slay and die ! Without a crime — 
I thank thee still fi)r that — Without a crime — 
For he'll be happier — I am a King. (Shouts again. 
Dost thou not hear, Long live the King Rugiero ? 

Jul. The shout is weak. 

Melfi. Augment it by thy voice. 

Would the words choak Prince Julian ? Cannot he 
Wish long life to his father ? 

Jul. Live, my father! 

Long live the Duke of Melfi ! 

Melfi. Live the King ! 

Jul. Long live the King Alfonso ! 

Melfi. Now, by Heaven, 

Thou art still brainsick. There is a contagion 
In the soft dreamy nature of that child. 
That thou, a soldier — I was overproud 
Of thee and thy young fame. That lofty brow 
Seem'd form'd to wear a crown. ChieHy for thee — 
Where is the Page ? 

Jul. Oh father, once again 

Take pity on us all ! For me ! For me ! 



620 



JULIAN 



[Act III. 



Tliou hast always been to me the kindest, fondest — 

Preventing ail my wishes — I'll not reason, 

I'll not conleiid with thee. Hero at thy feet, 

Prostrate in spirit as in form, I cry 

For mercy! Save me from despair! from sin! 

Mdfi. Unmanly, rise! lest in that slavish posture 
I treat thee as a slave. 

Jul. Strike an thou wilt. 

Thy words pierce deeper, to the very core ! 
Strike an thou wilt; but hear me. Oh my father, 
I do conjure thee, by that name, by all 
The boundless love it guerdons, spare my soul 
This bitterness! 

Melfi. I'll reign. 

Jul. Ay, reign indeed ; 

Rule over mightier realms ; be conqueror 
Of crowned passions; king of thy own mind. 
I've ever loved thee as a son, do this 
And I shall worship thee. I will cling to thee; 
Thou shalt not shake me off. 

Melji. Go to ; thou art mad. 

Jul. Not yet ; but thou may'st make me so. 

Melji. I'll make thee 

The heir of a fair crown. 

Jul. Not all the powers 

Of all the earth can force upon my brow 
That heritage of guilt. Cannot I die? 
But that were happiness. I 'd rather drag 
A weary life beneath the silent rule 
Of the stern Trappist, digging my own grave, 
Myself a living corse, cut off from the sweet 
And natural kindness that man shows to man ; 
I 'd rather hang, a hermit, on the steep 
Of horrid Etna, between snow and fire; 
Rather than sit a crown'd and honour'd prince 
Guarded by ciiildren, tributaries, friends. 
On an usurper's throne. {Guns without. 

MclJi. I must away. 

We'll talk of this anon. Where is the boy? 

Jul. Safe. 

Mdji. Trifle not with my impatience, Julian ; 
Produce the child. Howe'er thou may'st deny 
Allegiance to the king, obey thy father. 

Jul. I had a father. 

MIfi. Ha! 

Jid. But he gave up 

Faith,, loyalty, and honour, and pure fame. 
And his own son. 

Melji. My son ! 

Jul. I loved him once, 

And dearly. Still too dearly! But with all 
That burning, aching, passionate old love 
Wrestling within my breast; even face to face; 
Those eyes upon me ; and that trembling hand 
Thrilling my very heart-strings — Take it off! 
In mercy take it off! — Still I renounce thee. 
Thou hast no son. I have no father. Go 
Down to a childless grave. 

Melji. Fven from the grave 

A father's curse may reach thee, clinging to thee 
Cold iis a dead man's shroud, shadowing Ihy days. 
Haunting thy dretiins, and hant^ing, a thick cloud, 
'Twixt lliee and Heaven. Then, when perchance 
thine own 



Small prattling pretty ones shall climb thy knee 
And bid thee bless them, think of thy dead father, 
And groan as thou dost now. (Guns again. 

Hark! 'tis the hour! 
J must away. Back to tliy chamber, son, 
And choose if I shall curse thee. [Exit Melji. 

Jul. Did he curse me ? 

Did he? Am I that withered, blasted wretch ? 
Is that the fire that burns my brain ? Not yet! 
Oh do not curse me yet ! He 's gone. The boy! 
The boy ! (Rushes out. 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. 

A Magnijicent Cathedral. A Gothic Monument in the 
Foreground, with Steps round it, and the Figure of 
an Old Warrior on the top. 

D'Alba, Leanti, Valore, Calvi, and other Nobles. 

Calvi. Where stays the King ? 

Leanti. He 's robing to assume 

The Crown. 

Calvi. What a gloom reigns in the Cathedral ! 

Where are th'^ people, who should make and grace 
This pageant? 

Valore. 'Tis loo sudden. 

D'AJba. Saw ye not 

How coldly, as the slow procession moved. 
Men's eyes were fixed upon him? Silently 
We passed amidst dull silence. I could hear 
The chink of money, which the heralds flung. 
Reverberate on the pavement. They, who stooped 
To gather up the coin, looked on the impress 
Of young Alfonso, sighed and shook their heads 
As 'twere his funeral. 

Calm. Methinks this place, 

The general tomb of his high line, doth cry 
Shame on us! The mute citizens do mourn him 
Better than we. 

D'Alba. Therefore the gates are closed. 

And none but peers of Sicily may pass 
The guarded doors. 

Isanti. Where is Prince Julian ? 

D'Alba. Sick. 

Here comes the Mighty One, and the great Prelates 
That shall anoint his haughty brow ; 'tis benf 
With a stern joy. 

Enter Milji, in Royal Robe!>, preceded by Nobles, 
Ojficers, ^c. bearing the Crown, Archbishop, 
Bishops, ^c. 

Melji. No! To no tapered shrine. 

Here, reverend Fathers, here ! This is my altar: 
The tomb of my great ancestor, who first 
Won from the Paynim this Sicilian crown. 
And wore it gloriously ; whose name I bear, 
As I will bear his honour'd sceptre. Here, 
At this most kingly altar, will I plight 
My vow to Sicily, the nii))tial vow 
That links my fate to hcr's. Here I'll receive 
Her Barons' answering faith. Hear me, Ihou shade 
Of great Rugiero, whilst I swear to guard 
With heart and hand the realm thy valour won, 



Scene I.] 



JULIAN. 



621 



The laws Ihy wisdom framed — l3rave legacy 
To prince and people ! To defend their rights, 
To rule in truth and justice, peacefully, 
If peace may be ; and with the awful arm 
Of lawful power to sweep the oppressor off 
From thy blest Isle ; to be the Peasants' King- 
Nobles, hear that ! — the Peasants' King and yours ! 
Look down, Ancestral Spirit, on my oatli. 
And sanctify and bless it! Now the crown. 

D'Alha. What noise is at the gale? 

Melji. Crown me, I say. 

Arrhh. 'Tis fallen ! Save us from the ill omen ! 

MelJl. Save us 

From thy dull hands, old dotard .' Thou a Priest, 
And tremble at the touch of power! Give me 
The crown. 

D'AIba. It fits thee not. 

Melf,. Give me the crown, 
And with a steady grasp it shall endue 
These throbbing brows that burn till they be bound 
With that bright diadem. 

Enter Julian and Alfonso. 

Jul. Stop. Place it here! 

This is the King! the real, the only King! 
The living King Alfonso! 

Melfi. Out, foul traitor! 

'T is an impostor. 

Jul. Look on him. Count D'Alba! 

Calvi, Valore, look! Ye know him well. 
And ye that never saw him, know ye not 
His father's lineaments ? Remove thy hand 
From that fair forehead. T 'is the pallid brow 
Bent into pensiveness, the dropping eyelid. 
The womanish changing cheek — his very self! 
Look on him. Do ye know him ? Do ye own 
Your King ? 

Calvi. 'Tis he. 

D'Alba. The boy himself! 

Jul. Now place 

The crown upon his head ; and hear me swear. 
Low at his feet, as subject, kinsman. Prince, 
Allegiance. 

Alf. Rise, dear Cousin. 

Jul. Father, kneel. 

Kneel here with me, ihou his first subject, thou 
The guardian of the state, kneel first, and vow 
Thy princely fealty. 

Ak'lfi. Hence, abject slave ! 
And thou, young minion 

Jul. to Alf. Fear not. Father, kneel ! 

Look where thou art. This is no place, rny lord. 
To dally with thy duty: underneath 
Thy fathers sleep; above their banners wave 
Heavily. Death is round about us. Death 
And Fame. Have they no voice for thee ? Not one 
Of our long sloried line but lived and died 
A pure and faithful Knight, and left his son 
Honour — proud heritage ! I am thine heir. 
And I demand that bright inheritance 
Unstained, undimmed. Kneel, 1 implore thee ! I, 
Thy son. 

Melfi.. Off; cursed viper ! 
OfT, ere 1 hurl thee on the stones ! 



Jul. I 've done 

My duty. Was it not my duty ? 

Alf Julian, 

Sit here by me ; here on the steps. 

D'Alba. Again 

We must demand of thee, my Lord of Melfi, 
How chanced this tale of murder? Here 's our Prince, 
Safe and unhurt. But where 's the assassin? Where 
The regicide? Where he that wounded thee? 

Melf. (pointing to Julian.) Demand of him. 

D'Alba. Where be these murderers? 

Art sure thou saw'st them, Duke? Or was 't a freak 
Of the deft Fay Morgana ? Didst thou feel 
The trenchant blade ? Or was the hurt thou talk'st of 
A fairy wound, a phantasm? Once again 
I warn thee, speak. 

Melf. Demand Prince Julian, Sir : 

This work is his. 

D' All/a. He speaks not. Little King, 

What say'st thou ? 

Alf Julian saved me. 

D'Alba. Saved ! From whom ? 

From what ? 

Alf. A king should have no memory 

But for good deeds. My lords, an it so please you, 
We '11 to the Palace. 1 '11 not wear to-day 
This crown. Some fitting season ; but not now. 
I 'm weary. Let us home. 

D'Alba. Ay, lake him hence. 

Home with him, Count Valore. Stay by him 
Till I come to ye. Leave him not. Nay, Calvi, 
Remain. Hence with the boy. 

AJf My cousin Julian, 

Wilt thou not go with us? 

Jul. I 've done rny duty. 

Was 't not my duty ? But look there ! look there ! 
I cannot go with thee. I am his now — 
All his. 

Alf. Uncle 

Melfi. Away, bright spotted worm 

D'Alba. What, ho! the guard ! 

Alf. My Lord, where Julian is 

I need no guard. Question no more of this, 
But follow us. 

[Exeunt Alfonso, Valore, and other Nobles. 

Melfi.. I do contemn myself 

That I hold silence. Warriors, kinsmen, friends, 
Barons of Sicily, the valiant princes 
Of this most fertile and thrice famous Isle, 
Hear me ! What yonder crafty Count hath dared, 
With subtle question and derisive smile. 
To slide into a meaning, is as true 
As he is false. I would be King; I'd reign 
Over fair Sicily; I 'd call myself 
Your Sovereign, Princes ; thine. Count D'Alba, thine, 
Calvi, and old Leanti — we were comrades 
Many a year in the rough path of war. 
And now ye know me all. I '11 be a King 
Fit for this warlike nation, which brooks sway 
Only of men. Yon slight fair boy is born 
With a woman's heart. Let him go tell his beads. 
For us and (or our kingdom, I '11 be King. 
I '11 lend unto that title such a name, 
As shall enchase this bauble with one blaze 



622 



JULIAN, 



[Act III. 



Of honour. I 'II lead on to glory, lords, 

And ye shall shine in the brightness of my fame 

As planets round the sun. What say ye ? 

D'Alba. Never! 

Calvi, <^c. Never! 

Mc(fi. Say thou, Leanti, thou 'rt a soldier 

Worthy of the name, — a brave one I What say'st thou ? 

Leanti. If young Alfonso 

D'Alba. Peace. Why, this is well. 

This morning I received a tale — I 'm not 
An over-believer in man's excellence; 
I know that in this slippery path of life 
The firmest foot may fail ; that there have been 
Ere now ambitious generals, grasping heirs, 
Unnatural kinsmen, foul usurpers, murderers! — 
I know that man is frail, and might have fallen 
Though Eve had never lived. — Albeit I own 
The smiling mischief's potency. But this, 
This tale was made up of such several sins, 
All of them devilish ; treason, treachery, 
And pitiless cruelty made murder pale 
With their red shame, — I doubt not readily 
When man and guilt are joined — but this the common 
And general sympathy that links our kind 
Forbade to believe. Yet now before you all. 
His peers and mine, before the vacant throne 
He sought to usurp, before the crown that fell 
As conscious from his brow, I do arraign 
Rugiero, Duke of Melfi, General, Peer, 
Regent, and Prince, of Treason. 

Melfi. Treason! D'Alba, 

We quarrel not for words. Let these but follow 
And bold emprise shall bear a happier name. 
Sicilians, have ye losi your Island spirit ? 
Barons, is your ancient bravery tamed down 
By this vain scoffer ? I 'II to the people. They 
Love their old soldier. 

D'Alba. Stop. Duke, I arraign thee 

Of murder; planned, designed, attempted murder. 
Though incomplete, on the thrice sacred person 
Of young Alfonso, kinsman, ward, and King. 
Wilt thou defend this too? Was 't a brave deed 
To draw the assassin's sword on that poor child ? 
Seize him! 

Melfi. Come near who dares ! Where be thy proofs ? 
Where be thy witnesses ? 

D'Alba. There's one. Prince Julian, 

Rouse thee ! He sits erect and motionless 
As yon ancestral image. Doth he breathe ? 
Rouse thee, and answer, as before thy God, 
As there is truth in Heaven. Did'st thou not see 
Thy father's sword at young Alfonso's breast? 
Lay not the boy, already dead with fear. 
At his false guardian's leet? Answer! 

Melfi. Ay, speak. 

Prince Julian ! Dost thou falter now ? On, on. 
And drive the dagger home ! On, on, I say. 

Calvi. We wait your Highness' answer. 

Jul- Which among ye 

Dares question me? What are ye. Sirs? 

D'Alba. The States 

Of Sicily. 

Jul. The Slates ! Without a head ! 

Without a King ! Without a Regent !' States ! 



The States ! Are ye the States that 'gainst all form 
Of justice or of guardian law drive on 
To bloody trial hun your Greatest ? Here too ! 
Here ! Wdl ye build up scaffolds in your churches ? 
And turn grave priests to headsmen ? 1 '11 not answer. 

Calvi. The rack may force thee. 

D'Alba. He but smiles. Convey 

The Duke to the Hall of Justice. We shall follow. 
Go summon Juan Castro thither. Hence ! 
Why loiter ye ? 

Melfi. A word with thee, Prince Julian. 

I pray ye listen, 'tis no treason, lords. 
I would but say, finish thy work. Play well 
The part that thou hast chosen. Cast aside 
All filial yearnings. Be a gallant foe. 
Rush onward through the fight. Trample me down. 
Tread on my neck. Be perliict in that quality 
Which thou call'st justice. Quell thy womanish 

weakness. 
Let me respect the enemy, whom once 
I thought my son. 

Jul. Once, father ! 

Melfi. I 'ra no father ! 

Rouse not my soul to curse thee ! Tempt ine not 
To curse thy mother — She whom once 1 deemed 
A saint in purity ; Be resolute. 
Palter not with them. Lie not. 

Jul. Did I ever? 

Melfi. Finish thy work. On, soldiers! 

[Exit Melfi, guarded. 

D'Alba. Answer, Prince! 

The Duke, as thou hast heard, disclaims thee. 

Jul. Dare not 

A man of yc say that. I am his son — 
Tremble lest my sword should prove me so; — a part 
Of his own being. He gave me this life, 
These senses, these affections. The quick blood 
That knocks so strongly at my heart is his — 
Would I might spill it for him ! Had ye no fathers, 
Have ye no sons, that ye would train men up 
In parricide ? I will not answer ye. 

D'Alba. This passion is thy answer. Could'st thou 
say 
No ; in that simple word were more comprised 
Than in a world of fiery eloquence. 
Canst thou not utter No ? 'T is short and easy, 
The first sound that a stuttering babe vvill lisp 
To his fond nurse, — yet thy tongue stammers at it! 
I ask him if his fiilher be at once 
Traitor and Murderer, and he cannot say. 
No! 

Jul. Subtle blood-thirsty fiend ! I'll answer 
To nought that thou canst ask. Murder! The king 
Lives. Seek of him. One truth I'll tell thee, D'Alba, 
And then the record of that night shall pass 
Down to the grave in silence. But one sword 
Was stained with blood in yonder glen — 'twas mine » 
I am the ojily guilty. This I sw'ear 
Before the all-seeing God, whose quenchless gaze 
Pierced through that twilight hour. Now condemn 
The Duke of Melfi, an ye dare ! I'll speak 
No more on this foul question. 

Leanti. Thou the guilty ? 

Thou! 



Scene I.] 



JULIAN. 



623 



J<d. I have said it. 

D'Alha. I had heard a tale — 

Lennti. This must be sifted. 

D'Alha. In that twilight hour 

A mortal eye beheld them. An old Spaniard, 
One of the guard — By heaven it is a tale 
So bloody, so unnatural, man may scarce 
Believe it ! 

Leanti. And the king still lives. 

D'Alha. Why 'tis 

A mystery. Let's to the Hall of Justice 
And hear this soldier. Sir, they are ambitious, 
Father and son — We can pass judgment there, 
This is no place ; — Leanti, more ambitious 
Than thou canst guess. 

Jul. Ay, by a thousand fold ! 

I am an eaglet born, and can drink in 
The sunlight, when the blinking owls go darkling, 
Dazzled and blinded by the day. Ambitious! 
I have had daydreams would have shamed the visions 
Of that great master of the world, who wept 
For other worlds to conquer. I 'd have lived 
An age of sinless glory, and gone down 
Storied and epilaphed and chronicled. 
To the very end of time. Now — But I still 
May suffer bravely, may die as a Prince, 
A man. Ye go to judgment. Lords, remember 
I am the only guilty. 

Calvi. We must needs. 

On such confession, give you into charge 
A prisoner. Ho ! Captain. 

Leanti. Goes he vvilh us? 

D'Alha. No; for the hall is near, and they are best 
Questioned apart. Walk by me, good Leanti, 
And I will show thee why. 

Leanti. Is 't possible 

That Julian stabb'd his father? 

D'Alha. No. Thou saw'st 

They met as friends ; no ! no ! 

[Exeunt Calvi and other Lords. 

Enter Annabel. 

Ann. Where is he? Where? 

Julian ! 

D'Alha. Fair Princess — 

An?i. Stay me not. My Julian! 

D'Alha. Oh, how she sinks her head upon his arm I 
How her curls kiss his cheek ! and her white hand 
Lies upon his ! The cold and sluggish husband ! 
He doth not clasp that loveliest hand, which nature 
Fashioned to gather roses, or to hold 
Bunches of bursting grapes. 

Leanti. Count D'Alba, see, 

We are alone. Wilt thou not come ? 

D'Alha. Anon. 

Now he hath seized her hand, hath dared to grasp, 
He shall not hold it long. 

Leanti. They'll wait us, Count. 

D'Alha. That vihite hand shall be mine. 

[Exeunt D'Alha and Leaiiti. 

Jul. My Annabel, 

Why art thou here? 

Ann. They said — I was a fool 

That believed them ! — Constance said she heard a cry, 



Down with the Melfi ! and the rumour ran 
That there had been a fray, that thou wast slain. 
But thou art safe, my Julian. 

Jul. As thou seest. 

Thou art breathless still. 

Ann. Ay. I flew through the streets. 

Piercing the crowds like light. I was a fool ; 
But thou hadst left me on a sudden, bearing 
The young Alfonso with thee, high resolve 
Fixed in thine eye. I knew not — Love is fearful ; 
And I have learnt to fear. 

Jul. Thou tremblest still. 

Ann. The Church is cold and lonely ; and that seat. 
At the foot of yon grim warrior, all too damp 
For thee. I like not thus to see thee, Julian, 
Upon a tomb. Thou must submit thee still 
To thy poor nurse. Home ! By the way thou'lt tell me 
What hath befallen. Where is Alfonso ? 

Jul. Say 

The King! the rightful, the acknowledged King! 
Annabel, this rude stone 's the effigy 
Of the founder of our line; the gallant chief 
Who swept away the Saracen, and quelled 
Fierce civil broils ; and, when the people's choice 
Crowned him, lived guardian of their rights, and died 
Wept by them as a father. And methinks 
To-day I do not shame my ancestor; 
I dare to sit here at his feet, and feel 
He would not spurn his son. Thou dost not grieve 
To lose a crown, my fairest? 

Amu Oh no ! no ! 

I 'm only proud of thee. Thy fame 's my crown. 

Jul. Not fame but conscience is the en 'uring 
crown, 
Ar ! wearing that impearled, why to lose fame 
Or life were nothing. 

A7in. Where 's thy father, Julian ? 

Forgive me, I have pained thee. 

Jul. No. The pang 

Is mastered. Where? He is a prisoner 
Before the States. I am a prisoner here. 
These are my guards. Be calmer. Sweetest. Rend 

not 
This holy place with shrieks. 

Ann. They seek thy life ! 

They'll sentence thee! They'll kill thee! No! they 

shall not. 
Unless they kill me first. What crime — O God, 
To talk of crime and thee ! — What falsest charge 
Dare they to bring ? 

Jul. Somewhat of yon sad night 

They know. 

Ann. Where 's Theodore ! the page ? the King? 
Doth he accuse thee too ? 

Jul, Poor gentle Cousin ! 

He is as innocent as thou. 

Ann. I'll fetch him. 

We'll go together to the States. We 'II save thee. 
We, feeble though we be, woman and boy, 
We '11 save thee. Hold me not ! 

Jul. Where would'st thou go ? 

Ann. To the States. 

Jul. And there ? 

Ann. I '11 tell the truth, the truth, 



624 



JULIAN. 



[Act IV. 



The irresistible truth ! Let go. A moment 
May cost ihy life,— our lives. Nothing but truth, 
That 's ail thy cause can need. Let go. 

Jul. And he, 

My father ? 

Ann. What 's a thousand such as he 
To thee, my husband ! But he shall be safe. 
He is thy father. 1 '11 say naught can harm him. 
He was ever kind to me ! I '11 pray for him. 
Nay, an thou fear'st me, Julian, I 'II not speak 
One word ; I 'II only kneel before them all. 
Lift up my hands, and pray in my inmost heart, 
As I pray to God. 

Jul. My loving wife, to Him 

Pray, to Him only. Leave me not, my dearest ; 
There is a peace around us in this pause, 
This interval of torture. I'm content 
And strong to suffer. Be thou — 

Enter D'Alba, Calm, Leanti, and Nobles. 
Ha! returned 
Already! This is quick. But I'm prepared. 
The sentence ! 

Ann. Tell it not! Ye are his Judges. 

Ye have the power of life or dealh. Your words 
Are fate. Oh speak not yet! Listen to me. 
D'Alba. Ay; a long summer's day! What would'st 

thou? 
Ann. Save him! 

Save him ! 
D'Alba. He shall not die. 

■^nn. Now bless thee, D'Alba! 

Bless thee ! He 's safe ! He 's free ! 

Jul- Once more I ask 

His doom, for that is mine. If ye have dared, 
In mockery of justice, to arraign 
And sentence your great ruler, with less pause 
Than a petty thief taken in the manner, what 's 
Our doom ? 

D'Alba. Sir, our great ruler (we that love not 
Law's tedious circumstance may thank him) spared 
Ail trial by confession. He avowed 
Treason and regicide; and all that thou 
Had'st said or might say, he avouched unheard 
For truth ; then cried, a.s thou hast done, for judgment. 
For death. 
Jul. I can die too. 
Leanti. A milder doom 

Unites ye. We have spared the royal blood. 

D'Alba. Only the blood. Estates and honours all 
Are forfeit to the King ; the assembled Slates 
Banish ye ; the most holy Church declares ye 
Beneath her ban. This is your sentence, Sir. 
A Herald waits to read it in the streets 
Before ye, and from out the city gate 
To thrust ye, outlawed, excommunicate. 
Infamous amongst men. Ere noon to-morrow 
Ye must depart from Sicily ; on pain 
Of death to ye the outlaws, death to all 
That harbour ye, death to whoe'er shall give 
Food, shelter, comfort, speech. So pass ye forth 
In infamy '. 

Ann. Eternal infamy 
Rest on your heads, fiilso judges! Outlawed! Ban- 
ished ! 



Bereft of state and title ! Thou art still 
Best of the good, greatest amongst the great. 
My Julian ! Must they die that give thee food 
And rest and comfort ? I shall comfort thee, 
I thy true wife! I 'U never leave thee. Never! 
We '11 walk together to the gate, my hand 
In thine, as lovers. Let 's set forth. We '11 go 
Together. 

Jul. Ay ; but not to-night. I 'II meet thee 
To-morrow at the harbour. 

Ann. No ! no ! no ! 

I will not leave thee. 

Jul. Cling not thus. She trembles. 

She cannot walk. Brave Sir, we have been comrades; 
There is a pity in thine eye, which well 
Beseems a soldier. Take this weeping lady 
To King Alfonso. Tell the royal boy. 
One, who was once his Cousin and his fi-iend. 
Commends her to him. Go. To-morrow, dearest, 
We 'II meet again. Now for the sentence. Lords, 
I question not your power. I submit 
To all, even to this shame. Be quick! be quick! 

[Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 

SCENE L 

A7i Apartment in the Royal Palace. 

D'Alba, Berlone. 

D'Alba. I 've parted them at last. The livelom 
night 
The little King lay, like a page, before 
Her chamber door; and ever as he heard 
A struggling sigh within, he cried, Alas! 
And echoed back her moan, and uttered words 
Of comfort. Happy boy ! 

Bert. But he is gone 

Towards the gate : be sure to meet Prince Julian. 

D'Alba. For that I care not, so that I secure 
The vision which once flitted from my grasp 
And vanished like a rainbow. 

Bert. Yet is Julian 

Still dangerous. 

D'Alba. Why, after noon to-day — • 

And see the sun's already iiigh ! — he dies 
If he be found in Sicily. Take thou 
Two resolute comrades to pursue his steps. 
Soon as the time be past. Did'st thou not hear 
The proclamation? Knovv'st thou where he bides? 
And Melfi ? 

Bert. Good, my lord, 't is said the Duke 

Is dead. 

D'Alba. Dead! 

Bert. Certain 't is that yesternight 

He walked from out the Judgment Hall like one 
Dreaming, with eyes that saw not. ears that hoard 
No sound, staggering and tottering like old age 
Or infancy. And when the kingly rolie 
Was plucked from him, and he forced from the gate, 
A deep wound in his side burst forth; the blood 
AVelled like a fountain, 

D'Alba. And he died ? 



Scene II.] 



JULIAN. 



625 



Bert. He fell 

Fainting ; and Julian, who had tended him 
Silently, with a spirit so absorbed 
His own shame seemed unfelt, fell on his neck 
Shrieking like maddening woman. There we left him. 
And there 't is said he hath outvvatched the night. 

D'Alba. There on the ground ? 

Bert. So please you. 

D'Alba. Thou hast known 

A softer couch. Prince Julian. Is the litter 
Prepared ? And the old groorn ? 

Bert. My lord, he waits 

Your pleasure. ^ 

D'Alba. Call him hither. [Exit Berione. 

Blood welled out 
From a deep wound ! Said old Leanti sooth 1 
No matter. Either way he 's guilty. 

Re-enter Berione with Renzi. 
Ha! 
A reverend knave. Wast thou Prince Julian's hunts- 
man ? 
Renzi. An please you. Sir, I was. 
D'Alba. Dost know the Princess ? — 

Doth she know thee ? 

Rerczi. Full well, my Lord. I tended 

Prince Julian's favourite greyhound. It was strange 
How Lelia loved my lady, — the poor fool 
Hath pined for her this week past, — and my lady 
Loved Lelia. She would :5troke her glossy head, 
And note her sparkling eyes, and watch her gambols, 
And talk of Lelia's beauty, Lelia's speed, . 
Till I was weary. 

D'Alba. And the angel deemed 

This slave as faithful as her dog! The better. 
Dost thou love ducats, Renzi? 

{Tossing him a purse. 
Canst thou grace 
A lie with tongue and look and action ? 
Renzi. Ay. 

D'Alba. Go to the Princess; say thy master sent 
thee 
To guide her to him, or the young Alfonso, — 
Use either name, or both. Spare not for tears. 
Or curses. Lead her to the litter; see 
That Constance follows not. Bertone'll gain 
Admittance for thee. Go. 

[Exit Renzi. 
Bertone, seek me 
A supple churchman ; — Knnw'st thou any? One 
Not scrupulous ; one who loves gold, and laughs 
.At conscience. Bring him to me. I must hasten 
Silently home. Let not the Princess guess 
That I have left the palace. 

Bert No, my Lord. 

[Exeunt severally. 

SC^NR n. 
The Country just wilhout the Gates of Messina. 
A hilly bach-ground. 
Mdfi, lying on the Stage, Julian. 
Jul. He wakes ! lie is not dead ! I am not yet 
A parricide. I dare not look on him ; 
I dare not speak. 



Mclfi. 



Water! My throat is scorched. 

[Exit Julian^ 

My tongue cleaves to my mouth. Water! Will none 
Go fetch me water? Am I here alone? 
Here on the bloody ground, as on that night — 
Am I there still ? Ko! I remember now. 
Yesterday I was a King; today I'm nothing; 
Cast down by my own son ; stabbed in my fame ; 
Branded and done to dealh; an outlaw where 
I ruled ! He, whom I loved with such a pride. 
With such a loudness, hath done this ; and I, 
I liave not strength to drag me to his presence 
That I might rain down curses on his head. 
Might blast him with a look. 

Enter Julian. 

Jill. Here 's water. Drink ! 

Melji. What voice is that ? Why dost thou shroud 
thy face ? 
Dost shame to show thyself? Who art thou ? 

Jul. Drink ! 

I pray thee, drink ! 

Melfi. Is't poison? 

Jill. 'T is the pure 

And limpid gushing of a natural spring 
Close by yon olive-ground. A little child. 
Who stood beside the fount, watching the bright 
And mnny-coloured pebbles, as they seemed 
To dance in the bubbling water, filled for me 
Her beechen cup, with her small innocent hand, 
.\nd bade Our Lady bless the draught ! Oh drink ! 
Have faith in such a blessing ! 

Mclfi. Thou should'st bring 

Nothing but poison. Hence, accursed cup!- 
I '11 perish in my thirst. I know thee, Sir. 

Jul. Father ! 

Melfi. I have no son. I had one once, 
A gallant gentleman ; but he — What, Sir, 
Didst thou never hear of that Sicilian Prince, 
Who made the fabulous tale of Greece a truth. 
And slew his father? The old Laius fell 
At once, unknowing and unknown; but this 
New (Edipus, he stabbed and stabbed and stabbed, 
And the poor wretch cannot die. 

Jul. I think my heart 

Is iron that it breaks not. 

Melfi. I should curse him — 

And yet — Dost thou not know that I 'ra an outlaw. 
Under the ban ? They stand in danger, Sir, 
That talk to me. 

Jul. I am an outlaw too. 

Thy fate is mine. Our sentence is alike. 

Mclfi,, What! have they banished thee? 

Jul. I should have gone. 

In very truth, I should have gone with thee. 
Ay, to the end of the world. 

Melfi. What, banish thee ! 

Oh, foul ingratitude! Weak changeling boy! 

Jul. He knows it not. Father, this banishment 
Came as a comfort to me, set me free 
From warring duties and fatiguing cares, 
And left mo wholly thine. We shall be happy; 
For she goes with us, who will prop thy steps, 
As once the maid of Thebes, Antigone, 
In that old tale. Choose thou whatever land, — 



626 



JULIAN. 



[Act IV. 



All are alike to us. But pardon me ! 
Say thou hast pardoned me ! 

Mt'IJt. My virtuous son ! 

Jid. Oh thanks to thee and Heaven ! He sinks ; 
he's faint ; 
Ills lips wax pale. I'll seek the spring once more: 
'Tis thirst. 

Mrlfi. What music 's that ? 

Jul. I hear none. 

Melfi. Hark ! 

Ji/l. Thou art weak and dizzy. 

Mc/fi. Angels of the air. 

Cherub and Seraph, sometimes watch around 
The dying, and the mortal sense, at pause 
'Twixt life and death, doth drink in a faint echo 
Of heavenly harpings ! 

Jul. I have heard so. 

Mclfi. Ay; 

But they were just men, Julian ! They were holy. 
They were not traitors. 

Jul. Strive against these thoughts — 

Thou wast a brave man, father! — fight against them, 
As 'gainst the Paynims thy old foes. He grows 
Paler and paler. Water from the spring; 
Or generous wine ; — I saw a cottage near. 
Rest thee, dear father, till I come. [Exit Julian. 

Melfi. Again 

That music ! It is mortal ; it draws nearer. 
No. But if men should pass, must I lie here 
Like a crushed adder? Here in the highway 
Trampled beneath their feet ? — So ! So ! I '11 crawl 
To yonder bank. Oh that it were the deck 
Of some great Admiral, and I alone 
Boarding amidst a hundred swords! the breach 
Of some strong citadel, and I the first 
To mount in the cannon's mouth ! I was brave once. 
Oh for the common undistinguished death 
Of battle, pressed by horses' heels, or crushed 
By falling towers ! Any thing but to lie 
Here like a leper! 

E,nler Alfonso, Valore, and Calvi. 

Alf. 'T is the spot where .Julian 

And yet I see him not. I '11 pause awhile ; 
'Tis likely he'll return. I '11 wait. 

Calvi. My liege, 

You 're sad to-day. 

Alf. I have good cause to be so. 

Valore. Nay, nay, cheer up. 

Alf. Didst thou not tell me, Sir, 

That my poor Uncle 's banished, outlawed, laid 
Under the church's ban ? 

Calvi. He would have slain 

His Sovereign. 

Alf. I ne'er said it. Yesterday 
r found you at his feet. Oh, would to Heaven 
That crown were on his head, and I What's that? 

Val. The moaning wind. 

Calvi. He was a traitor. Sire. 

Alf. He was my kinsman still. And Julian! Ju- 
lian! 
My cousin Julian ! he who saved my life, 
Whose only crime it was to be too good, 
Too great, too well beloved, — to banish him ! 
To tear him from my arms ! 



Calvi. Sire, he confessed 

Alf. Ye should have questioned me. Sirs, I 'm 
a boy, 
A powerless, friendless boy, whose name is used 
To cover foul oppression. If I live 
To grasp a sword — but ye will break my heart 
Before that hour. Whence come those groans? 

[Seeing Melfi, 
My Uncle 
Stretched on the ground, and none to tend thee ! Rest 
Thy head upon my arm. Where 's Julian ? Sure 
I thought to find him with thee. Nay, be still ; 
Strive riot to move. 

3Ielfi. ' I fain would kneel to thee 

For pardon. 

Calvi. Listen not, my liege. The States 
Sentenced the Duke of Melfi ; thou hast not 
The power to pardon. Leave him to his fate. 

Val. 'T were best your Highness came with us. 

Alf. Avoid 

The place! Leave us, cold, courtly lords! Avoid 
My sight ! Leave us, I say. Send instant succour. 
Food, water, wine, and men with hearts, if courts 
May breed such. Leave us. [Exit Calvi and Valore. 

Mclfi. Gallant boy ! 

Alf. Alas' 

I have no power. 

Mclfi. For all I need thou hast. 

Give me but six feet of Sicilian earth, 
And thy sweet pardon. 

Alf Talk not thus. I '11 grow 
At once into a man, into a king, 
And they shall tremble, and turn pale with fear, 
Who now have dared 

Enter Julian. 
Julian ! 

Jul. Here 's water ! Ha! 

Alfonso ! I thought Pity had been dead. 
I craved a little wine, for the dear love 
Of heaven, for a poor dying man ; and all 
Turned from my prayer. Drink, father. 

Alf. I have sent 

For succour. 

Jul. Gentle heart 

Melfi. The time is past. 

Music again. 

Alf. Ay ; 't is the shepherd's pipe 

From yonder craggy mountain. How it swings 
Upon tlio wind, now pausing, now renewed, 
Regular as a bell. 

Mclfi. A passing bell. 

Alf. Cast ofT these heavy thoughts. 

Melfi. Turn me. 

Alf 
The blood wells out 

Melfi. It eases me. 

Jul. He sinks! 

He dies ! Off! he 's my father. Rest on me. 

Melfi. Bless thee. 

Jul. Oh, no ! no ! no ! I cannot bear 

Thy blessing. Twice to stab, and twice forgiven— 
Oh curse me rather I 

Mclfi. Bless ye both. [Dies. 

Alf. He 's dead. 



He bleeds! 



Scene II.] 



JULIAN. 



627 



And surely he died penitent. That thought 

Hath in it a deep comfort. The freed spirit 

Gushed out in a full tide of pardoning love. 

He blest us both, my Julian; even me 

As I had been his son. We '11 pray for him 

Together, and thy Annabel shall join 

Her purest orisons. I left her stretched 

In a deep slumber. All night long she watched 

And wept for him and thee; but now she sleeps. 

Shall I go fetch her? She, better than T, 

Would soothe thee. Dost thou hear? He writhes 

as though 
The struggling grief would choke him. Rouse thee, 

Julian, 
Calm thee. Thou frighten'st me. 

Jul. Am I not calm ? 

There is my sword. Go. 

Alf. I 'II not leave thee. 

Jul. King ? 

Dost thou not see we've killed him? Thou had'st 
cause ; 

But I, that was his son. Home to thy Palace ! 

Home ! 

Alf. Let me stay beside thee ; I 'II not speak, 
Nor look, nor move. Let me but sit and drop 
Tear for tear with thee. 

Jul. Go. 

Alf. My Cousin Julian 

Jul. Madden me not. I'm excommunicate, 
An exile, and an outlaw, but a man. 
Grant me the human privilege to weep 
Alone o'er my dead father. King, I saved 

Thy life. Repay me now a thousand-fold 

Go. 

Alf. Ay ; for a sweet comforter. 



Enter Paolo. 



My liege, 



Paolo. 
The lady Annabel 

Jul. What ! is she dead ? 

Havel killed her? 

Alf. Speak, Paolo. In thy charge 

I left her. 

Jul. Is she dead ? 

Paolo. No. Heaven forefend ! 

But she hath left the Palace. 

Jul. 'Tis the curse 

Of blood that 's on my head ; on all I love. 
She 's lost. 

Alf. Did she go forth alone ? 

Paolo. My liege, 

Prince Julian's aged huntsman, Renzi, came. 
Sent, as he said, by thee, to bear her where 
Her Lord was sheltered. 

Jul. Hoary traitor ! 

Paolo. She 

Followed him, nothing fearing; and I too 
Had gone, but D'Alba's servants closed the gates, 
And then my heart misgave me. 

Jul. Where 's my sword ? 

I 'II rescue her! I '11 save her! 

Alf. Hast thou traced 

Thy lady? 

Paolo. No, my liege. But much I fear — 



Certain a closed and guarded litter took 
The way to the western suburb. 

Jul. There, where lies 

The palace of Count D'Alba! Stained— defiled — 
He hath thee now, my lovely one! There 's slill 
A way — Let me but reach thee! One asylum — 
One bridal bed — One resting place. All griefs 
Are lost in this. Oh would I lay as thou, 
My father! Leave him not in the highway 
For dogs to mangle. He was once a Prince. 
Farewell ! 

Alf. Let me go with thee. 

Jul. No. This deed 

Is mine. [Exit Julian. 

Alf. Paolo, stay by the corse. I '11 after. 
He shall not on this desperate quest alone. 

Paolo. Rather, my liege, seek D'Alba : — As I deem 
He still is at thy Palace. Watch him well, 
Stay by him closely. So may tlie sweet lady 
Be rescued, and Prince Julian saved. 

Alf. Thou'rt right. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE in. 

An Apartment in an old Tower ; a rich Gothic Win- 
dow, closed, but so constructed as that the Eight may 
be thrown in, near it a small arched Door, beyond 
which is seen an Inner Chamber, with an open Case- 
ment. — Annabel is home in hy D'Alba and Guards, 
through a strong Iron Dour in the side Scene. 

D'Alba, Annabel, Guards. 

D'Alba. Leave her with me. Guard well the gate ; 
and watch 
That none approach the tower. [Exeunt Guards. 

Fair Annabel! 

Ann. Who is it calls ? Where am I ? Who art 
thou? 
Why am I here? Now heaven preserve me, D'Alba! 
Where 's Julian ? Where 's Prince Julian ? Where 's 

my husband ? 
Renzi, who lured me from the palace, swore 
It was to meet my husband. 

D'Alba. Many an oath 

First sworn in falsehood turns to truth. He's here. 
Calm thee, sweet lady. 

Ann. Where ? I see him not. 

Julian ! 

D'Alba. Another husband. 

Ann. Then he 's dead ! 

He 's dead ! 

D'Alba. He lives. 

Anft. Heard I aright? Again! 

There is a deafening murmur in mine ears. 
Like the moaning sound that dwells in the sea shell. 
So that I hear nought plainly. Say 't again. 

D'Alba. He lives. 

Ann. Now thanks to Heaven ! Take me to him. 
Where am I ? 

D'Alba. In an old and lonely tower 
At the end of my poor orchard. 

Ann. Take me home. 

D'Alba. Thou hast no home. 



628 



JULIAN. 



[Act IV. 



No home! His arms! his heart ! 



Ann. 
Take mc to him. 

D'Alba. Sweet Annabel, be still. 

Conquer this woman's vain impatiency. 
And listen. Why she trembles as I were 
Some bravo. Oh that man's free heart should bow 
j To a fair eowardess J Listen. Thou know'st 
j The sentence of the Melfi ? 
j Ami. Ay, the unjust 

And wicked doom that" ranked the innocent 
With the guilty. But I murmur not. I love 
To suffer with him. 

D'Alba. He is banished ; outlawed; 

Cut off from every human tie ; — 

Ann. Not all. 

I am his wife. 

D'Alba. Under the Church's ban. 
I tell thee, Annabel, that learned Priest, 
The sage Anselmo, deems thou art released 
From thy unhappy vows; and will to-night — 

Anti. Stop. I was wedded in the light of day 
In the great church at Naples. Blessed day ! 
I am his wife; bound to him evermore 
In sickness, penury, disgrace. Count D'Alba, 
Thou dost misprize the world, but thou must know 
That woman's heart is faithful, and clings closest 
In misery. 

D'Alha. If the Church proclaim thee free — 

Ann. Sir, I will not be free ; and if I were, 
I 'd give myself to Julian o'er bfjain — 
Only to Julian ! Trifle thus no longer. 
Lead me to him. Release me. 

D'Alba. Now, by heaven, 

I '11 bend this glorious constancy. I 've known thee 
Even from a little child, and I have seen 
That stubborn spirit broken : not by fear, 
That thou canst quell; nor interest ; nor ambition ; 
But love! love! love! I tell thee, Annabel, 
One whom fhou lov'st, stands in my danger. Wed me 
This very night — I will procure a priest 
And dispensations, there shall nothing lack 
Of nuptial (iirm — Wed me, or look to hear 
Of bloody justice. 

Ann. My poor father, Molfi! 

D'Alba. The Regent ? He is dead. 

Ann. God hath been merciful. 

D'Alba. Is there no other name ? no dearer ? 

Ann. Ha! 

D'Alba. Iladst thou such tender love for this proud 
father. 
Who little recked of thee, or thy fair looks ; — 
Is all beside forgotten? 

Ann. Speak! 

D'Alba. Why. Julian! 

Julian, I say ! 

Ann. He is beyond thy power. 

Thanks, thanks, great God! He's ruined, exiled, 

stripped 
Of name, and land, and titles. He 's ns dead. 
Thou hast no power to harm him. He can fall 
No deeper. Earili hath not a lowlier state 
Than princely Julian (ills. 

D' All/a. Doth not the grave 

Lie deeper? 



Ann. What? But thou hast not the power! 

Hast thou? Thou canst not. Oh be pitiful! 
Speak, r conjure thee, speak! 

D'Alba. Didst thou not hear 

That he was exiled, outlawed, banished far 
From the Sicilian Isles, on pain of death. 
If after noon to-day, he e'er were seen 
In Sicily? The allotted bark awaits; 
The hour is past ; and he is here. 

Ann. N^ow heaven 

Have mercy on us! D'Alba, at thy feet. 
Upon my bended knees — Oh pity! pity ! 
Pity and pardon! I 'II not rise. I cannot. 
I cannot stand more than a creeping worm 
Whilst Julian 's in thy danger. Pardon him ! 
Thou vvast not cruel once. I 've seen thee turn 
Thy step from off the path to spare an insect ; 
I 've marked thee shudder, when my falcon struck 
A panting bird ; — though thou hast tried to sneer 
At thy own sympathy. D'Alba, thy heart 
Is kinder than thou knovvest. Save him, D'Alba! 
Save him ! 

D'Alba. Be mine. 

Ann. Am I not his? 

D'Alba. Be mine ; 

And he shall live to the whole age of man 
Unharmed. 

Ann. I'm his — Oh spare him ! — Only his. 

D'Alba. Then it is thou that dost enforce the law 
On Julian; thou, his loving wife, that guid'st 
The officer to seize him where he lies 
Upon his father's corse ; thou that dost lead 
Thy husband to the scaffold ; — thou his wife, 
His loving wife! Thou yet may'st rescue him. 

Ann. Now, God forgive thee, man ! Thou torturest 
me 
Worse than a thousand racks. But thou art not 
So devilish, D'Alba. Thou hast talked of love ; — 
Would'st see me die here at thy ieei ? Have mercy ! 

D'Alba. Mercy ! Ay, such as thou hast shown to me 
Through weeks and months and years. I was born 

strong 
In scorn, the wise man's passion. I had lived 
Aloof from the juggling world, and with a string 
Watched the poor puppets ape their several parts: 
Fool, knave, or madman; till thy fatal charms. 
Beautiful mischieii made me knave and fool 
And madman; brouglit revenge and love and hate 
Into my soul. I love and hate thee, lady, 
And doubly hate myself for loving thee. 
But, by this teeming earth, tiiis starry Heaven, 
And by thyself the fairest stubbornesi thing 
The fair stars shine upon, I swear to-night 
Thou shalt bo mine. If willingly, I 'II save 
Prince Julian; — but still mine. Speak. Shall he live? 
Canst thou not speak? Wilt thou not save him ? 

Ann. No. 

D'Alba. Did she die with the word! Dost hear me, 
lady? 
I asked thee would'st thou save thy huslmnd ? 

Ann. No. 

Not so ! Not so ! 

D'Alba. 'T is well. [Exit D'Alba. 

Ann. Stay ! Stay ! He's gone, j 



Scene III.] 



JULIAN. 



629 



Count D"Alba! Save him ! Save him! D'Alba's gone, 
And I have sentenced him. {After apause. 

He would have chosen so, 
Would rather have died a thousand deaths than so 
Have lived ! Oh who will succour me, shut up 
In this lone tower! none but (hose horrid guards, 
And yonder hoary traitor, know where the poor, 
Poor Annabel is hidden ; no man cares 
How she may perish — only one — and he — 
Preserve my wits ! [ '11 count my beads ; 'twill calm 

me : 
What if I hang my rosary from the casement ? 
There is a brightness in the gorgeous jewel 
To catch men's eyes, and haply so le may pass 
That are not piiiiess. This window 's closed; 
But in yon chamber — Ah, 't is open ! There 
I'll hang the holy gem, a guiding star, 
A visible prayer to man and God. Oh save me 
From sin and shame! Save him ! I'll hang it there. 

[Exit. 



ACT V. 

SCENE 

77ie same as the last ; the arched Door nearly closed. 

Annabel. 

Ann. I cannot rest. I wander to and fro 
Within my dreary prison, as to seek 
For comfort and find none. Each hour ha!h killed 
A hope that seemed the last. The shadows point 
Upward. The sun is sinking. Guard me, heaven. 
Through this dread night ! (A gun is heard without. 
What evil sound — All sounds 
Are evil here ! Is there some murder doing? 
Or wantonly in sport. 

Enter Julian through the arched Door. 

Jul. Annabel ! 

Ann. Julian ! 

Jul. My wife! Art thou still mine? 

Ann. Thine own. 

Jul. She smiles ! 

She clings to me ! her eyes are fixed on mine 
With the old love, the old divinest look 
Of innocence ! It is yet time. She's pure! 
She 's undefded ! — Speak to me, Annabel. 
Tremble not so. 

A7in. 'T is joy. Oh I have been 

So wretched ! And to see thee when I thought 
We ne'er should meet again? How did'st thou find 
me? 

Jul. The rosary ! the blessed rosary 
Shone in the sun-beam, like a beacon fire, 
A guiding star! Thrice holy was its light 
That led me here to save 

Auji. Oh blessings on thee ! 

How > where ? what way ? The iron door is barred ! 
Where didst thou enter, Julian ! 

Jul. Through the casement 

Of yonder chamber. 

Ann. What? that grim ascent! 

53* 



That awful depth! Did'st thou dare this for me? 
And must I ? — But I fear not. I 'II go with thee. 
I 'm safe of foot, and light. I '11 go. 

Jul. Thou can'st not. 

Ann. Then go thyself, or he will find thee here, 
He and his ruffian band. Let us part now. 
Kiss me again. Fly, fly from Sicily! — 
That fearful man — but he is all one lie — 
Told me thy life was forfisited. 

Jul. He told thee 

A truth. 

Ann. Oh fly ! fly ! fly ! 

Jul. My Annabel, 

The bloodhounds that he laid upon the scent 
Have tracked me hither. Did'st thou hear a gun ? 
For once the ball passed harmless. 

Ann. Art thou hurt? 

Art sure thou art not ? 

Jul. Yes. But they who aimed 

That death are on the watch. Their quarry 's lodged. 
We can escape them — one way — onlj' one! 

Ann. How? What way? 

Jul. Ask not. 

Ann. Whither? 

Jul. To my father. 

Ann. Then he's alive — Oh happiness! They told 
me 
That he was dead. Why do we loiter here ? 
Let 's join him now. 

Jul. Not yet. 

Ann. Now ! now ! Thou know'st not 

How horribly these walls do picture to me 
The several agonies whereof my soul 
Hath drunk to-day. I have been tempted, Jidian, 
By one — a fiend ! tempted till I almost thought 
God had forsaken me. But thou art here 
To save me, and my pulse beats high again 
With love and hope. I am light-hearted now, 
And could laugh like a child — only these walls 
Do crowd around me with a visible weight, 
A palpable pressure ; giving back the forms 
Of wildest thoughts that wandered through my brain, 
Bright chattering Madness, and sedate Despair, 
And Fear the Great Unreal! — Take me hence ! 
Take me away with thee ! 

Jul. Not yet, not yet. 

Thou sweetest wretch ! I cannot — Dotard ! Fool ! 
I must. Not yet ! not yet ! — Talk to me, Annabel ; 
This is the hour when thou wast wont to make 
Earth Heaven with lovely words; the sun-set hour, 
That woke thy spirit into joy. Once more 
Talk to me, Annabel. 

Ann. Ay, all day long, 

When we are free. Thy voice is choked ; thy looks 
Are not on me; thy hand doth catch and twitch 
And grasp mine painfully, — that gentle hand ! 

Jul. O God ! O God! that right hand !— kiss it not! 
Take thy lips from it ! 

Ann. CanVt thou save me, Julian ? 

Thou always dost speak truth. Can'st save thyself? 
Shall we go hence together ? 

Jul. Ay, one late — 

One home. 

Ann. Why that is bliss. We shall be poor — 



630 



JULIAN. 



[Act V. 



Shall we not, Julian ? I shall have a joy 

I never looked lor; I shall uork for thee, 

Shall tend thee, be thy Page, thy 'Squire, thy all, — 

Shall I not, Julian ? 

Jul. Annabel, look forth 

Upon tills glorious world ! Look once again 
On our fair Sicily, lit by that sun 
Whose level beams do cast a golden shine 
On sea, and shore, and city, on the pride 
Of bowery groves ; on Etna's smouldering top ; — 
Oh bright and glorious world ! and thou of all 
Created things most glorious, tricked in light, 
As the stars that live in Heaven ! 

Ann. Why dost thou gaze 

So sadly on me ? 

Jul. The bright stars, how oft 

They fall, or seem to fall ! The Sun— look ! look ! 
He sinks, ho sets in glory. Blessed orb. 
Like thee — like thee — Dost thou remember once 
We sate by the sea-shore when all the Heaven 
And all the ocean seemed one glow of fire, 
Red, purple, saffron, melted into one 
Intense and ardent flame, the doubtful line 
Where sea and sky should meet was lost in that 
Continuous brightness; there we sate and talked 
Of the mysterious union that blessed orb 
Wrought between earth and heaven, of life and death, 
High mysteries! — and thou didst wish thyself 
A spirit sailing in that flood of light 
Straight to the Eternal Gates, didst pray to pass 
Away in such a glory. Annabel! 
Look out upon the burning sky, the sea 
One lucid ruby — 'lis the very hour ! 
Thou 'It be a Seraph at the Fount of Light 
Before 

Ann. What, must I die ? And wilt thou kill me ? 
Canst thou? Thou cam'st to save 

Jul. To save thy honour ! 

I shall die with thee. 

Ann. Oh no! no! live! live! 

If I must die — Oh it is sweet to live. 
To breathe, to move, to feel the throbbing blood 
Beat in the veins, — to look on such an earth 
And such a Heaven, — to look on thee ! Young life 
Is very dear. 

Jul. Would'st live for D'Alba ? 

Ann. No! 

I had forgot. I'll die. Quick! Quick! 

Jul. One kiss! 

Angel, dost thou forgive me ? 

Ann. Yea. 

Jul. My sword !— 

I cannot draw it. 

Ann. Now ! — I 'm ready. 

£nler Bertone, and two Murderers. 
Bert Seize him ! 

Yield Ihee, Prince Julian ! Yield thee ! Seize the lady. 
Jul. Oh filial, fond delay ! Dare not come near us! 
Stand off! I '11 guard Ihee, sweet. But when I fall, 
Let him not triumph. 

Jiert. Yield thee ! Strike him down. 

Jul. Thou canst die then, my fairest. 

Tlie two murderers have now advanced 
close to Jidian. 



Bert. Kow ! 

[One of the murderers slrihcs at Julian with 
his sword; Annabel rushes h fore him, re- 
ceives the wound aimed at him, and fulls 
at his feel. 
Ann. {before she is wounded.) For thee ! 

TIten after. For thee 

'Tis sweet! {dies. 

Jul. Fiend, hast thou slain her? Die! die! die! 
Come on. {fghts and kills him. 

Bert. Call instant help ! Hasten the Count ! 

[Exit the oilier murderer. 
{Julian and Bertone fight, and Jidian kills him. 
Jul. My wife ! 

My murdered wife! Doth she not brealhe? I 

thought — 
My sight is dim — Oh no ! she 's pale ! she 's cold ! 
She 's siill ! If she were living she vvotdd speak 
To comfort me. She's mute! she's stiff! she's — dead! 
Why do I shiver at the word, that am 
Death's factor, peopler of unhallowed graves, 
Slayer ol all my race ! not thee ! not thee ! 
God, in his mercy, guided the keen sword 
To thy white bosom, — 1 could not. Lie there. 
I '11 shroud thee in my mantle, {covering her with it. 

The rude earth 
Will veil thy beauty next. One kiss ! — She died 
To save me. — One kiss, Annabel i I slew 
The slave that killed thee, — but the fiend, the cause — 
Is he not coming? — I will chain in life 
Till I 've avenged thee ; I could slay an army 
Now in my strong despair. But that were mercy. 
He must wear daggers in his heart. He loved her j — 
I '11 feed his hopes — and then — Ay — ha! ha I iia! 
That will be a revenge to make the fiends 
Laugh — ha! ha! ha! I'll wrap mo in this cloak 

{faking 07ie belonging to the dead bravo. 
And in the twilight — So! — He will not know 
My voice — it frightens me I — I have not hidden 
Thee quite, my Annabel! There is one tress 
Floating in springy grace — as if — she's dead ! 
She's dead ! I must not gaze, for then my heart 
Will break before its time. He comes. The stairs 
Groan at his pressure. 

Enter D'Alba. 
D'Alba {entering, to an Aflendant). 
Bark, and watch the gale! — 
All 's tranquil. Where 's the traitor ? 

Jul. Dead. 

D'Alba. Who slew him ? 

Jul. I. 

D'Alba. And the lady, — where is she? 

Jid. At rest. 

D'Alba. Fair Gentleness! After this perilous storm 
She needs must lack repose. I'll wait her here. 
Friend ! thou hast done good service lo the state 
And me ; we 're not ungrateful. Julian's sword 
P'ails him notofien ; and the slave who fled 
Proclaimed him. Victor. 

Jul. lie slew two. 

D'Alba. And ihon 

Slew'st him ? Ay there he lies in the ermined cloak 
Of royalty, his haugtity shroud ! Six ells 



Scene I.] 



JULIAN. 



631 



Of rude uncostly linen serves to wrap 

Your common corse ; but this man was born swathed 

In regal purple; lived so; and so died. 

So be he buried. Let not mine enemy 

Call me ungenerous. Roll him in his ermine 

And dig a hole without the city gate 

For him and the proud Regent. Quick ! I 'd have 

The funeral speedy. Ah ! the slaughtering sword 

Lies by him, brown with clotted gore. Hence ! hence ! 

And drag the carrion with thee. 

Jul. Wilt thou not 

Look on the corse ? 

D'ALha. I cannot wait her waking : 

I must go feast my eyes on her fair looks — 
Divinest Annabel! My widowed bride! — 
Where is she ? 

Jul. (laicoverimx l/te body.) There. Now gaze thy- 
self to Hell ! 
Gloat with hot love upf)n that beauteous dust! — 
She 's safe ! She 's dead ! 

D'Alba. Julian! 

Jul. But touch her not — 

She 's mine. 

D'Alba. Oh perfenfest and loveliest thing ! 
Eternal curses rest upon his head 
Who murdered thee ! 

Jul. Off! off! Pollute her not . 

She 's white ! She 's pure ! — Curses ! Pour curse for 

curse 
On the foul murderer! On him who turned 
The sweet soul from her home, v^ho slevv her father, 
Hunted her husband as a beast of prey. 
Pursued, imprisoned, lusted, left no gate 
Open save that to Heaven! — Oft'! gaze not on her! 
Thy look is profanation. 

Enter Alfonso, I^eanti, Valore, ^c. 

Alf. (entering.) Here, Leanti ! 

This way ! Oh sight of horror! Julian ! Julian ! 

Valore. The Princess dead ! Why, D'Alba — 

Leanti. Seize him, guards. 

Lead him before the States. This bloody scene 
Calls for deep vengeance. 

D'Alba. If I were not weary 

Of a world that sweats under a load of fools — 
Old creaking vanes that turn as the wind changes — 
Lords, I 'd defy ye! I 'd live on for ever! 
And I defy ye now. For she is gone — 
The glorious vision ! — and the Patriarch 's years 
Were valueless. Do with me as ye will. — 
Ye cannot call back her. 

Leanti. Off with him! 

[Exil D'Alba guarded. 

Alf. Julian! 

Wilt thou not speak ? 

Jul. I have been thanking heaven 

That she is dead. 

Valore. His wits are gone. 

Alf. My Julian, 

Look on me. Dost thou know me? I'm thy Cousin, 
Thy comforter. 

Jul. She was my Comforter ! 

And now— Eat I do know thee; thou'rt the King; 
The pretty boy I loved — She loved thee too ; 



I'm glad thou'rt come to close my eyes. Draw nearer 
That I may see thy face. Where art thou ? 

Alf. Here ! 

Jul. Poor child, he weeps ! Send for the honoured 
dead 
Beside the city gate, — he pardoned me ! 
Bury us in one grave, — all in one grave ! 
I did not kill her. Strew her with white flowers, 
For she was innocent. 

Leanti. Cheer thee ! Take hope ! 

Val. Raise up his head. 

Alf. My Julian! 

Jul. He forgave me, — 

Thou know'st he did! — White flowers! Nothing but 

white ! (dies. 

Leanli. He 's gone ! 

Alf. And I am left in the wide world 

Alone. My Julian ! 



EPILOGUE. 

WRITTEN BYT. A. TALFOURD, ESQ. 



Is not her lot intolerably hard 

Who does this pious office for the Bard ? 

Who comes applauses not her own to win, 

Or pay the penance for another's sin ? 

To tack, lest gentle moralisers rail, 

A drawling comment to a doubtful tale ; 

To break with hollow mirth the sacred spell 

Which the poor poet rarely weaves too well ; 

Or if his sorrrovvs haplessly are laugh'd at. 

Look grave for wit to throw his closing shaft at, 

Methinks our Author's sex you shrewdly guess — 

" It is a Lady's Drama" — frankly " yes." 

Yet let no censure on her daring fall, 

When all " Life's idle business" is — to scrawl ; 

Our tender bosoms learn in songs to melt, 

And send their griefs to press — as soon as felt; 

JNo thought in lone obscurity decays, 

But dies away in neatly published lays; 

No tender hope can bloom and fade unseen, 

It leaves its fragrance — in a magazine ; 

The bashful heart, whom deep emotions bless, 

Hides its soft secrets in the daily press ; 

With hints of well-assumed despair beguiles, 

And execrates mankind to win their smiles; 

A woman sure may claim no small compassion. 

Who has this plea — she 's only in the fashion. 

O, if the fair's prerogative it be 

To watch supreme o'er calumny and tea ; 

To slay an Author's hopes with daintiest sneers. 

And change the fates of poets as of peers; 

Regard not her unwomanly who seeks 

To draw down sacred tears o'er beauty's cheeks, 

Who for her sex, by artless scenes, would keep 

Its dearest right — to weep with those that weep; 

Who if to-night her humble muse hath brought 

To some sad heart a train of gentle thought; 

On some warm spirit shed that blest relief, 

A generous sympathy with kindred grief, 

\V'ilh joy returns to liib's secluded ways, 

And asks no recompense of noisier praise. 



632 



RIENZI. 



RIENZI, A TRAGEDY. 



[Act I. 



DRAMATIS PERSON.^. 



Cola di Rienzi, afterwards Tribune of the People. 
Stephen Colonna, a great Nobleman of Rome. 
Angelo Coloxna, his Son. 
Ursini, a great Nobleman, rival to Colonna. 
Savelli, 1 

Cafarello, \ ^°^^^ "f-''^ Colonna faction. 
Frangipam, a partisan of Ursini, also a Nobleman. 
Alberti, Captain of the Guard. 
Paolo, a Roman Citizen. 
Camillo, Rienzi's Servant. 
Nuncio, Ambassador, Nobles, Citizens, Guards, ^c. 

Lady Colonna, Stephen Colmina's Wife. 

Claudia, Rienzi's daughter. 

Berta, 

Teresa, > Claudia's attendants. 

Rosa, 



( n. 



Ladies, Attendants, ^c. 



Scene — Rome, in the Fourteenth Century. 



RIENZI, 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. 

Romf in the fourteenth century. — A Street in Rfrnie. — 
A Temple in Ruins, in the bacJi-gromid a Portico, 
V)i.th columns in front of it, so managed that a per- 
son may appear and disappear amongst Uie pillars 
and recesses. 

Enter Paolo, and three Citizens, meeting. 

First Cit. Ah, Messer Paolo, a good morrow to 
thee! 
The streets are full to-day. 1 have not seen 
Such an out[)Ouring of our Roman hive 
Since the last jubilee. Whence comes the swarm? 

Pao. The stirring Ursini, on a hot canvass 
For their proud chief, the factious Martin. 

First Cit. He, 
Our senator! a proper ruler! sick, too, 
And like to die. 

Second Cit. Nay, he were harmless, then. 
But 'tis his brother, John, of Ursini, 
Tlio subtle Julin, tJKil drives this business onward. 

First Cit. A pr()|)er ruler! INTartin Ursini, 
That seized the Widow Landi's house to make 
A kennel for his hounds — that carried off 
The pretty child K.milia Fano — none 
Hath e'er beheld her since. 



Second Cit. 'T was likelier John ! 
The dark, smooth, subtle John, lie 's the prime 

mover 
Of these iniquities. 

Third Cit Ye have bold tongues. 
First Cit. Art thou of their black faction? 

Third Cit. No : I ply 
My trade, and hold my peace. 

Pao. Stephen Colonna 

Should have been senator. 

First Cit. No — he 's too old : 

The Count Savelli, or young Angelo. 

Secmid Cit. 'Tis ill to choose between them." 
Third Cit. Ay, and dangerous 
To meddle with such great ones. Dost not see 
A man in yonder porch? (Looking toward the ruin. 
Rienzi appears in the Temple, with a piece of decayed 
marble in his hands. 
Pao. Our honest neighbour, 

Cola Rienzi, poring o'er some stone 
With legend half defaced. Thou knowest Cola ? 
First CiU A follower of the Colonna ? 
Pao. Ay; 

He haunts their palaces, and, with rancorous hate, 
Pursues the Ursini. Didst never hear 
How his young brother, poor Antonio, fell, 
Murdered by their base groom ? He hates the Ursini, 
And follows the Colonna, scarce for love. 
Rather to feast his learned spleen — for Cola 
Is a ripe scholar— with sharp biting gibes 
And dark predictions; a rank malcontent — 
A bitter railer. 
Sec(md Cit. lie approaches. 

(Rienzi comes furuMrd, uifh the piece of marble. 
Pao. Cola, 

What dragg'st thou there ? a stone ? 

Rie. A mouldering stone ! 

An earth-encrusted stone ! 
Pao, A tombstone ? 

Rie. Ay — 

Fit emblem of our city. Here be words. 
An' ye could rend them — words whose sense is dead 
Even as the tongue. Did ye ever hear the sound 
Of liberty — of country ? Back to earth, 
Rebellious stone ! Back ! back ! thou preachcst trea- 
son. (Throwing the stone up the stage. 
First Cit. Treason to the Ursini ! What will thy 
patrons, 
The proud Colonna, say to this new^ power ? 

Rie. My patrons? — Oh, they'll fight! they'll fight! 
They'll pour 
Their men-at-arms into our streets, and wace 
Fierce battle; bin-n and plunder, s|K»il and slay 
Guilty or innocent, or friend or foe : 
Their nature, sirs, their noble nature. 

Pao. Well, 

And we? What is our fate, sir prophet? 



Scene I.] 



RIENZI. 



633 



Rie. We ! 

Whichever wheel turn round, we shall he crushed 
Between the milislones. That 's our destiny — 
The destiny we earn. 

Secojid Cit. He 's right. The barons 

Make an arena of the city, vexing 
Our quiet streets with brawls; plundering and killing 
The peaceful citizens. Even the Colonna — 
Albeit Siephen be a thougiit more brave, 
And Angelo more kind — even the Colonna 
Are tyrants to the people. 

Third Cil. Yet the yoke 

Must be endured. 

Rie. Must! Be ye men ? 

Pao. Why, Cola, 

What should we do ? 

Rie. Talk, talk, my masters ! Speech 

Is your fit weapon. Talk! Women and slaves 
So drown the ratlle of their chains. Talk! talk! 
And tell in gentle whispers, gazing round. 
Lest other list'ners than tlie storied walls 
Of these old temples hear ye, how on Monday 
A noble gallant, one of the Corsi, stole — 
Seized, is the courtlier phrase — and wrung the neck 
Of Adriani's falcon, a famed bird, 
Unmalch'd in Italy — the poor old man 
Weeps as it were his child — or how, on Tuesday, 
Black John, of Ursini, spurred his hot courser 
Right through a band of pious pilgrims, journeying 
To our lady ol' Lorelto — marry, two 
Are lamed for life — or how, on Wednesday — • 

Pao. Slop — 

Rie. I can go through the week. 

Pao. But, far the pilgrims — 
Art sure of that foid sacrilege ? 

Rie. As sure 

As that thou standest there; as that the Ursini 
Parade Ihe city. {Distant shouts.) Hark! do ye not 

hear 
The shouting mob approach ? — Sure as that ye 
Who frown, and lift your eyes, and shake your heads, 
And look aghast at such foul sacrilege. 
Will join your voice to that base cry, and shout, 
Long live the Ursini ! I know ye, masters. 

Pno. Cola, thou wrong'st us. 

Rie. If I wrong ye — no! 

Ye are Italians; men of womanish soul, 
Faint, weak, emascidate : the generous wrath 
Of the manly Roman, with his lofiy tongue, '' 

Lies buried — not lor ever. {Nearer shouts.) Hark! 
Here comes 

The tyrant of to-day. Go, swell his train. 
I'll to my porch again, and ieed my spirit 
On these mute marbles. {Goes iiito the temple. 

Second Cit. A brave man. 

Third Cil. Full surely, 

A dangerous. 

[Paolo and Citizens retire to the hacl-g round 
in front of the Temple. 

Enter Officers, six Halberdiers, and Ursini, Fran^i- 
pani, and two Lords, in conversation, followed hi/ 
armed Attendants, and accoippanied by a Crowd, 
who shout, "Live the Ursirn," ^'C. 



Urs. {To Ihe mob.) Thanks, genile friends. {To 
the Lords.) Yes, I expect to-morrow 
A packet from Avignon; even Colonna 
Will bow to Clement's mandate. 

Fra. If he do not — 

Urs. Oh, never doubt; if he refuse, why, then — 
Doubt him not, Frangipani. Quicker, friends — 
I hurry ye, my lords, but we are wailed 
At the Alherleschi Palace. Follow fiist. 

Crowd {foltoinivg) Live John of Ursmi ! 

[Exeunt Ursini, ^c. — Paolo and the three Citi- 
zens come forward, and are stopped by an 
armed Attendnnt. ' 

Alt. Why, what a sort of sullen citizens 
Re here, that shout not ! Doff" thy bonnet, man! 
Look at thy fellows ! doff thy cap. 

Pao. Good friend — 

Alt. What, must I he thy tierman ? 

[KnocliS off Paolo's hat ivilh his spear — Rienzi 
rushes out from Ihe Temple, u-rests the spear 
from the Attendnnt, and strikes him down 
with il. Exit the Third Citizen. 

Rie. Down, vile minion ! 
Hath the slave harmed thee, Paolo? — Art lliou hurt? 
Look where the abject tyrant licks the dust. 
The very stones of Rome cast back the load 
Of his foul carcase! — yet he stirs! I 'm glad 
The reptile is not dead. 

First Cil. Fly, Cola! 

Rie. Fly ! 

Pao. To the Colonna Palace — ihey will shield thee 
From danger or pursuit. This is no lime 
For thanks. Fly, Cola! 

Rie. Let them fly that fear. 

Fly ! why the evil doer flies, not he 
That pultelh dovin a wrong.' Fly ! I would call 
Rome, universal Rome, to view this deed. 
The type of that to come. Yon creeping slave. 
Struck with the strong brute force of [xivver, fell 
Before my weaker arm, nerved by the spirit 
Of righteous indignation. So shall fall 
Tyrants and tyranny. Meet me to-night 
On the Capitoline Hill. Now I can trust ye. 
Now that the man is roused within your souls. 
The Roman ardour. 

Second Cil. One is gone. 

Rie. Well, well, 

A milder breeze had severed such light chafT 
From the sound corn. Yon slave — he lives — he stirs. 

Pan. I '11 take him to my house. 

Rie. And I, to-morrow, 

Will find a fitter hospital. Farewell ! 
Remember midnight — at the Capilol ! 
Remember! 

[Exeunt Rienzi, Paolo, and Citizens, bearing 
off the Attendant. 

SCENE H. 
An Apartmejit in Rienzi' s House; a Roman chair, 
with a shein of red ivorsled ,• a Lattice down to me 
floor, opening into the Garden. 
Enter Angelo and Claudia, through the Ijallice. 
Cla. Beseech thee, now, away. Lord Angelo— 
Thou hast been here o'erlong. 



634 



RIENZI. 



[Act I. 



Ang. Scarce whilst the sand 

Ran through the tell-tale glass; scarce whilst the sun 
Lengthened the shadow of the cedar. 

Cla. See ! 

The sun is setting — see. 

Ang. ' Scarce, whilst I said 

A thousand times — I love. 

Cla. Look to the sun. 

Ang. I had rather gaze on thee. 

Cla. And think how long 

We sate beneath the myrtle shade, how long 
Paced t!ie cool trellis walk. When next thou steal'st 
Hither, from thy proud palace, I must time thee 
By seconds, as the nice physician counts 
The boundings of the fevered pulse. Away, 
Dear Angelo ; think, if my father find thee — 

Ang. Oh, talk not of him, sweet! why was I born 
The heir of the Colonna! why art thou 
Rienzi's daughter ? What a world of foes, 
Stern scorn, and fiery pride, and cold contempt 
Are ranged betwixt us twain; yet love, and time, 
Be faithful, mine own Claudia — time, and love! 

Cla. Alas, alas! 

Ang. Thy father loves thee, sweetest, 

With a proud dotage, almost worshipping 
The idol it halh framed. Thou fear'st not him ? 

Cla. Alas! I have learned to fear him; he is 
changed, 
Grievously changed; still good and kind, and full 
Of fond relentings — crossed by sudden gusts 
Of wild asid stormy passion. I have learned 
A daughter's trembling love. Then, he 's so silent — 
He, once so eloquent. Of old, each show, 
Bridal, or joust, or pious pilgrimage, 
Lived in his vivid speech. Oh ! 'twas my joy, 
In that bright glow of rapid words, to see 
Clear pictures, as the slow procession coiled 
Its glittering length, or stately tournament 
Grew statelier in his voice. Now he sits mute — ■ 
His serious eyes bent on the ground — each sense 
Turned inward. 

Ayig. Somewhat chafes his ardent spirit. 

Cla. And should I grieve him, too? Lord Angelo, 
The love deserves no blessing, that deceives 
A father. 

Ang. Mine own Claudia! 

Cla. We must part. 

Avg. Oh, never talk of parting! 'T was llienzi 
That brought me hither first. Rememberest thou 
A boy, scarce more than boy — thy lovely self 
Scarce woman. Then was thy rare beauty stamped. 
At once, within my heart, then, and for ever — 
Thou canst not bid me leave thee, love and time — 
And constancy — oh, be as fiiithful, Claudia, 
As thou art fair ! 

Rie. [without.) Camillo! 

Cla. Hence, begone ! 

Rie. (without.) Camillo! 

Cla 'Tis his voice — away, away! 

Here, through the lattice — by the garden gate. 

[Exit Angela. 
Now Heaven forgive me, if it he a sin 
To love thee, Angelo. (Looking o/ler him) My 
foolish heart 



Beats an' it were. He 's gone — he 's hidden now 
Behind the myrtle hedge: thank Heaven, thank. 

Heaven ! 
He 's opening now the gate — I hear the key — 
But my sense is fear-quickened : now 'tis closed, 
And all is safe. {Sinks down into the chair.) On, 

simple heart, be still 
Be still. 

Enter Rienzi and Camillo. 

Rie. Camillo, see that thou admit 
Only Alberti. 

Cam. None, save him ? 

Rie. None. Claudia ! 

[Exit Camillo. 
Claudia, I say! She trembles at the sound 
Of her own name, and flutters like a bird 
Fresh caught, as I approach. It likes me ill 
To scare thee thus, lair daughter. Time has been, 
When thou hast listened for me — when my voice. 
Half a street off— my fijolsiep on the causeway — 
Would bring my little handmaid, springing forth 
With eager service, to fling wide the door, 
And seize my cloak. Nay, nay, I need thee not. 

Cla. Oh, let me take it, father! 

Rie. Sit thee down. 

And ply thy sewing. Hath Alberti — no — 
The west is glowing still. Hark ye, fair mistress: 
Crossing the hall but now, I saw a shadow 
Upon the garden wall, as clearly traced. 
By the sun's parting rays, as I see thee 
Weaving fresh tangles in that ravelled skein. 
Which thou affect 'st to wind. He must have passed 
By yonder open lattice. Art thou dumb ? 
Didst thou not see him, Claudia ? him whose shadow 
Darkened the sunny wall ? 

Cla. Perchance, Camillo. 

Rie. Camillo! old Camillo! when I told thee 
I saw him plainly as thyself: — the firm 
Erect and stately; the proud head thrown back 
Crested with waving plumes. Perchance, Camillo! 
Claudia, with thine old Roman name, I gave thee 
Precepts that might have made thee simply great. 
As ever maiden of old Rome. Camillo! 
Would'st thou deceive thy father? Pay'st thou thus 
His love, his trust, his doling pride ? 

Cla. Oh, no ! ' 
No, no! I '11 tell thee all : forgive me, father. 
Only forgive me! — thou shall hear 

liie. Not now, 

Not now, my Claudia; cheer ihee, sweet! 1 'II hear 
Thy tale .some filter season. Wipe ihine eyes. 
If 1 've been harsh with thee, 'twas love, my Claudia, 
Love of my fairest daughter, and vexed thoughts 
Of this oppressed city. Sit thee, sweet! 
All is at peace between us : weep no more. 
My Claudia. 

Cla. This is joy. 

Rie. I have been chafed 

By one of yon base minions. But the hour 
Of vengeance comes. 

Cla. Of vengeance ! 

Rie. Say, of freedom : 

Dost tremble at the Bownd? 



Scene II.] 



RIENZl. 



635 



Cla. Oh, father, each 

Alike is terri!)le; for each brings war, 
Fierce, desperate war. 

Rie. Claucha, in these bad days, 

Wlieii man must tread perforce the liinty path 
Oi duty, iiard and rugged, fail not thou 
Duly at niglit and tnoruing to give thanks 
To the all gracious power that snioolhed the way 
For woman's tender liiet. She but looks on, 
And waits and prays (or the good cause, whilst man 
Fights, struggles, triumphs, dies. Vex not thy mind 
With thoughts of state, my dear one ; there 's no dan- 
ger : 
All whom thou lov'st are safe; all, silly trembler. 
Peace, peace ! I will not hear thee : all are safe. 

Enter Alherti. 

Albert!, welcome. Be the scrolls affixed 

On churches, at street corners, in the markets? 

Art sure of the soldiers ? Dost ihou hold the watch? 

Thine answer in a word. 

Alb. In one word, yes. 

All is prepared. I 'm waited at the castle; 
Vet hearken. Cola ; I saw count Savelli, 
Colonn.i'.s kinsman, conning yon bold summons: 
Thou hadst best avoid him. 

Rie. Nay, confront him, rather: 

I 'II to their palace, meet them, baffle them. 
Hast heard aught of the Ursini ? 

Alh. They feast 

High and elate within their walls. 

Rie. Yon wretch 

Was not even missed. Poor slave, he shall be cared 

iUr. 
Now, fi)r the last time — simple child, in, in ! 
Lay all thy cares io rest. In, in, my child ! 
Bless thee, my Claudia! my fair Claudia! Now 
For Rome and Freedom. [Exeunt. 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. 
A Hall in the Cvlonna Palace. 

Enter Colonna, CiifarelJo, and Lad}! Colonna, and 

Nobles, 

Col. What, Martin Ursini, our senator! 
An Ursini, and of that hated race 
The most abhorred, the worst. He chief of Rome ! 
Sick, too. Tush ! tush ! 

Caf. The tale is rife, Colonna ; 

And, as I passed his palace, glancing lights 
And sudden shouts and merry music spake 
The high and liberal feasting which foreruns 
Expected triumph. 

Col. Martin Ursini 

Head of the slate! and the Colonna fallen 
Beneath their rival's feet! His wanton vassals, 
Tlie meanest horseboj's of his train, will spurn 
I\Iy belted knights. Cousin, we must away 
To Palcstrina, and array in force 
Our men-at-arms: they will be needed. 



Lady C. Fie! 

These brawls match ill with thy while hairs. 

Col. Good wife, 
Would'st have me turn a craven in mine age, 
A by-word to mine enemies ? 

Lady C. Art thou not 

Stephen Colonna, of that greatest name 
The greatest ? Which of these, proud Ursini, 
May match with thee in fame ? But thy old wreaths 
Were won in nobler fields. These private feuds 
Are grown a crying evil. 

Enter Savelli. 

Count Savelli! 

Sav. A fair good evening, noble dame. Colonna, 
Hear'st thou the news ? 

Col. Of Martin Ursini ? 

Sav. Nay, that were common, stale, and trivial. — 
See, 
I bring ye tidings of rebellion, sirs; 
High tidings! stirring tidings! prompt rebellion ! 
Headed — I pr'ythee guess. 

Caf. Rare food for mirth. 

If we may judge by look and tone. The wives 
Of Rome revolted ? or the husbands risen 
Against their gentle dames. 

Sav. 'T is a brief summons, 

Fiery, but scholary, stern, bold, and plain — 
Calling the citizens to meet to-night 
And win their freedom. Such a scroll as this 
Is fixed in every street. 

Caf. How signed ? 

Sav. Guess! gtiess.' 

There lies the mirth : ye '11 never guess — read here. 
{S/wwijig a scroll. 

Caf. What, Cola di Rienzi ! honest Cola ! 
Who saves Colonna here a jester's charge, 
A fool without the bells. Honest Rienzi! 
'Tis a device of the black Ursini. 

Col. Likelier some freak of Cola's. He hath turned 
A bitter knave of late, and lost his mirth, 
And mutters riddling warnings and wild tales 
Of the great days of heathen Rome ; and prates 
Of peace, and liberty, and equal law, 
And mild philosophy, to us the knights 
And warriors of this warlike age, who rule 
By the bright law of arms. The fool's grown wise — 
A grievous change. 

fjidy C. I ever thought him so: 

A sad wise man, of daring eye, and free. 
Yet mystic speech. When ye have laughed, I still 
Have shuddered, for his darkling words, oft fell 
Like oracles, answering with dim repose 
To my unspoken thoughts, so that my spirit 
Albeit unused to womanish fear, hath quail'd 
To hear his voice's deep vibration. Watch him! 
Be sure he is ambitious. Watch him, lords : — 
lie hath o'erleapt the barrier, poverty ; 
Hath conquered his mean -parentage ; hath clomb 
To decent station, to high lettered fame ; 
The pontifl^'s notary, the honoured friend 
Of Petrarch. Watch him well. 

Col. Tush, tush ! Rienzi— 

Cola Rienzi — honest Cola, rise 



636 



RIENZI. 



[Act II. 



'Gainst us! Fair wife, I deemed ihee wiser. They 
Who plot are silent. Would we were as sure 
Of Martin Ursini ! What says Avignon ? 
The holy father hath not joined the faction? 

Enter Riemi. 

Sav. I know not : but the cardinals, his uncles, 
Are pfiwerful with Pope Clement. 

Col. All the race, 

Churchmen or laic, old or young, liave cralt 
Veined in their stony hearts — the master-streak 
Of that cold marble. Of the cardinals, 
Gaetano is a soldier-priest, but wary, 
And polilic as valiant; Annibal, 
A meek sofi-spoken monk, who, crawling, climbs 
Ambition's loftiest ladder. Of the nephews — 
Rie. Despatch them at a stroke — say they 're thy 

foes. 
Sav. Why, master Cola — 

Rie. Say they are thy foes. 

Sav. Art thou their friend? I have heard talk of 
wrongs 
Thou hast surTorcd from the Ursini. 

Rie. Ay, ay — 

A trifle of a life — a foolish brother 
Killed in a midnight brawl. Your privilege. 
Your feudal privilege ! ye slay our brethren, 
And we — we kiss the sword. This Martin Ursini — 
Col. What of the knavish ruflian ? 
Rie. Mend thy phrase — 

Shall ne'er be sennto'r — yet inend tliy phrase ; 
Bespeak him fair; ye may be friends. 

Col. Friends ? 

Rie. Ay ; 

A day will cotne, when I shall see ye joined 
In a close league. 

Col. Joined! by what tie? 

Rie. By hatred— 

By danger — the two hands that tightest grasp 
Each other — the two cords that soonest knit 
A fast and stubborn tie: your true-love knot 
Is nothing to it. Faugh! the supple touch 
Of pliant interest, or the dust of time. 
Or the pin-point of temper, loose, or rot. 
Or snap love's silken band. Fear and old hate. 
They are sure weavers — they work for the storm. 
The whirlwind, and the rockin;? .surge; their knot 
Endures till death. Ye will be friends, I tell thee — 
Ere yon inconstant moon hath waxed and waned. 
Ye will bo friends. Yet Martin Ursini 
Shall ne'er be senator. 

Sav. Why, master prophet. 

Men sny thou shalt be senator, or king. 
Or emperor. Hast read the scroll? when goest thou 
To head thy rebel band ? See! see! (gives the scroll. 

Rie. {reading.) " At midnight." 
Well, I come here to while away the time 
Till that dread hour. " Upon the Capitol." 
Look that ye set fi)rth scouts and men-at-arms 
To seize the chiefs, and chase the multitude, 
Like siieep before the dogs. Ye were best send 

To man the caslle walls, n trif)le guard. 

Who is the captain of the watch ? 
Sav. Alberti. 



Rie. Ha, mine old friend ! I counsel ye, my lords. 
Seize me, and crush this great rebellion ; me. 
Cola Ricnzi, honest Cola ! Laugh ye ? 
An honest man haih jjlayed the rogue, ere now. — 
Witness this scroll. 

Col. A scurvy jest ! 

liie. A jest ! 

Call it a jest, and 't is a mockery 
Of all that in this worn-out world, survives 
Of great and glorious. The eternal power 
Lodged in the will of man, the hallowed names 

Of freedom and of country! If a truth — 

Lady C. What, if a truth ? 

Jiie. Then Where is Angelo, 

Thy goodly son, Madonna? 

Col. Dost thou seek 

A full-fledged gallant, and so gaily plumed. 
Here, in his parent nest? If thou wouldst meet 
The rover, go where Mandolines are heard. 
Beneath coy beauty's lattice. Count Savelli 
Has a fair daughter. 

Caf. I heard him praise 

Bianca Ursini. 

Col. An Ursini ! 

Lady C. Calm thee, Colonna. Rest thee sure thy 
son 
Will never stain thy honoured name — will never 
Forget his proud obedience. 

Rie. Say'st thou so? 

Lady C. With a glad certainty. 
Rie. Look to him, then 

Yet watch him as thou may, against thy will 
He shall espouse the fairest maid in Rome ; 
The fairest and the greatest. 

Sav. And as good 

As she is great, and innocent as fair ? 

Rie. Even to the crowning of a poet's dream ; 
Gentle, and beautiful, and good. Yet mark me — 
Against thy will ! I said against thy will ! [Exit. 

Lady C. Hear'st thou ? (Calling after Riemi.) 

He 's gone ! 

Sav. Dear lady think no more 

Of this wild prophecy. 

Lady C. Nay, T am sure 

Of Angelo. Why dost thou seek thy sword ? 
Thou goest not forth so late, good husband ? 

Col. Yes : 

The night is fair — I shall take horse at once 
For Pulestrina; thence to Avignon. 
We'll bide some struggle with these Ursini. 
Will ye ride with me, kinsmen ? 

Caf. Joyfully. 

Lady C. I '11 wait ye to the court. Yei, once again. 
Beware Rienzi ! [Exeu7it- 

SCENE II. 

Before the gates of the Capitol, at midnight. 

Alberti, Paolo, Citizens, ij-c. — Crowd in the back- 
ground. 

First Cif. This is the chosen spot. A brave as- 
semblage ! 

Second Cit. Why, yes. No marvel that Rienzi 
struck 



Scene II.] 



RIENZI. 



637 



So hold a blow. I had heard shrewd reports 
Of heals, and discontents, and gathering bands, 
But never dreain'd of Cola. 

Pao. 'T is the spot ! 

Where loiters he ? Tlie night wears on apace. 

Alb. It is not yet the hour. 

First Cif. Who speaks ? 

Another Cit. Albert!, 

The captain of the ffnard ; he, he and his soldiers, 
Have joined our faction. 

Alb. Comrades, we sl-.all gain 

An easy victory. The Ursini, "7 

Drunk with false hope and brute debauch, feast high 
Within their palace. Never wore emprise 
A fairer face. 

Pao. And yet the summer heaven. 
Sky, moon and stars, are overcast. The saints 
Send that this darkness 

Enter Rienzi. 

Rie. Darkness I did ye never 
Watch the dark glooming of the thunder cloud. 
Ere the storm burst ? We'll light this darkness, sir. 
With the brave flash of spear and sword. 

All the Cilizenn shout. Rienzi .' 

Live brave Rienzi! honest Cola! 

Rie. Friends ! 

Citizens. Long live Rienzi ! 

Alherli. Listen to him. 

Rie. Friends, 

I come not here to talk. Ye know too well 
The story of our thraldom. We are slaves! 
The bright sun rises to his course, and lights 
A race of slaves ! He sets, and his last beam 
Falls on a slave : not such as, swept along 
By the full tide of power, the conqueror leads 
To crimson glory and undying fame. 
But base, ignoble slaves — slaves to a horde 
Of petty tyrants, feudal despots ; lords 
Rich in some dozen paltry villages — 
Strong in some hundred spearmen — only great 
In that strange spell — a name. Each hour, dark. 

fraud. 
Or open rapine, or protected murder, 
Cry out against them. But this very day, 
An honest man, my neighbour, (Pointing to Paolo) 

there he stands- 
Was struck — struck like a dog, by one who wore 
The badge of Ursini; because, forsooth. 
He tossed not high his ready cap in air. 
Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts. 
At sight of that great rufTian. Be we men. 
And suffer such dishonour? Men, and wash not 
The stain away in blood ? Such shames are common. 
I have known deeper wrongs. I, that speak to ye, 
I had a brother once, a gracious boy, 
Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope — 
Of sweet and quiet joy — there was the look 
Of heaven upon his face, which limners give 
To the beloved disciple. How I loved 
That gracious boy! Younger by fifteen years. 
Brother at once and sou! He left my side, 
A summer bloom on his fair cheeks — a smile I 

Parting his innocent lips. In one short hour 



54 



The pretty harmless boy was slain! I saw 
The corse, the mangled corse, and when 1 cried 
For vengeance ! — Rouse, ye Romans ! — Rouse, ye 

slaves ! 
Have ye brave sons ? Look in the next fierce brawl 
To see them die. Have ye fiiir daughters ? Look 
To see them live, torn from your arms, distained. 
Dishonoured, and, if ye dare call for justice, 
Be answered by the lash. Yet, this is Rome, 
That sate on her seven hills, and from her throne 
Of beauty ruled the world ! Yet, we are Romans. 
Why, in that elder day, to be a Roman 
Was greater than a king! And once again — 
Hear me, ye walls, that echoed to the tread 
Ot' either Brutus ! once again I swear. 
The eternal city shall be free ! her sons 
Shall walk with princes. Ere to-morrow's dawn, 
The tyrants 

First Cit. Hush ! Who passes there ? 

(Citizens retire hack. 

Alb. A foe, 

By his proud bearing. Seize him. 

Rie. As I deem, 

'Tis Angelo Colonna. Touch him not — 
I would hold parley with him. Good Albert!, 
The hour is nigh. Away! [Exit Alherti. 

Enter Angelo Colonna. 

Now, sir! (To Avgelo. 

A7ig. W^hat be ye, 

That thus in stern and watchful mystery 
Cluster beneath the veil of night, and start 
To hear a stranger's foot ? 

Rie. Romans. 

Ang. And wherefore 

Meet ye, my countrymen ? 

Rie. For freedom. 

Ang. Surely, 

Thou art Cola di Rienzi ? 

Rie. Ay, the voice — 

The traitor voice. 

Ang. I knew thee by the words. 

Who, save thyself in this bad age, when man 
Lies prostrate like yon temple, dared conjoin 
The sounds of Rome and freedom ? 

Rie. I shall teach 

The world to blend those words, as in the days 
Before the Ca;sars. Thou shall be the first 
To hail the union. I have seen thee hang 
On tales of the world's mistress, till thine eyes. 
Flooded with strong emotion, have let fiiU 
Big tear-drops on thy cheeks, and thy young hand 
Hath clenched thy maiden sword. Unshealh it now — 
Now, at thy country's call! What, dost thou pause? 
Is the flame quenched? Dost falter? Hence with 

thee. 
Pass on! pass whilst thou may'st! 

Ang. Hoar me, Rienzi. 

Even now my spirit leaps^up at the thought 
Of those brave storied days — a treasury 
Of matchless visions, bright and glorified, 
I'aHng the dim lights of ihis darkling world 
With the golden blaze of heaven, but pist and gone, ' 
As clouds of yesterday, as last night's dream. 1 



638 



Rie. A dream! Dost see yon phalanx, still and 
stern ? 
An hundred leaders, each with such a band, 
So armed, so resolule, so fixed in will. 
Wait with suppressed impatience till ihey hear 
The great bell of the Capitol, to spring 
At once on their proud foes. Join them. 
Ang. My father ! 

Rie. Already he hath quitted Rome. 
Ang. My kinsmen ! 

Rie. We are too strong for contest. Thou shall see 
No other change within our peaceful streets 
Than that of slaves to freemen. Such a change 
As is the silent step from night to day, 
From darkness into light. We talk too long. 
Ang. Yet reason with them — warn them. 
Rie. And their answer 

Will be the gaol, the gibbet, or the axe. 
The keen retort of power. Why, I have reasoned ; 
And, but that I am held, amongst j'our great ones, 
Half madman and half fool, these bones of mine 
Had whitened on yon wall. Warn them ! They met 
Atevery step dark warnings. The pure air, 
Where'er they passed, was heavy with the weight 
Of sullen silence; friend met friend, nor smiled, 
Till the last footfall of the tyrant's steed 
Had died upon the ear; and low and hoarse 
Hatred came murmuring like the deep voice 
Of the wind before the tempest. Sir, the boys — 
The untledged boys, march at their mother's hist. 
Beside their grandsires; even the girls of Rome — 
The gentle and the delicate, array 
Their lovers in this cause. I have one yonder, 
Claudia Rienzi — thou hast seen the maid — 
A silly trembler, a slight fragile toj', 
As ever nursed a dove, or reared a flower — 
Yet she, even she, is pledged — 
Aug. To whom? to whom? 

Rie. To Liberty! Was never virgin vowed 
In the fair temple over right our house 
To serve the goddess, Vesta, as my child 
Is dedicated to freedom. A king's son 
Might kneel in vain for Claudia. None shall wed her, 
Save a true champion of the cause. 
Ang. I '11 join ye ; {Gives his hand to Rienzi. 

How shall I swear? 
Rie. {To the People.) Friends, comrades, country- 
men ! 
I bring unhoped-for aid. Young Angelo, 
The immediate heir of the Colonna, craves 
To join your band. 

All the Citizens shout — He 's welcome ! 
Ang. Hear me swear 

By Rome — by freedom — by Rienzi! Comrades, 
How have ye titled your deliverer ? consul — 
Dictator, Emperor? 

The People shout — Consul! Emperor! &c. &c. 
Rie. No — 

Those names have been so often steeped in blood, 
So shamed by f )lly, so profaned by sin, 
The sound seems ominous — I '11 none of them. 
Call me the tribune of the people ; there 
My honouring duty lies. 



R I E NZI. [Act III. 

{The Citizens shout— Uai\ to our Tribune ! Thebell 
sounds thrice ; shouts again ; and a military band 
is heard playing a march without. 

Hark— the bell, the bell! 
The knell of tyranny — the mighty voice. 
That, to the city and the plain — to earth. 
And listening heaven, proclaims the glorious tale 
Of Rome re-born, and freedom. See, the clouds 
Are swept away, and the moon's fwat of light 
Sails in the clear blue sky, and million stars 
Look out on us, and smile. 

{The gate of the Capitol opens, and Alberti and Sol- 
diers join the People, and lay the keys at Rienzi' s 
feet. 

Hark ! that great voice 
Hath broke our bondage. Look, without a stroke 
The Capitol is won — the gates unfold — 
The keys are at our feet. Alberti, friend. 
How shall I pay thy service? Citizens! 
First to possess the palace citadel — 
The famous strength of Rome ; then to sweep on, 
Triumphant, through her streets. 

{As Rienzi and the People are entering the Capitol, 
he pauses. 

Oh, glorious wreck 
Of Gods and Caesars ! thou shall reign again. 
Queen of the vi'orld ; and I — come on, come on, 
My people! 
Citizens. Live Rienzi — live our Tribune! 

{Exeunt through the gales, into the Capitol. 



ACT in. 

SCENE L 

The outside of a Court of Justice— <i Crowd round 

the Gates — Persons descending the Steps from time 

to time. 
Enter Paolo and the First Citizen, meeting the Second 
Citizen, who advances to them from the Steps. 

Pao. {to the Second Cil.) How goes the trial ? 

Second Cit. Bravely. 

Pao. {to the First Cit.) A good day ! 
Good neighbour, thou 'rt a stranger. 

First Cit. I have been 

A way from Rome, good Paolo, since the day 
Of our deliverance, when Rienzi punished 
A servant of the Ursini, for striking 
Thy bonnet from thy head. 

Pao. And now thou find'st 

This same Rienzi in a way to punish 
The master. 

First Cit. Martin Ursini ? 

Pao. The tribune 

Now sits in judgment on him. 

First Cit. Wherefore ? 

Second Cit. Sir, 

For a breach of the new law — the mighty plunder 
Of a vast wreck, an argosy — a booty 
To tempt an emperor. 

First Cit. Martin Ursini! 

Almost our senator! The fearful head 
Of the fearfullest name in Rome. 



Scene II.] 



RIENZI. 



639 



Pao. Ay, he is li'ic — {to Cil. passing from the Hall. 
Flow goes the trial ? 

T/iird Cit. Well. 

Pao. Is hke to swing 

From a gibbet in the Forum. 

First Cit. Will he dare ? 

Second Cit. Dare I why thon saw'st his spirit — not 
his power 
Matches his will ; and never lineal prince 
Sate firmer on his throne, or lightlier swayed 
The reins of empire. He hath swept away 
The oppressors and extortioners — hath gained 
Kingly allies — hath reconciled the pope — 
Hath quelled the barons. 

First Cit. Ay, I rode to Rome 

With a follower of Colonna. Angelo 
Halh won his father to submission. 

(Shouts within the Court — Persons come rapidly out. 
The prisoner is condemned. 

Fourth Cil. He is. Rienzi 

Heard him with a grave patience; almost leaning 
To mercy. But the fact was flagrant. 

(Persons passing from the Court of Justice. 

First Cil. Hark! 

Another shout. Where go ye ? 

Fifth Cit. To the Forum, 

To wait the execution. 

Enter Rienzi, attended ; and followed by Ihsini, 
Frangipani, and other nobles. 

Second Cit. Ha, the Tribune ! 

And the great prisoner's kindred. 

Citizens. Live Rienzi! 

Live our just Tribune. 

(All shout when Rienzi is in the front. 

Urs. Good my lord, beseech ye — 

Rie. Ye plead in vain. 

Urs. Yet hear me. Force me not 

To appeal against thy sentence. 

Rie. Ay ! to whom ? 

There stand my judges, lords, and yours — the people, 
The free and honest people ! Seek of them 
If I hold even the scales of justice. 

Citizens. Live 

Our Tribune! our just Tribune. 

(Shout. — Exit Rienzi, with Citizens. 

Fra. Follow not, 

But seek lord Angelo — he hath a power 
Over this haughty despot. 

Urs. Gods! what tyranny 

Men will endure in freedom's name. Yes, yes ! 
L<jrd Angelo! My foeman though he be, 
His old hereditary pride will rise 
Against this churl's base purpose. If his power — 

Fra. The daughter! Claudia. Quick to seek Co- 
lonna ; 
The Tribune holds his court at noon. Quick! quick! 

[I^eunt. 

SCENE H. 

An apartment in the Capitol. — A Couch. 

Enter Claudia, Bcrta, Teresa, and Rosa. — All but 
Claudia embroidering, ^c. 

Ter. Sweet lady, why so sad ? 



Cla. I know not 

Per. Try 

Yon emerald carkanet, or let me braid 
These pearls in thy long tresses. 

Ter. She affects not 

Such glittering baubles; rather sing to her 
One of thy songs from the cold north. 

Rosa. Shall Berta 

Sing to thee, lady. 

Cla. Yes, I care not. (Goes to the couch and sits. 

Ter. Sing. 

SONG.— Berta. 

The red rose is queen of the garden bower. 

That glows in the sun at noon ; 
And the lady-hly 's the fairest flower 

That swings her white bells in the breeze of June; 
Bat they who come 'mid frost and flood, 

Peeping from bank, or root of tree, 
The primrose and the violet bud — 

They are the dearest flowers to me. 

The nightingale's is the sweetest song 

Tliat ever tlie rose hath heard ; 
And when the lark sings, the white clouds among. 

The lily looks up to the heavenly bird : 
But the robin, with his eye of jet, 

Who pipes from the bare boughs merrily 
To the primrose jiale and the violtt — 

His is the dearest song to me. 

Ter. Didst like the strain ? 

Cla. There 's deep wisdom in it- 

The lowly blossom, and the wintery friend. 
They are the dearest. I 'm set i' the sun 
To wither. 

Rosa. She is sad again. Wouldst hear 
A merry story, lady ? Or a tale of murder 
To divert thee? 

Ber. Or a legend. 

Fresh from the Holy Land ? 

Enter Rienzi. 

Ter. The Tribune! (Claudia rises hastily. 

Rie. Leave us. (The ladies rise to go out. 

Claudia — nay, start not! Thou art sad to-day; 
I found thee sitting idly, 'midst thy maids — 
A pretty, laughing, restless band, who plied 
Quick tongue and nimble finger. Mute, and pale 
As marble, those unseeing eyes were fixed 
On vacant air; and that fair brow was bent 
As sternly as if the rude stranger, Thought, 
Age-giving, mirth-destroying, pitiless Thought, 
Had knocked at thy young giddy brain. 

Cla. Nay, father. 

Mock not thine own poor Claudia. 

Rie. Claudia used 

To bear a merry heart, with that clear voice. 
Prattling; and that light busy foot astir 
In her small housewifery, the blilhest bee 
That ever wrought in hive. 

Cla. Oh! mine old home! 

Rie. What ails thee, lady bird ! 

Cla. Mine own dear home ! 

Father, I love not this new state ; these halls. 
Where comfort dies in vastness; these trim maids. 
Whoso service wearies me. Oh ! mine old home ! 



640 



RlENZI. 



[Act III. 



My quiet, pleasant, with the myrtle 

Woven round ihe casement; and the cedar by, 

Shading the sun; my garden overgrown 

With flowers and herbs, thick set as grass in fields ; 

My pretty snow-while doves ; my kindest nurse; 

And old Camillo. Oh! mine own dear home! 

Rie. Why, simple child, thou hast thine old fond 
nurse. 
And good Camillo ; and shalt have thy doves, 
Thy myrtles, flowers, and cedars; a whole province 
Laid in a garden, an' thou wilt. My Claudia, 
Hast thou not learnt thy power? Ask orient gems, 
Diamonds, and sapphires, in rich caskets, wrought 
By cunning goldsmiths; sigh for rarest birds 
Of farthest Ind, like winged flowers, to flit 
Around thy stately bower; and, at a wish. 
The precious toys shall wait thee. Old Camillo! 
Thou shalt have nobler servants — emperors, kings. 
Electors, princes ! not a bachelor 
In Ciiri.stendom but would right proudly kneel 
To my fair daughter. 

Cla. Oh ! mine own dear home! 

Rie. Wilt have a list to choose from? Listen, 
sweet ! 
If the tall cedar, and the branchy myrtle, 
And the white doves, were tell-tales, I would ask 

them 
Whose was the shadow on the sunny wall? 
And if, at eventide, they heard not oft 
A tuneful mandoline, and then a voice. 
Clear in its manly depth, whose tide of song 
O'erwhelmed the quivering instrument; and then 
A world of whispers, mixed with low response. 
Sweet, short, and broken, as divided strains 
Of nightingales. 

Cla. Oh, father! father! 

Rie. Well ! 

Dost love him, Claudia? 

Cla. Father ! 

Rie. Dost thou love 

Yoimg An^elo? Yes? Said'st thou yes? That heart — 
That throhhing heart of thine, keeps such a coil, 
I cannot hear thy words, lie is returned 
To Rome ; he left thee on mine errand, dear one ; 
And now — Is there no casement-myrtle wreathed, 
No cedar in our courts, to shade lo-night 
The lover's song ? 

Cla. Oh, father! father! 

Rie. Now, 

Rack to thy maidens, with a lightened heart. 
Mine own beloved child. Thou shalt be first 
In Rome, as tliou art fairest; never princess 
Brought to the proud Colonna such a dower 
As thou. Voiuig Angelo hath chosen his mate 
From out an eagle's nest. 

Cla. Alas! alas ! 

I tremble at the height. Whene'er I think 
Of the hot barons, of the fickle people. 
And the inconstancy of power, I tremble 
For thee, dear iaiher. 

Rie. Tremble ! Let them tremble. 

I am their master, Claudia, whom they scorned, 
Endured, protected. Sweet, go dream of love. 
I am their master, Claudia. [Exeunt. 



SCENE III. 

A Magnificent Hall in the Capilol. 

Enter Colonna, Ursini, Frangipam, Caparello, the 
Nuncio, an Ambassador, Nobles, <^c. 

Col. Gibbet and cord ! a base plebeian death ! 
And he the head of the great Roman name, 
That rivalled the Colonna ! Ursini, 
Thy brother shall not die. The grief is ihine, 
The shame is general. How say ye, baronsi 

Urs. If ye resist, ye share his doom. Plead! plead ! 
Dissemble with the tyrant — stifle hate. 
And master scorn, as 1 have done. Plead for hira. 

Col. To Cola ! Can I frame my speech to sue 
To Cola — most familiar of the drones 
That thronged my hall of afternoons, content 
To sit below the salt, and bear all jests — 
The retinue and pest of greatness. Sue 
To Cola! 

Urs. Fear not, but revenge will come. 
We being friends, from whose dissension sprang 
The usurper's strength. An hour will come. 

Enter Angelo. 

Lord Angelo 
Thou wilt not fail us. 

Ang. Surely, no! 'tis stern. 

Revengeful, cruel, pitiless! The people — 
To soothe the fickle people — ^yet he 's w iser ! 
He'll be persuaded. 

Era. He approaches. {Music without. 

Col. What! 

Ushered with music as a king. 

Enter Rienzi attended. 

Rie. Why, this 

Is well, my lords, this full assemblage. Now 
The chief of Rome stands fitly girt with names 
Strong as their towers around liiin. Fall not ofl^ 
And we shall be impregnable. Lord Nuncio, 
I should have asked thy blessing. I have sent 
Our missions to the pontiff Count Savelli — 
My lord ambassador, I crave your pardon. 
What news from Venice, the sea-queen ? Savelli, 
I have a little maiden who must know 
Thy fairest daughter. Angelo, Colonna, 
A double welcome! Rome lack'd her state, 
Wanting her princely columns. 

Col. Sir, I come 

A suitor to thee. Martin Ursini — 

Rie. When last his name was on thy lips — Well 
• sir, 
Thy suit, thy suit ! If pardon, take at once 
My answer — No. 

A7ig. Yet, mercy — 

Rie. Angelo, 

Waste not thy pleadings on a desperate cause 
And a resolved spirit. She awaits tliee. 
Haste to that fairer court. [7i,nY Angdo, 

My lord Coloima, 
This is a needful justice. 



Scene IL] 



RIENZI. 



641 



Col. Noble Tribune, 

It is a crime which custom — 

Ric. Ay, the law 

Of the strong against the weaii — your law, the law 
Of tlie sword and spear. But, gentles, ye lie now 
Under the good estate. 

Sav. He is noble. 

Jlie- Therefore, 

A thousand times he dies. Ye are noble, sirs. 
And need a warning. 

Col. Sick, almost to death. 

Ric. Yo have less cause to grieve. 

Fra. New-wedded. 

Rie. Ay, 

Madonna Laura is a blooming dame, 
And will become her weeds. 

Caf. Remember, Tribune, 

He hath two uncles, cardinals. Wouldst outrage 
The sacrtd college ? 

Rie. The lord cardinals, 

Meek, pious, lowly men, and loving virtue. 
Will render ihanks to him who wipes a blot 
So flagrant fioAi their name. 

Col. An Ursini! 

Head of the U/isini! 

Urs. Mine only brother! 

Rie. And darest talk thou to me of brothers? Thou, 
Whose groom — wouldst have me break my own just 

laws, 
To save thy brotlier? tin'ne! Hast thou forgotten 
When that most beautiful and blameless boy, 
The prettiest piece of innocence that ever 
Breathed in this sinful world, lay at ihy feet, 
Slain by thy pampered minion, and I knelt 
Before thee for redress, whilst thou — didst never 
Hear talk of retribution ! This is justice. 
Pure justice, not revenge ! Mark well, my lords — 
Pure, equal justice. Martin Ursini 
Had open trial, is guilty, is condemned, 
And he shall die! 

Col. Yet listen to us ! 

Rie. Lords, 

If ye could range before me all the peers. 
Prelates, and potentates of Christendom— 
The holy pontiff kneeling at my knee. 
And emperors crouching at my feet, to sue 
For this great Robber, still I should be blind 
As Justice. But this very day a wife. 
One infant hanging at her breast, and two 
Scarce bigger, first-born twins of misery. 
Clinging to the poor rags that scarcely hid 
Her squalid form, grasped at my bridle-rein 
To beg her husband's life ; condemned to die 
For some vile petty theft, some paltry scudi — 
And, whilst the fiery war-horse chafed and rear'd, 
Shaking his crest, and plunging to get free. 
There, midst the dangerous coil unmoved, she stood, 
Pleading in broken words and piercing shrieks 
And hoarse low shivering sobs, the very cry 
Of nature ! And, when I at last said no — 
For I said no to her — she flung herself 
And those poor innocent babes between the stones 
And my hot Arab's hoofs. We saved them all — 
Thank heaven, we saved them all! but I said no 

54* 



To that sad woman, 'midst her shrieks. Ye dare not 
Ask me for mercy now. 

Sav. Yet he is noble! 

Let him not die a felon's death. 

Rie. Again ! 

Ye weary me. No more of this. Colonna, 
Thy son loves my fair daughter. 'T is an union. 
However my young Claudia might have^ graced 
A monarch's side, that augurs hopefully — 
Bliss to the wedded pair, and peace to Rome, 
And it shall be accomplished. Good my lords, 
I bid ye to the bridal ; one and all, 
I bid ye to the bridal feast. And now 
A fair good morrow. 

[Exil Rienzi, attended by Nuncio, Ambassador, 
other Lords, ^c. 

Sav. Hath stem Destiny 

Clothed him in this man's shape, that in a breath, 
He deals out death and m.arriage? Ursini! 
Colonna ! be ye stunned ? 

Col. I '11 follow him ! 

Tyrant! usurper! base-born churl ! to deem 
That son of mine 

Urs. Submit, as I have done, 

For vengeance. From our grief and shame shall 

spring 
A second retribution ; and this banquet — 
This nuptial banquet, this triumphal hour. 
Shall be the very scene of our revenge ! 
I may not loiter here. The fatal moment 
Of our disgrace is nigh. Ere evening close, 
I 'II seek thee at thy palace. Seem to yield. 
And victory is sure. 

Col. I '11 take thy counsel. [Exeunt 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. 

A Hall in the Capitol. 

Enter Savelli, Fransipani, Cafarello, Camillo, and 
other Attendants. 

Sav. He bears him like a prince, save that ho teiki 
The port serene of majesty. His mood 
Is fitful : stately now, and sad ; anon. 
Full of a hurried mirth; courteous awhile, 
And mild ; then bursting, on a sudden, forth 
Info sharp biting taunts. 

Fra. And at the altar. 

When he first found the proud and angry mother 
Refused to grace the nuptials, even the nuncio 
Quailed at his fiery threats. 

Caf. I saw Colonna 

Gnawing his lip for wrath. 

Sav. Why, this new power 

Mounts to the brain like wine. For such disease. 
Your skilful leech lets blood. 

Fra. Suspects he aught 

Of our design ? we himt a subtle quarry. 

Sav. But with a wilier huntsman. 



642 



RIENZI. 



[Act IV. 



Enter Ursini. 

Ursini, 
Hath every point been guarded ? be the masquers 
Valiant and strongly armed ? have ye ta'en order 
To close the gates — to seize his train — to cut 
The cordage of the bell, that none may summon 
The people to his rescue ? 

Urs. All is cared for, 

And vengeance certain. Before set of sun, 
We shall be masters of ourselves, of Rome, 
And Rome's proud ruler. This quiet masque of ours — 

Caf. What is the watchword ? 

Urs. Death. 

Fra. Peace, peace — he comes ! 

Enter Angela, Claudia, and Ladies. 

Fra. No, 't is the blooming bride. Young Angelo 
Hath no ill choice in beauty. 

Sav. 'T is a maid 

Shy as a ring-dove. See, how delicate, 
How gentle, yet how coy ! Poor pretty fool, 
No harm must happen her. 

Urs. None, none. 

Caf. {To Angelo.) Good kinsman, 

1 would not have thee hear Savelli speak 
Of thy fair bride. 

Ang. Ah! doth he praise her? Lords, 

Beseech ye sit. Savelli, I would fain 
Make of thy daughter and my blushing wife 
A pair of lovely friends. Look where they stand, 
The fairest two in Rome. 

Fra. The Tribune comes. 

Enter Rienzi and Colonna. 

Rie. Where lags our hostess ? Take thy state, fair 
bride — 
Thy one day's queenship. See, the nuptial wreath 
Sits crown-like on thy brow ; thy nuptial robe 
Flows royally. Come, come, be gracious ! Bid 
A smiling welcome to the subject world. 
Nay, never blush nor hang thy head ; remember 
Thou art a Colonna. Wouldst thou be the first 
Of that proud name to ape the peasant's virtue. 
Humility ? Fie ! fie ! 

Col. Sir, the Colonna — 

Ang. Nay, good, my father, sure to-day our name 
Hath cause of pride. 

Col. Heaven grant it prove so ! 

Sav. Lady, 

Thou art silent still. 

Ang. Shall I speak for thee, love? 

Oh, weak and inefTectual were my words. 
Matched with thy burning blush, thy quivering smile. 
Thy conscious silence, Claudia! — Gentle friends, 
Ye are nobly welcome. 

Rie. This is well, fair son ! 

Yet we lack mirth. Have ye no masque astir ? 
No dance, no music, no quaint mystery, 
To drive away the spectre, Thought? A bridal 
Is but a gilt and painted funeral 
To the fond father who hath yielded up 
His own sweet child. Claudia, thy love, thy duty, 
Thy very name, is gone. Thou art another's; 
Thou hast a master now ; and I have thrown 



My precious pearl away. Yet men who give 
A living daughter to the fickle will 
Of a capricious bridegroom, laugh — the madmen! 
Laugh at the jocund biidal feast, and weep 
When the fair corse is laid in blessed rest. 
Deep, deep in mother earth. Oh, happier, far 
So to have lost my child ! 

Cla. Father ! 

A7ig. Thou hast gained 

A son, not lost a daughter. 

Rie. Love her, Angelo ; 

Be kind to her as I have been ; defend her. 
Cherish her, love her. 

Ang. More than life. 

(Hands Claudia to the throne, and sits by her. 

Rie. Bring mirth — 

Music, and dance, and song, and I will laugh, 
And chase away these images of death 
That float afore mine eyes. A song — a song! 

Sav. {To Ursini.) Thou shouldst have named the 
masque. 

Urs. {To Savelli.) Better anon. 

SONG. 

Hail to the gentle bride ! the dove 

High nested in the column's crest ! 
Oh, welcome as the bird of love 
Who bore the olive-sign of rest ! 
C!w. Hail to the bride! 

Hail to the gentle bride I the flower 
Whose garlands round the colnnin twine! 

Oh ! fairer than the citron bovver ! 
More fragrant than the blossom'd vine! 
Cho. Hail to the bride I 

Hail to the gentle bride! the star 

Whose radiance o'er the column beams! 
Oh, soft as moonlight, seen afar, 
A silver shine on trembling streams ! 
Cho. Hail to the bride ! 

Rie. A pleasant strain! 

{A citizen rushes from amofigst the attendants, 
and presents a paper to Rienzi. 
What wouldst thou, friend ? 

Cif. May it please thee 

To read this scroll, great Tribune. 

Urs. {To Colonna.) Can the demon, 

To whom his soul is pledged, have ta'en this way 
To show our secret ? No, he smiles ! he smiles ! 
His hand shakes not! I breathe again. 

Rie. {To Cilizeiu) Fair sir, 

All thou hast asked is granted. [Exit Citizen. 

'T is no day 
To frown on a petition. Mirth, my lords — 
Bring mirth I 1 brook no pause of revelry. 
Have ye no masque ? 

Sav. {To Ursini.) He rushes in the toils; 
Now weave the meshes round him. 

Urs. Sooth, my lord, 

We had plotted to surprise the gentle bride 
With a slight dance — a toy, an antic. 

Rie. Ay, 

And when? 

Urs. Soon as the bell tolled four, the masquera 
Were bid to enter. 



Scene I.] 



RIENZI. 



643 



R'e. Four ? And how attired ? 

Vrs. Turban'd and robed, and with swart visages, 
A Iroop of lusty Moors. 

Rie. Camilio, harii! Admit these revellers; 
Mark me — 

{Gives orders in low voice to Camilio, and also 
the paper which he has just received from the 
citizen. 

Urs. (Aside.) Now, vengeance, thou art mine! 

Tvie. Wine — wine! {To an attendant. 

Fill me a goblet high with sparkling wine ! 

{The attendant fills a goblet, and presents it to 
Rienzi. 
Fill high, my noble guests. Claudia Rienzi, 
And Angelo Colonna! Bless'd be they 
And we in their fair union ! Doubly cursed 
Whoe'er in wish or thought would loose that tie, 
The bond of peace to Rome ! Drink, good my lords, 
Fill high the mantling wine, and in the bowl 
Be all unkindness buried ! 

Urs. Heartily 

We pledge you, noble Tribune. {All rise except Co- 
lonna. 

Rie. Why, Colonna ! 

Brother ! — {Colonna rises.) He startles at the word. 

He eyes 
The cup as it were poisoned. Dost thou think 
We 've drugged the draught ? I '11 be thy taster. — 

Drink F 
The wine is honest — we're no traitors ! 

Urs. Drink ! 

I pr'yihee, drink ! 

Col. Health to the gentle bride! 

Health to my children ! 

Rie. This is fatherly ; 

Noble '■^Jolonna, this is princely. Now, 
If any icorn thee, Claudia, say Colonna, 
Whose word is truth, hailed thee his child. 

Cla My lords 

And k insmen all, if a poor simple maid, 
And yet Rienzi's daughter, so may dare 
To call ye, take my thanks. On every head 
Be every fair wish trebled. Gentle friends — 

{Rises to go, attended by Angelo, and followed 
by the Ladies. 

Rte. Wilt thou not wait the masque ? 

[Ejceunt Claudia, Angela, and Ladies. 
Thou wilt not. Well! 
We must carouse the deeper. Hark, Francisco! 
Go bid the fountains, from their marble mouths, 
Pour the rich juice of the Sicilian grape, 
A flood of molten rubies, that our kind 
And drouthy fellow-citizens may chorus 
Hail to the gentle bride. I would fain bid 
Old Tyber flow with wine. Another cup — 
To thee and thine, Colonna! fill the bowl. 
Higher and higher! Let the phantom, fear — 
And doubt, that haunts round princes — and suspicion. 
That broods a harpy o'er the banquet — flee 
Down to the uttermost depths of hell. A health 
To thee and thine, Colonna ! 

Urs. Of what doubt 

Speaks our great Tribune ? 



Rie. 
To crown the goblet ! 



A fit tale of mirth, 



Enter the Masquers. 

Doubt! Spake I of doubt ? 
Fear! Said I fear? So fenced around by friends, 
Allies, and kinsmen, what have I to fear 
From treason or from traitors ! Say yon hand 
Were rebels, ye would guard me! Call them mur- 
derers. 
Ye would avenge me. 

Ur.s. Ay, by death. 

Rie. And thou ? 

Col. By death ! 

Rie. Seize the foul traitors. Ye have passed 

(To the Masquers, who seize the Nobles, ^c. 
Your own just sentence. Yield, my masters, yield ! 
Your men are overpowered; your masquers chained; 
The courts are lined with guards, and at one stroke — 
One touch upon this bell, the strength of Rome, 
All that hath life within the walls, will rise . 
To crush ye. Yield your swords. Do ye not shame 
To wear them ? Yield your swords. 

Re-enter Angelo. 

Ang. Rienzi, 

{Then to one of the guards, who seizes Colonna. 

Villain! 
An thou but touch the Lord Colonna — ay, 
An thou but dare to lay thy rufilan hand 
Upon his garment — 

Rie. Seize his sword. 

Ang. Again! 

Art frenetic, Rienzi ! 

Rie. Seek of them. 

Ang. Father, in mercy speak! Give me a cause ; 
And, though a legion hemmed thee in, thy son 
Should rescue thee. Speak but one word, dear 

father. 
Only one word ! Sure as I live, thou art guiltless ; 
Sure as the sun tracks his bright path in heaven, 
Thy course is pure. Yet speak ! 

Rie. He is silent. 

Ang. Speak. 

Rie. Doth not that silence answer thee 1 Look on 
them. 
Thou knovv'st them, Angelo — the bold Savelli, 
The Frangipani, and the Ursini — 
Ay, and the high Colonna; well thou knovvest 
Each proud and lofty visage ; mark them now. 
They should be signed as Cain, of old, for guilt — 
Detected, baffled, murderous guilt, hath set 
His bloody hand upon them. Son, thou shudderest! 
Their lawny masquers should have slain me; here, 
Before my daughter's eyes ; here, at thy bridal ; 
Here, in my festive hour — the mutual cup 
Sparkling ; the mutual pledge half sjioke ; the bread, 
Which we have broke together, unconsumed 
Upon the board ; joyful and full of wine ; 
Sinful and unconfessed — so had I fallen; 
And so — the word was death. From their own lips 
Came their own righteous sentence — death I 

Ang. Oh, mercy! 
Mercy! Thou liv'st. 'T was but the intent. 



644 



R I E N Z I . 



[Act IV. 



Rie. My death 

Were nothing; but through me, the traitors struck 
At peace, at hberty, at Rome — my country, 
Bright and regenerate, the world's mistress once, 
And doomed, hke the old fabled bird, to rise 
Strong frori her ashes. Did ye think the people 
Could spare their Tribune ? Did ye deem them weary 
Of equal justice; and mild law; and freedom 
As liberal as the air; and mighty fiime, 
A more resplendent sun ? Sirs, I am guarded 
By the invisible shield of love, which blunts 
The darts of treachery. I cannot die. 
Whilst Rome commands me, live. For ye, foul traitors, 
I pardon ye, and I despise ye. Go ! 
Ye are free. 

Ang. (2'o Rienzi.) Oh, thanks, my fallier. 

Col. * Said he thanks! 

Chains, bring me chains! such words liom such a 

tongue 
Were slavery worse than death. Chains — chains — 

Rie. Ye are free. 

Col. Is the proud pillar of Colonna fallen. 
That base plebeian feet bestride its shaft ? 
Is Ursini's strong bear muzzled and chained, 
That every cur — 

Sav. Good cousin, pr'yth-je peace ; 

The Tribune means us fairly. 

Rie. Still ye are free. 

Yet mark me, signors ! Tame your rebel bloods ; 
Be faithful subjects to the good estate ; 
Demolish your strong towers, which overtop 
Oar beautiful city with barbarian pride, 
Loosing fell rapine, discord, and revenge. 
From out their dens accurst. Be quiet subjects, 
And ye shall find the state a gen'.le mistress- 
Else— 

Col. Doth he threaten ! 

Urs. Hush ! this is no lime — 

An hour will come 

Rie. Wliat, do you mutter, traitors ; 

Follow me instant to the Lateran. 
There at the holy altar, with such rites. 
As to profane were sin more damnable 
Than treason ever dared, to offer up 
Your vowed allegiance to freed Rome — to me, 
Her servant, minister, deliverer — me. 
Your master. Ye are free ; but I will chain 
Your rebel souls with oaths. Follow me, sirs. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE ir. 

The Capiloline Hill. 
Enter Ursini and Frangiparn. 

Era. Nay, Ursini', why pluck me by the sleeve? 
Why steal from the procession ? Why re-waken 
The tyrant's anger? 

Urs. For rtrvenge ! Ye are stunned, 

Bewildered, jjs men rousing from a dream. 
That know not where they stand. Dost thou not see 
Our great revenge is sure? The tyrant walks 
Blinded by his vainglory; confident 
In that straw fetter, an e.xtorted oath ; 
And we — why are wo not resolved ? And be not 



Our bold retainers waiting armed in proof, 
Without the gales ol Rome ? What, if to-night 

Fra. This very hour. Our tried and hardy band, 
Led by the chivalry of Rome, could carry 
I'he city at a charge ; and Rome herself 
Will rise against the madman. 

Urs. Here comes one. 

Whose name were worth a host. Didst thou not mark, 
How, stung by the sharp scorn Rienzi flung 
On proud Colonna, the young bridegroom broke 
From his new fiither's side ? 

Enter Angelo. 

Urs. Lord Angelo, 

A truant from this pageant ? 

Aug. As thou see'st; 

Urs. Yet thy good father, our great Tribune 

Ang. Sir, 

I am a son of the Colonna. 

Urs. Ay, 

The heir of that most princely house ; and, sir. 
Fair though she be, a friend must frankly wish . 
She owned another sire. 

Ang. No more ! no more ! 

Enter Savelli and Cafarello. 

Ang. How pass'd the ceremonial, Count ? Beseech 
thee. 
Tell us of these new riles. 

Sav. The noble train 

Rolled smoothly on. Rienzi led the band 
Right royally, sceptred and robed, and backing 
A milk-white Arab, from whose eyeballs flashed 
Quick gleams of glittering light. Colonna held 
The bridle-rein. 

Ang. Stephen Colonna ? 

Sav. Ay — 
Thy father, sir. We meaner barons walked 
Behind, bareheaded, and with folded arms. 
As men doing penance to the holy shrine 
Of St. John Lateran. Then came a mummery 
Of oaths to that indefinite she, the Slate — 
Republic, sir, is out of date — and then 

Caf. Ay, tell that impious outrage. 

Sav. Then Rienzi, 

Stepping before the altar, his bold hand 
Laid on the consecrate Host, sent forth. 
In a full pealing voice, that rolled along 
The fretted roof, like the loud organ swell, 
A rash and insolent summons to the Pope 
And Cardinals; next he cited to appe..r 
The imperial rivals, Charles and Lewis ; next 
The Electors Palatine. Then, whilst the aisles 
Of the hushed church prolonged his words, he drew 
His dazzling sword, and, waving the bright blade 
To the four points of Heaven, cried with a deep 
Intensity of will, that drove his words 
Like arrows through the brain ; " This, too, is mirt." 
Yes, to each part of this liiir earth, he cried — 
" Thou, too, art mine." 

Ang. Madman! And ye 

Sav. \Ve liste ..^ I 

In patience and in silence ; whilst ho stood 
His fiirm dilating, and his haughty glanco 
Instinct with fiery pride. 



J 



Scene II.] 



RIENZI. 



645 



Ang. Now, by St. John, 

Had I been there, ye should have heard a voice 
Answer this frenzied summoner. 

Urx. Our answer 

Is yet unspoken. Angelo Colonna, 
If the old glories of thy princely race, 
Thy knightly honour, thy fresh budding fame. 
Outshine the red and white of Claudia's cheek, 
Then 

Anir. Wherefore pause? I know thee, Ursini — 
Rienzi's mortal foe, and scarce a friend 
To the Colonna ; yet, in honour's name — 
Say on. 

Rie. {without) Lead home the steed. I '11 walk 
from hence. 

Urs. Meet me at the Colonna Palace. Fail not. 

Enter Rienzi, attended hy Colonna and other Lords, 

Rie. Ah ! he is here. Son ! Ye may leave us, lords. 
We are content with your good service. 

Son, [Exeunt all but Rienzi and Angelo. 
Methinks this high solemnity might well 
Have claimed thy presence. A great ruler's heir 
Should be familiar in the people's eyes; 
Live on their tongues ; take root within their hearts ; 
Win woman's smiles by honest courtesy, 
And force man's tardier praise by bold desert. 
So, when the chief shall die, the general love 
May hail his successor. But thou — where wast thou ? 
If with thy bride 

Aug. I have not seen her. Tribune — 

Thou wav'st away the word with such a scorn 
As I poured poison in thine ear. Already 
Dost weary of the title ? 

Rie. Wherefore should I ? 

Ang. Thou art ambitious. 

Rie. Granted. 

Ang. And wouldst be 

A king. 

Rie. There thou misfak'st. A king! fair son! 
Power d welleth not in sound, and fame hath garlands 
Brighter than diadems. I might have been 
Anointed, sceptred, crowned ; have cast a blaze 
Of glory round the old imperial wreath, 
The laurel of the Caesars. But I chose 
To master kings, not be one; to direct 
The royal puppets as my sovereign will. 
And Rome — my Rome decree. Tribune ! the Gracchi 
Were called so. Tribune ! I will make that name 
A word of fear to kings. 

Ang. Rienzi ! Tribune ! 

Hast thou forgotten — on this very spot. 
How thou didst shake the slumbering sou! of Rome 
With the brave sound of Freedom, till she rose, 
And from her giant limbs the shackles dropped. 
Burst by one mighty throe? Hadst thou died then, 
History had crowned thee with a glorious title — 
Deliverer of thy country. 

Rie. Well ! 

Ang. Alas ! 

When now thou fall'st, as fall thou must, 't will be 
The common tale of low ambition. Tyrants 
O'erthrown to form a wilder tyranny ; 
Princes cast down, that thy obscurer house 
May rise on nobler ruins. 



Rie. Hast thou ended ? 

I fain would have mistaken thee — hast done ? 
Ang. No — for, despite thy smothered wrath, the 
voice 
Of warning truth shall reach thee. Thou, to-day. 
Hast, by thy frantic sacrilege, drawn on thee 
The thunders of the church, the mortal feud 
Of either emperor. Here, at home, the barons 
Hate, and the people shun thee. Seest thou not, 
Kven in this noon of pride, thy waning power 
Fade, flicker, and wax dmi ? Thou art as one 
Perched on some lolly steeple's dizzy height. 
Dazzled by the sun, inebriaie by long draughts 
Of thinner air; too giddy to look down 
Where all his safety lies ; too proud to dare 
The long descent to the low depth from whence 
The desperate climber rose. 

RtB. Ay, there 's the sting — 

That I, an insect of to-day, outsoar 
The reverend worm, nobility ! Wouldst shame me 
With my poor parentage ! Sir, I 'm the son 
Of him who kept a sordid hostelry 
In the Jews' quarter; my good mother cleansed 
Linen for honest hire. Canst thou say worse ? 
Ang. Can worse be said ? 

Rie. Add, that my boasted Schoolcraft 

Was gained from such base toil, gained with such pain 
That the nice nurture of the mind was oft 
Stolen at the body's cost. I have gone dinnerless 
And supperless, the scoff of our poor street. 
For tattered vestments and lean hungry looks, 
To pay the pedagogue. Add what thou wilt 
Of injury. Say that, grown into man, 
I've known the pittance of the hospital. 
And, more degrading still, the patronage 
Of the Colonna. Of the tallest trees 
The roots delve deepest. Yes, I 've trod ihy halls. 
Scorned and derided 'midst their ribald crew, 
A licensed jester, save the cap and bells; 
I have borne this — and I have borne the death. 
The unavenged death, of a dear brother. 
I seemed I was a base ignoble slave. 
What am I ? Peace, I say ! what am I now? 
Head of this great republic, chief of Rome; 
In all but name, her sovereign; last of all, 
Thy father. 
Ang. In an evil hour — 
Rie. Dar'st thou 

Say that? An evil hour for thee, my Claudia! 
Thou shouldst have been an emperor's bride, my 

fairest. 
In evil hour thy woman's heart was caught, 
By the form moulded as an antique god : 
The gallant bearing, the feigned tale of love — 
All false, all outward, simulated all. 

Ang. But that I loved her, but that I do love her 
With a deep tenderness, softer and fonder 
Than thy ambition-hardened heart e'er dream'd of. 
My sword should answer thee. 

Rie- Go to. Lord A ngelo ; 

Thou lov'st her not. Men taunt not, nor defy 
The dear one's kindred. A bright atmosphere 
Of sunlight and of beauty breathes around 
The bosom's idol. I have loved — she loves thee ; 



648 



RIENZI. 



[Act IV. 



And therefore thy proud father — even the shrew, 

Thy railing mother, in her eyes, are sacred. 

Lay not thy hand upon thy sword, fair son — 

Keep that brave for thy comrades. I'll not fight thee. 

Go and give thanks to yonder simple bride, 

That her plebeian father mews not up, 

Safe in the citadel, her noble husband. 

Thou art dangerous, Colonna. But, for her, 

Beware! {Going. 

Aug. Come back, Rienzi ! Thus I throw 
A brave defiance in thy teeth. (Throws down his 
glove. 

Rie. Once more. 

Beware. 

Aug. Take up the glove! 

Rie. This time (or her — (Takes up the glove. 
For her dear sake — come, to thy bride ! home ! home ! 

Ang. Dost fear me, tribune of the people ! 

Rie. Fear ! 

Do I fear thee ! Tempt me no more. This once. 
Home to thy bride ! [Exit. 

Aug. Now, Ursini, I come — 

Fit partner of thy vengeance I [Exit. 



SCENE III. 
A Hall in the Colonna Palace. 

Enter Ursini, Stephen Colonna, Lady Colonna, 
Savelli, Frangipani, and Nobles. 

Lady C. Five thousand horsemen at the gates of 
Rome, 
And armed retainers in each house, and knights 
Harness'd in glittering mail; with banner proud, 
And trump and war-cry, hurling their bright spears 
At the usurper's head ! Why, now I know ye. 
My gallant kinsmen. When ye crouched, like hounds, 
Beneath the tyrant's lash ; or stealthily. 
At midnight meetings, and below your breath. 
Muttered of murdere — the quick poniard stroke — 
The calculated poison, that consumes 
So much of life a day — or that mute slayer. 
The Eastern bow-string — chivalry of Rome, 
What marvel that I knew ye not, disfained 
With such base purpose. Now ye have clothed 

death 
In the brave guise of war, and made him gay 
And lovely as a bridegroom. Speed ye forth! 
Away ! the sun is low ! Ye have a city 
To win, ere night ! 

Col. Better await the night : 

And then, in darkness and in storm, at once 
Crush the siunn'd Tribune. 

Lady C. Dost thou say await, 

Stephen Colonna ? Dost thou seek the veil 
Of darkness for a deed of light ? On, on ! 
Whilst yet the sunbeams kiss the glittering stream 
Of armed knights and barbed steeds. On, on ! 
Whilst yet the column'd banners of our house 
May catch their parting glory, as the peaks 
Of highest Alps sliine o'er the twilight world. 

Vrs. The lady counsels well. In every street 
Stand knots of citizens in sad debate 



Of their proud ruler's phrenzy ; I have sent 
Bold tongues amongst them, madam • 

Enter Angela. 

Col. Lo ! thy son. 

Lady C. Sir, since he called Rienzi's daughter 
wife, 
I have no son ! 

Ang. Oh, mother, say not so! 

Savelli! Ursini! ye bade me hither 
With broken phrase and solemn tone, and pause 
Of mighty import. Good my lords, I come 
To read your mystery. The city's full 
Of camp-like noises ; tramp of steeds, and clash 
Of mail, and trumpet blast, and ringing clang 
Of busy armourers ; the grim ban-dog bays ; 
The champing war-horse in his stall neighs lo!!il ; 
The vulture shrieks aloft. Ye are slill leagued 
Against Rienzi. "^ 

Urs. Wouldst betray — 

Ang. Betray .' 

Why, I am spurned, derided, scorned, cast off! 
As a child's broken toy. Betray! I come 
To join ye. Ay, dear mother, to pull down 
The haughty tyrant from his throne, or tali 
As may beseem thy son. Angels and saints. 
Bear witness to my oath ! 

Sav. I do believe thee 

With a most constant faith. On thy clear brow 
Honour and victory sit crowned. 

Ang. Oh put me 

To the proof, my lords ! Why stay we liere 1 Good 

father, 
Think'st thou suspicion's straining eye-balls sleep. 
Or that the watciier. Doubt, hath lost her keen 
And delicate sense of sound ? We must forerun 
The tyrant's fear. Follow me, ye that love 
The joy of glorious battle ! 

Lady C. Angelo — 

Ang. Nay, when the fight is won. Then thou shall 
dew 
My laurels with glad tears. Stay me not now. 

Lady C. Bear to the fight thy mother's blessing, 
boy — 
Her proud and joyful blessing, not her tears. 
Thou art the last of all my children, .Vngelo— 
Dearest and last. Unkindness never came 
Betwixt us twain, save once. Bui, had I sons 
As many and as brave as that old queen 
Who mourned her Troy in ashes, 1 W(juld peril 
Each several warrior in this cause as freely 
As thou, my one fair boy. Now speed thee forth, 
To .conquest or to death. Why lingerest thou, 
My Angelo ? 

Ang. Mother ! 

Lidy C. What wouldst thou ? 

Ang. Claudia! 

Lady C. //is daughter! 

Aug. Poor, poor Claudia ! I have left her, 

Even on our bridal-day. But, if I (all — 
Mother ! 

Lady C. Fie! fie! his daughter! Speed thee forth | 
To battle ! on, brave kinsmen ! [Exeunt. 



Scene IV.] 



RIENZI. 



647 



SCENE IV. 



An apartment in the Capitol. 
Enter Rienzi, and Claudia. 

Cla. Father ! 

At last I find thee, father ! 

Rie. Well, my child ! 

What wouldst thou ? 

Cla. Nay, I know not. Be the guests 

Departed ? 

Rie. Yes. 

Cla. All gone ; and wherefore went ye 

To the Lateran, dear father? And where loiters — 

Rie. Aspic ! 

Cla. Methought a bridal should be merrier — 

Not merrier, but happier. Angelo! 

Rie. Oh, foulest ingrate ! when I wed thy mother — 
Oh, fiend accursed ! 

Cla. Nay, nay — perchance he 's gone 

To crave his mother's blessing. Is 't not strange 
That I should love so well who loves not me ? 
But I have felt a yearning of the heart 
Toward that majestic lady, which hath reached 
Almost to painfulness. If I should kneel 
Before her and implore her grace — 

Rie. Thou'dst find 

Such welcome as the mountain cat might yield 
To the dappled fawn ; such greetmg as the wolf 
To the curled lamb. 

Cla. Oh ! she would love me, father. 

Even for the prideful love of Angelo, 
That woke her hatred first. A mother joys 
To tell fond legends of her children ; who, 
Like me, would listen, with unwearied ear, 
To tales of Angelo, and call for more ; 
And when her store was ended, cry again; 
And every day, and all day long, be fed 
With praise of that dear name? Why dost thou 
groan ? 

Rie. A scorpion stung me. 

Cla. Kill it, father— kill it, 

Before it sting again. 

Rie. Alas, alas ! 

I '11 think of him no more. 

E7iler Camillo, followed by Alherti. 

Camillo, speak ! 
Thy breathless speed, and pallid cheeks, have told 
A world of news already. Quick, Albert! ! 
Thy tidings, man — thy tidings ! 

Alb. Good my lord, 

Rome is begirt with foes. The barons. lead 
Their vassals — every palace voids a horde 
Of armed retainers. 

Rie. By our Lady's name, 

I have not he^rd so glad a sound, since that 
Which hailed me Tribune of the people! What! 
These masking murderers turned to warrior knights? 
Their mine of treason sprung ! Now we shall work 
In daylight. Toll the bell — summon the guards! 
Sweet, to thy chamber ! {To Claudia. 

Cla. Angcio ! 



Alb. He leads 

The rebel force. 

Cla. 'T is false ! 

Alb. I would it were. 

Cla. Thou liest— he is no rebel. Whom he leads. 
Are friends to aid the Tribune. Be they not, 
Camillo ? Speak, old man. Be they not friends ? 

Cam. Alas ! sweet lady. 

Cla. Go not forth, dear father— 

They lie — be sure they lie — yet go not forth ! 
Stay here with me ! Avoid him— stay with me ! 
Leave me not here alone ! 

Rie. Peace, peace ! 

Cla. I '11 meet him, 

Armed or unarmed, as friend or foe, I '11 fly 
To meet Lord Angelo. I am his wife — 
His own true wife. [Exit. 

Rie. Entice her to her chamber. 

And watch that she escape not. {Exit Camillo. 

Now, good captain, 
Let the great bell, with loud and hasty tongue. 
Summon the people, and with trumpet-sound 
Collect the scattered guard. Be they all faithful ? 

Alb. I '11 answer for them with my lile. 

Rie. What, ho ! 

My armour ! See that Saladin be barbed 
Complete in mail. By heaven, there is a joy 
In fronting these proud nobles — they who deem 
Man valiant by descent. 

Alb. Shall we not send 

To guard the city gates ? 

Rie. To fling them wide ! 

Let the weak timid hare and wily fox 
Fence their dank earthy holes — the lion's den 
Is open. We will fight for Rome and freedom. 
Here, in Rome's very streets, beside the hearths 
Of the freed citizens, the household gods 
Worshipped in every faith. Fling wide the gates ! 
1 '11 follow on the instant. Ho, my armour ! 

\Exeunt, 



ACT V. 

SCENE I. 

An apartment in the Capitol. 

Rienzi, seated at a table, Camillo and Alberti, dis- 
covered in the front. 

Alb. My Lord, Rienzi. {Rienzi motions them to be 
silent. 

Cam. See, he waves thee off. 
Trouble him not, Alberti — he is chafed, 
Moody, and fierce, as though this victory, 
Which drove the noble mutineers bef()re ye. 
As stag-hounds chase a herd of deer, had ended 
In blank defeat. 

Alb. The Tribune bore him bravely, 

And we are victors. Yet the storm is hush'd, 
Not spent When, af^er this wild night of war, 
The sun arose, he showed a troubled scene 
Of death and disarray; a doubtful flight, 



648 



RIENZI. 



[Act V. 



A wavering triumph. Even at the gate 
Savelli re-collects his scaUered baud; 
The people falter ; and the soldiery- 
Mutter low curses as tiiey fight, and yearn 
For their old leaders. His hot pride — yet, sooth, 
He bore him gallantly. Beneath his sword 
Fell the dark plotter, Ursini. 

Cam. How fared 

The bold Colonna? 

Alb. The old valiant chief, 

With many a younger pillar of that high 
And honoured house, lies dead. 

Cam. And Angelo? 

Alb. A prisoner. As he knelt beside the corse 
Of his brave father, without word or blow, 
As easily as an o'er-wearied child. 
We seized him. 

Cam. Lo ! the Tribune. 

Rie. {rising and advancing.) Now admit 
Your prisoners ; we would see them. Thou, Camillo, 
Summon the headsman, and prepare the court 
For sudden execution. 

Alb. {turning hack.) If a true 
And faithful servant of the good estate — 
If thine old friend, great Tribune — 

Rie. Hark ye, sir ! 

The difficult duty of supreme command 
Rests on my head. Obedience is thy light 
And easy task — obedience swift and blind. 
As yonder sword, death's sharp-edged instrument, 
My faithful servant, an' thou wilt, my friend, 
Owes to this strong right hand. 
Look that the headsman 
Be ready presently. The prisoners ! 

[Exeunt Alberli and Camillo. 

I Ay, 

Even this poor simple remnant of the wars 

I Can lead their fickle purpose. Abject changelings ! 

i Base buggers of their chains! Methought, to-day, 

I These Roman Helots would have crouched i' the dust 
At sound of their old masters' whips. I have been 
Too easy with the slaves. Terror, not love. 
Strikes anchor in ignoble souls. These prisoners, 

j Why could they not have died, as die they shall? 

I Was there no lance, no soldier's glorious way 

! To let out life, but they must wait the slow 

' And shameful axe ? Yet Angelo — 

Enter Alberli, with Angelo, Frangipani, Cnfarello, 
I and other Lords — Prisoners guarded. 

Alb. My lord, 

The prisoners ! 
! Rie. Bring them to the light. The prisoners ! 

The noble prisoners ! I have seen ye, sirs. 

Before, at Claudia's bridal — you, and you. 

The Frangipani, and the Ursini — 

Ay, and the high Colonna; my allies. 

My friends, my subjects; ye who swore to me 

Allegiance at the altar; ye for whom 
I One harlot sin is not enough — who pile, 

Adulterate in crime, treason on murder. 

And perjury on treason! Hence! begone! 

Ye know your doom. 
I Fra. And fear it not. 



Rie. To death! {Going. 

To instant death. Hold ! here is one. Lord Angelo, 
How shall I call thee, son or traitor? 

Ang. Foe. 

I know no father, save the valiant dead 
Who lives behind a rampart of his slain 
In warlike rest. I bend before no king. 
Save the dread Majesty of heaven. Thy foe, 
Thy mortal foe, Rienzi. 

Rie. Well ! my foe. 

Thou hast seen me fling a pardon free as air. 
To foemen crouching at my feet ; hast seen 
The treachery that paid me. I have lost 
My faith in man's bold eye — his earnest voice. 
The keen grasp of his hand, the speech where truth 
Seems gushing in each ardent word. I have known 
So many false, that, as a mariner 
Escaped from shipwreck, in a summer sea. 
Sparkling with gentle life, sees but the rocks 
On which his vessel struck ; so I, in the bright 
And most majestic face of man, can read 
Nought but a smiling treason. Yet thou, Angelo — 
Thou art not all a lie ! If I should trusts 

Ang. Sir, I shall not deceive thee. Mark, Rienzi! 
If thou release me — 'tis the thought that works 
Even now within thy brain — before yon sun 
Reach the hot west, the war-cry of Colonna 
Shall sweep once more thy streets. Then, stern re- 
venge. 
Or smiling death ! 

Rie. Madman ! 

Ang. Wouldst have me live — 

Thou who hast levelled to the earth the pride 
Of my old, princely race ? My kinsmen lie 
Scattered and fallen in the highway ; and he, 
The stateliest pillar of our house, my father, 
Stephen Colonna — oh ! the very name — 
The bright ancestral name, which as a star 
Pointed to glory, fell into eclipse 
When my brave father died ! 

Rie. I spared him once; 

Spared for a second treason. And again — 

Ang. Sir, he is dead. If thou wouldst show me 
grace, 
Lay me beside him in the grave. 

Rie. And Claudia — 

Thy virgin bride! 

Ang. Alas ! alas, for thee. 

Sweet wife! Y''et thou art pure as the white clouds 
That sail around the moon ; thy home is heaven — 
There we shall meet again; here we are parted 
For ever. 

Rie. Wherefore ? 

Ang. She is thy daughter. 

Rie. Boy ! 

Proud abject minion of a name, a sound ; 
Think'st thou to beard me thus! thou hast thy will. 
Away with them ! Dost hear me, dallying slave ? 
Off with the prisoners. 

Alb. All, my lord ? 

Rie. With all. {Throwing himself into a chair. 

Ang. For this I thank thee. Bear one fond fare- 
' well 
To Claudia. Tell her, that my latest prayer 



Scene I.] 



RIENZI. 



649 



Shall blend her name with mine. For thee, Rienzi, 
Tremble! a tyrant's rule is brief! 

[Exeunt Alherti, Angela, ^'C. 

Rie. (rises and advances.) They are gone, 

And my heart's lightened ; how the traitor stood 
Looking me down with his proud eye, disdaining 
Fair mercy — making of the hideous block 
An altar— -of unnatural ghastly death 
A god. He hath his will ; and 1 — my heart 
Is tranquil. 

Cla. {wiUioul.) Father! Father! 

Rie. Guard the door! [Looking out. 

Be sure ye give not way. 

Cla. (wilhout.) Father! 

Rie. To see 

Her looks ! her tears ! 

Enter Claudia, hastily. 

Cla. Who dares to stop me ? Father! 

(Rushes into the arms of Rienzi. 

Rie. I bade ye guard the entrance. 

Cla. Against me! 

Ye must have men and gates of steel to bar 
Claudia from her dear father. Where is he ? 
They said that he was with you — he — thou know'st 
Whom I would say. I heard ye loud. I thought 
I heard ye ; but, perchance, the dizzying throb 
Of my poor temples — Where is he? I see 
No corse — an' he were dead — Oh, no, no, no! 
Thou couldst not, wouldst not! Say he lives. 

Rie. As yet 

He lives. 

Cla. Oh! blessings on thy heart, dear father ! 
Blessings on thy kind heart ! When shall I see him ? 
Is he in prison ? Fear hath made we weak. 
And wordless as a child. Oh ! send for him. 
Thou hast pardoned him ; didst thou not say but now 
Thou hadst pardoned him ? 

Rie. No. 

Cla. Oh, thou hast! thou hast! 
This is the dalliance thou wast wont to hold 
When I have craved some girlish boon — a bird, 
A flower, a moonlight walk; but now I ask thee 
Life, more than life. Thou hast pardoned him? 

Rie. My Claudia ! 

Cla. Ay! I am thine own Claudia, whose first word 
Was father! These are the same hands that clung 
Around thy knees, a tottering babe; the lips 
That, ere they had learnt speech, would smile, and 

seek 
To meet thee with an infant's kiss; the eyes 
Thou hast called so like my mother's; eyes that never 
Gazed on thee, but with looks of love. Oh, pardon ! 
Nay, father, speak not yet ; thy brows are knit 
Into a sternness. Pr'ythee, speak not yet ! 

Rie. This traitor — 

Cla. Call him as thou wilt, but pardon ; 
Oh, pardon ! [Kneels. 

Rie. He defies me. 

Cla. See, I kneel, 

And he shall kneel, shall kiss thy feet; wilt pardon? 

Rie. Mme own dear Claudia. 

Cla. Pardon ! 

Rie. Raise thee up; 

55 



Rest on my bosom ; let thy beating heart 

Lie upon mine; so shall the mutual pang 

Be stilled. Oh! that thy father's soul could bear 

This grief for thee, my sweet one ! Oh, forgive — 

Cla. Forgive thee what ? 'T is so the headsman 
speaks 
To his poor victim, ere he strikes. Do fathers 
Make widows of their children ? .send them down 
To the cold grave heart-broken? Tell me not 
Of fathers — I have none! All else that breathes 
Hath known that natural love. The wolC is kind 
To her vile cubs; the little wren hath care 
For each small youngling of her brood ; and thou — 
The word that widowed, orphaned me? Henceforth 
My home shall be his grave ; and yet thou canst not — 
Father! (Rushing into Rienzi s arms. 

Rie. Ay! 
Dost call me father, once again my Claudia? 
Mine own sweet child ! 

Cla. Oh, father, pardon him! 

Oh, pardon ! pardon ! 'T is my life I ask 
In his. Our lives, dear father I 

Rie. Ho, C.Tmilio! 

Where loiters he? (Enter Camillo. 

Camillo, take my ring ; 
Fly to the captain of the guard, Alberli; 
Bid him release Lord Angelo. 

Cla. Now bless thee — 

Bless thee, my father! 

Rie. Fly, Camillo, fly! 

Why loiterest thou ? 

Cam. The ring. 

(Rienzi gives the ring to Camillo — Exit Camillo. 

Cla. Give me the ring. 

Whose speed may match with mine? Let me be first 
To speak those gracious words of pardon. 

Rie. No ! 

That were no place for thee. 

Cla. I should see nought 

But him! whilst old Camillo— Oh, I hear 
His weary footfall still! I should have been 
In Angelo's arms ere now. (Bell $ou7ids.) Hark, 
hark, the bell ! 

Rie. It is the bell that thou so oft hast heard 

Summoning the band of liberty — the bell 
That pealed its loud triumphant note, and raised 
Its mighty voice with sucit a mastery 
Of glorious power, as if the spirit of sound 
That dwells in the viewless wind, and walks the 

waves 
Of the chafed sea, and rules the thunder cloud 
That shrouded him in that small orb, to spread 
Tidings of freedom to the nations. Now 
It tells of present peril. 

Cla. Say, of death. 

Oh, father, every stroke thrills through my veins, 
Swaying the inmost pulses of my heart 
As swings the deep vibration. 'Tis the knell — 

Rie. My child, 

Have I not said that he shall live ? 

Cla. Then slop 

That bell. The dismal note beats on me, father, 
As from a t'nousand echoes; mixed with groans. 
And shrieks, and meanings in the air. Dost hear them? 



650 



RIENZI. 



[Act V. 



Dost hear, again ? Be those screams real, father ? 
Or of the gibbering concerts that salute 
The newly mad ? 

Rie. Be calmer, sweet. I heard 

A shriek — a woman's shriek. Calm thee, my child. 

Enter Lady Colonna. 

Lady C. He 's dead. He 's dead ! 

Rie. It is her husband, Claudia; 

Stephen Colonna. 

Lady C. Murderer, 't is my son, 

{Claudia sinks at her father's feet. 
My husband died in honoured fight; for him 
I weep not. 

Rie. Angelo is pardoned, Claudia. 

Lady C. He is dead. I saw the axe, fearfully 
bright, 
Wave o'er his neck with an edgy shine that cut 
My burning eye-balls; saw the butcher stroke, 
And the hot blood gush like a fountain high. 
From out the veins ; and then I heard a voice 
Cry pardon ! heard a shout that chorused pardon ! 
Pardon I to that disjoined coi-se! Oh, deep 
And horrible mockery! So the fiends shall chaunt 
Round thy tormented soul, and pardon, pardon. 
Ring through the depths of hell. 

Rie. Claudia, my sweet one, 

Look up — speak to me ! Writhe not thus, my Claudia, 
Shivering about my feet. 

Lady C. Claudia Colonna! 

They say that grief is proud ; but I will own thee. 
Now, my fair daughter, rouse thee — help me curse 
Him who hath slain thy husband. 

Rie. Woman, fiend, 

Thou kill'st my child — avaunt! 

Ljidy C. When I have said 

Mine errand. Think'st thou I came here to crush 
Yon feeble worm? Thou hast done that! She loved 

him, 
Fair, faithful wretch, and thou — Why I could laugh 
At such a vengeance ! Thy keen axe, that hewed 
My column to the earth, struck down the weed 
That crept around its base. 

Rie. Claudia! she moves ! 

She is not dead. 

Lady C. Dead ! Why, the dead are blessed. 

And she is blasted. Dead ! the dead lie down 
In peace, and she shall pine a living ghost 
About thee, with pale looks and patient love. 
And bitter giisls of anguish, that shall cross 
The gentle sjiirit, when poor Angelo — 
A widow's and a childless mother's curse 
Rest on thy head, Rienzi ! Live, till Rome 
Hurl thee from thy proud seat ; live but to prove 
The ecstasy of scorn, the fierce contempt 
That wait the tyrant fallen ; then die, borne down 
By mighty justice! die as a wild beast 
Before the huutors! die, and leave a name 
Portentous, hltMnly, brief — a meteor name, 
Obscurely bail, or madly bright! ]\Iy curse 
Rest on thy head, Rienzi. 

Rie. Help, there! help, Camillo! 



Entfir Camillo. 

Rie. Ay, I know thou wast too late. Bring aid. 
See, see ! 
Her lips are colouring fast — she is not dead. 
Bring aid. 

Cam. My lord, Savelli, with a power 
Gathering in every street, comes on ; the guards 
Flee, and the people hear the bell, nor flock 
To aid or rescue. 

Lady C. Now, revenge, revenge ! 

Savelli ! Murderer, when next we meet, 
Thou shalt give blood for blood. [Exit, 

Rie. She lives! Aid, aid! 

Her pulses beat again. Go, call her maids; 
Speed thee, Camillo! [Exit Camillo. 

IIow shall I endure 
The unspoken curses of her eye ? how bear 
Her voice ? My child, my child ! my beautiful — 
Whom I so loved ; whom I have murdered ! Claudia, 
Mine own beloved child ! She would have given 
Her life for mine. Would I were dead ! 

Re-enter Camillo, with Ladies and Attendants, who re- 
cover and bear off Claudia, from, her father. 

Cam. My lord— 

Rie. Camillo, when I 'm gone, be faithful to her — 
Be very faithful. Save her, shield her, belter 
Than I, that was her father. She'll not trouble thee 
Long, good Camillo ; the sure poison, grief. 
Rankles in those young veins. Yet cherish her — 
She loved thee. 

Cam. My dear master — thou, thyself— 

Rie. My business is to die. Watch o'er my child ; 
And, soon as I am dead, conduct her safely 
To the small nunnery of the Ursulines, 
Her pious steps so often sought. Away ! 

[Exit Camillo, 
She will not curse me dead — she 'II pray for me, 
In that poor broken heart. Oh, blessings on thee, 
My child — mine own sweet child ! 

Enter Alberti. 

Alb. My lord, Savelli 

Comes on apace. 

Rie. Summon the people. 

Alb. They^ too, 

Advance against thee. 

Rie. And for such I lefl 

The assured condition of my lowliness — 
The laughing days, the peaceful nights, the joys 
Of a small ijuiet home; for such I risked 
Thy peace, my daughter. Abject, crouching slaves ! 
False,. fickle, treacherous, perjured slaves! how come 

they ? 
How led, how armed, how numbcr'd ? 

Alb. They sweep on, 

A thickening cloud, as locusts, when they light 
On the green banks of JVile. The furious mother 
Leads them, and claims revenge, in her fierce prayers 
And frantic imprecations. 

Rie. 'Tis the fiend 

Tliat speediest answers to the daring call 
Of his mad worshippers. So be it. 



Scene II.] 



RIENZI. 



651 



Alb. Some mix with their shouts the name 

Of mighty Liberty. 

Rie. Oh, had I laid 

All earthly passion, pride, and pomp, and power, 
And high ambition, and hot lust of rule, 
Like sacrififial fruits, upon the altar 
Of Liberty, divinest Liberty — 
Then — but the dream that filled my soul was vast 
As is his whose mad ambition thinned the ranl« 
Oi' the Seraphim, and peopled hell. These slaves ! 
Base crawling reptiles — may the curse of chains 
Cling to them ever. Seek the court, Alberti — 
Dismiss the guard — unbar the gates. I'll seek 
The people. 

Alb. Singly ? 

Rie. Singly, sir. [Exeunt Alberti mid Rienzi. 

SCENE II. 

Before the Gates of lite Capitol. 

Enter Lady CoLonna, Savelli, Soldiers, and Cilizens. 

Lady C. Come on ! Why loiter ye ? Ye that 
have sons. 
Ye that have known a mother's love, come on ; 
A woman leads to vengeance.' 

First Cit. Say, to justice. 

Sav. Look, look, the gates are barred. The Tribune 
means 
To stand a desperate siege. Bring axes, sirs, 
And fire. Consume the palace! hew the doors! 
Bring torches ! 

Lady C. Ay, with mine own hand I'll light 

The accurst and murderous den ; thy funeral pyre, 
JVJy Angelo. 

Sav. Bring torches ! hew the gates! 

Citizens. Down with the tyrant — drag him forth — 
Kienzi ! [The gates are opened — Rienzi appears. 

Rie. Who calls upon Rienzi ? Citizens, 
What seek ye of your Tribune ? 

Lady C. Give me back 

My son. 



Rie. Oh, that grim Death would give him back 
To Claudia ! But the cold, cold grave — why come ye ? 

Second Cit. For vengeance, perjured tyrant — for 
thy blood — 
For liberty. 

Rie. For liberty! Go seek 
Earth's loftiest heights, and ocean's deepest caves. 
Go where the sea-snake and the eagle dwell, 
'Midst mighty elements — where nature is, 
And man is not, and ye may see afar. 
Impalpable as a rainbow on the clouds, 
The glorious vision ! Liberty ! I dream'd 
Of such a goddess once ; dream'd that you slaves 
Were Romans, such as ruled the world, and I 
Their Tribune. Vain and idle dream ! Take back 
The symbol and the power. What seek ye more ? 

First Cit. Tyrant! thy life! 

Rie. Come on. Why pause ye, cowards ? 

I am unarmed. My breast is bare. Why pause ye ? 

Enter Claudia, through the Gale in the centre of the 
Flat — Rushes forward to Rienzi. 

Cla. Father! 

Sav. Oh, save her ! 

Rie. Drag her from my neck. 

If ye be men! Save her! She never harmed 
A worm. My Claudia, bless thee ! bless thee ! Now ! 

now ! 
(Rienzi falls, pierced by many spears, and the people 

divide, leaving Claudia stretched on her father's 

body. 

Sav. Ay, that thrust pierced to the heart; he dies 
Even whilst I speak. 

Cla. Father! 

Lady C. Alas! poor child! 

Sav. She bleeds, I fear to death. Go bear her in, 
And treat the corse with reverence; for surely, 
Though stained with much ambition, he was one 
Of the earth's great spirits. 



CHARLES THE FIRST: AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY. 



PREFACE. 



Of the Tragedy, considered as a literary produc- 
tiou, I shall say little: that is before the reader, and 
must speak for itself No one can be more conscious 
than I am of its numerous defects, and still more nu- 
merous deficiencies; but great as those limits may 
be, they are not the result of negligence or careless- 
ness. It would be the worst of all pedantries, female 
pedantry, were I to enumerate the very many con- 
temporary writers, the Histories, Memoirs, Narra- 
tives, and State Papers, the Roundhead Sermons and 
Cavalier Ballads from which I have endeavoured to 



gather not merely an accurate outline of this great 
event, but those minute and apparently trifling touches 
which might serve to realize the scene, and supply, 
by a vivid impression of the people and the time, the 
usual sources of dramatic attraction, the interest of 
story and suspense, from which I was cut off by the 
nature of my subject. 

Many of these allusions, those for instance to the 
papers concealed in the stuffing of the saddle, — to 
the sowing of the melon-seeds, — to Charles's constant 
perusal of Shakspeare whilst in prison, so prettily re- 
corded by Milton, and to the Hilling of the head of 
the king's staff in the trial scene, — are mentioned by 



652 



CHARLES THE FIRST. 



[Act I. 



1 the hest writers, and will be immediately recognized 
I by all who are any ways conversant with the histo- 
ries of the lime. 

The anecdote of Lord Broghill (afterwards Earl of 
Orrery), which really happened at a subsequent pe- 
riod, is less generally known. He was in London on 
a mission from Charles the Second during the early 
part of the Protectorate, when Cromwell discovered, 
confronted, converted, and employed him much in 
the manner that I have related. 

The materials of the scene of signing the warrant, 
(in which ! believe that I have given, from the mark- 
ing of Marten's cheek to the guiding of Ingoldsby's 
hand, a very faithful version of what actually occur- 
red,) are chiefly taken from the Defences in the 
Trials of the Regicides. It is certain that the Judges, 
after the condemnation, were panic-struck at their 
own act; and that but for an extraordinary exertion 
of his singular power over the minds of all with 
whom he came in contact, Cromwell would never 
have succeeded in obtaining the signatures of the 
Commissioners of the High Court of Justice to an 
instrument essential to the completion of this great 
national crime, and to the purposes of his own am- 
bition. 

I am not aware of having in any material point de- 
parted from the truth of History, except in shortening 
the trial, in bringing the Queen to England, and in 
assigning to Henrietta the interruption of the sen- 
tence, which was actually occasioned by Lady Fair- 
fax; deviations, which were vitally necessary to the 
effect of the drama. I have some doubts also whether 
Cromwell did really get rid of Fairfax by dismissing 
him and Harrison to "seek the Lord together." 
Hume tells the slory confidenlly ; but Hume, al- 
though the most delightful, is by no means the most 
accurate of historians; and the manner in which we 
are, by the casual mention of contemporary writers, 
as well as by the evidence on the different trials, 
enabled to actcount for almost every instant of Crom- 
well's time during that eventful morning, goes far in 
my mind to disprove the circumstance. But the inci- 
dent is highly dramatic, and so strictly in keeping 
with the characters of all parties, that I have no 
scruple in assuming it as a fact. The thing might 
have happened, if it did not; and that is excuse 
enough for the dramatist, although not for the his- 
torian. 

One word more, and I have done. In attempting 
to delineate the characters of Charles and Cromwell, 
especially Cromwell, on the success or failure of 
which the Play must stand or fall, I have to entreat 
the reader to bear in mind — or I shall seem unjust 
to the memory of a great man — that the point of 
time which this Tragedy embraces was precisely 
that in which the King appeared to the most advan- 
tage, "for nothing in his life became him like the 
leaving of it," and the future Protector to the least. 
Never throughout his splendid history were the che- 
quered motives and impulses of Cromwell so deci- 
dedly evil ; never was he .so fierce, so cruel, so crafty, 
so deceitful, so borne along by a low personal am- 
bition, a mere lust of rule, as at that moment. I have 
endeavoured in the concluding soliloquy to depict 



the manner in which I believe him to have lulled 
and quieted his own conscience: but if I had under- 
taken to portray these remarkable men at any other 
part of their career, it is certain that my drawing 
of Charles would have been much less amiable, and 
that of Cromwell much more so. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



Judges appointed hy the Com- 
mons to try the King. 



Charles the First, King of England. 

Duke of Gloucester, Ms Son, a boy of seven years 

old. 

Lord Fairfax, General of the Parliamentary Army. 

Lord Salisbury, ) ^ . . , , ^ 

T c< f Commissioners sent bu the Far- 

Lord Say, > ,. . , , ,- 

Sir Harry Vane, S I'^ament to treat with the King. 

Lord Pri;sident 

Bradshaw, 
Oliver Cromwell, 
Ireton, 
Harrison, 
Downes, 
Marten, 

TlCHBURNE, 

Cook, Solicitor to the Commons. 

Pride, an Officer in the Parliamentary Army. 

Hacker, Colonel of the Gvard. 

Sir Thomas Herbert, a Gentleman attending on the 

King. 
Hammond, Governor of the Isle of Wight. 
Sentinel. 

Servant, belonging to Cromwell. 
Bishop, Commissioners, Judges, Officers, Soldiers, ^c. 

Henrietta Maria, Queen of England. 
Princess Elizabeth, a Girl of Twelve. 
Lady Fairfax. 



Scene. — London, except during the latter part of the 
First Act, when it is laid in the Isle of Wight. 



CHARLES THE FIRST. 



ACT L 
SCENE L 

An Apartment in Whitehall. 

Enter Jreton, Harrison, and Pride, to Downes and 
Marten. 

Dowries. Welcome to London, Jreton! dearly wel- 
come 
To fair Whitehall! Harrison! Pride! Where loiters 
The valiant General ? 

Irelon. He alighted vvi'h us 

Three hours agone. 

Marten. What, three hours here, and still 

In harness ! Know ye not your coat of mail 
Is out of date ? Go, doff your armour quick, 



Scene I.] 



CHARLES THE FIRST. 



653 



Provide ye civil suits, grave civil suits, 
Sad reverend civil suits. 

Pride. What meari'st thou ? 

Dow. Seek 

Meaning of Harry Marten! Tush! Where tarries 
The pious Cromwell ? 

Ire. Fie is busied still 

Disposing the tired soldiery. 

Mar. Disbanding 

Will be his business soon. The lubbard people 
And the smug citizens, are grow'n aweary 
Of this rough war. Ye must learn gentler trades. 
If ye would thrive. Peace is the cry, my masters; 
Peace and the King ! 

Dow. The Newport treaty speeds ; 

So far is sure. 

Harrison. But we bring victory 
To the good cause. Cromwell hath passed careering 
From hold to hold, sweeping as with a besom 
The foul maligriants from the land. The North 
Is ours from sea to sea. 

Dow. 'T is a brave leader; 

TJut peace is ever the best victory. 

Enter Cromwell. 

Mar. In good time comes the General. Valiant 
Cromwell, 
Thy praise was on our lips. 

Cromicell. Not mine ! not mine ! 

Praise to the Lord of Hosts, whose mighty shield 
Bucklered us in the battle ; whose right arm 
Strengthened us when we smote ! Praise to the Lord ! 
For his poor instruments, the meanest soldier 
Doth his great duty ; we no more. My masters, 
Have ye no news astir? News, the prime staple 
Of yonder tattling city ? 

Mar. Ay; the worst 

Is that the Commons grow from day to day 
More doubtful of the army, more possessed 
By canting presbyters. 

Tre. Name not the Commons, 

A jealous crew, whose envious hate descends 
'Twixt every pause of fear on ns, their loathed. 
Despised defenders. Were there but one head 
To the whole army, they would turn to truth 
An elder tyrant's wish, and chop it off 
Despots who prate of liberty ! — 

Har, Worse ! worse ! 

A godless yet intolerant crew, who rear 
O'er the down-fallen Church that blacker idol, 
A conscience-fettering Presbytery. 

Crom. Sir, 

They shall be quelled. Power, howsoever called. 
Is still the subtlest snare the Tempter .weaves 
For man's frail sinful soul. Save me from power! 
Grant me to follow still, a lowly soldier 
In the great cause ! The Commons shall be quelled. 
What other news ? 

Dow. The best is that the King 

And the Commissioners draw near a godly 
And salutary peace. The King hath bent 
His will in a wise humbleness ; and now — 

Crom. I joy to hear thee say so. What ! the Lord 
Hath turned his heart, and he hath yielded up 

55* " " 



His haughty prelates, his ill councillors, 
The popish mummery of his chapel? 

Dow. Nay, 

Not yet ; but he liath promised. 

Crom. Promised I Oh, 

The King hath promised ! 

Mar. Well ? 

Crom. And ye believe ? 

Dow. Would'st have us doubters? 

Crom. In good sooth, not I ! 

Believe who can ! yet ere ye set him free. 
Look to the stuffing of his saddle, search 
The waste leaves of his prayer-book, lest ye find 
Some vow to Henrietta, some shrewd protest. 
Some antedated scroll to throw the shadow 
Of a plain lie before his words. Search ! search ! 
It is a prudent King, that casts about him 
To rid him of his enemies. Search, I say. 

Dow. Why, Cromwell, thou art bitter. 

Crom. Heaven forefend ! 

I liked Charles Stuart well. I am of the fools 
Whom habit counts amidst her slaves ; that love. 
For old acquaintance sake, each long-known pest 
And close familiar evil. I liked him well ; 
The better that his proud disgracious speech 
Seemed to my plain and downright simpleness 
As honest as mine own. Ye all remember 
What friends we were at Holmby. Harrison, 
And e'en my loving kinsman, deemed I waxed 
Faint in the cause. But rightly it is written 
In the one Holy Book, Put not thy trust 
In Princes. 

Ire. Yet is he in Carisbrooke 

A present danger. Round yon prison isle 
Lurk spies and plots and treasons. Every breeze 
Comes pregnant with quick rumours; every ear 
Is bent to listen ; every eye is turned 
On those grey walls. 

Crom. I grant ye. But astir, 

Free as the breeze to traverse sea and land, 
Creep in our councils, sweep across our camps, 
Were the King harmless then ? Yet thou art right ; 
He 's dangerous in Carisbrooke. 

Har. Dismiss him ; 

Send him abroad unkinged ; or drive him forth 
As Amaziah. 

Crom. (aside.) Ha ! And they slew him! 

Mar. What, send him to seek succour in earh couil, 
From papal Rome to savage Muscovy, 
Till he shall burst on us in triumph, heading 
Europe's great armament. 

Ire. Wert thou a soldier. 

And in this cause, thou would'st cry welcome. Marten, 
To such an armament? 

Har. With His great help. 

Crom. Ay, with His help and in this cause, if union 
Dwelt in the land. But this is idle talk. 
The King is dangerous ; dangerous on the throne, 
Dangerous in prison, dangerous abroad, 
At home and everywhere. Yet this is idle. 
We must abide the Commons' treaty. 

Har. Wherefore 

Lifts not the army the strong hand of power 



654 



CHARLES THE FIRST. 



[Act I. 



Over Ihese stifFneckcd rulers ? Put them down. 
Tread out the firebrands. 

Ire. Rather move the Commons 

To bring the King to trial. 

Crom. Who said that ? 

Mar. 'T was bravely spoken. 

Crom. Who said that ? 

Dow. The words 

Sounded like treason. 

Crom. Sir, had we met here 

To compass such intent, the very thought 
Had been a treason. But the words fell straight 
Midst our unconscious hearts, unprompted, quick, 
Startbng even him wiio spake them — like the fire 
That lit the Burning Bush. A sign from Heaven! 
Direct from Heaven ! A comfortable light 
To our benighted spirits ! As I wrestled 
In prayer this morning, when I vvoald have cried 
For mercy on Charles Stuart, my parched tongue 
Clave to my mouth. A token from on high ! 
A star lit up to guide us ! 

Mar. Yet the Commons 

Will scarcely echo this rapt strain. The King 
Hath friends amongst us. 

Har. Fear not. He who sent 

Tiiis impulse on his servants will know how 
To turn all hearts. 

Dou% Ye will not slay the King? 

Crom. Life hangs not on our lips. Yet surely, sir, 
I hope to spare him. Friends, we must not sleep 
Over such stirring business. Downes, go thou 
For Bradshavv, that resolved, and learned, and wise. 
And godly law-man. Thou art like lo find him 
At the Guildhall. Say we would speak with him. 

[Exit Duwnes, 
Harrison ! — Downes went forth as one who loves not 
His errand — Lacks he zeal? 'Tis a brave soldier. 
And yet — Follow him. Marten; and return 
With Bradshaw hither. We shall need thy counsel. 
Delay not — [Exit Marten. 

Harrison ! thou truest soldier 
Of the good cause, to thee we trust the charge 
Of guarding our great prisoner. Make thee ready 
For a swift journey. I 'II confer with thee 
Alone afore thou goest. 

Har. Should I not see 

The General ? 

Crom. Wherefore ? Hence. [Exit Harrison. 

(To Pride.) Nay, Colonel, go not! 

I 'd speak with thee, good Colonel. Rest thee, son, 
I 'd speak with this good Colonel. 

Pri. I attend 

Your Excellency's pleasure. 

(During the next few speeches, Cromwell VMlks up 
and dovm t/ie stage, now speaking to himself, now look- 
ing at the v)enther, now asking questions without attend- 
ing to the answers, evidently absorbed in thought.) 

Crom. Ay, the light 

Mercurial Harry Marten said but sooth ; 
They are unripe for this great charge. It shall be — 
And yet — What is the hour ? 

Prt. Upon the stroke 

Of one. 



Ire. He listens not. Look how he searches 
The weather with unseeing eyes. 

Crom. 'Tis stormy. 

Pri. Nay, a bright day. 

Ire. tie hears not. 

Crom. Sweep them off. 

And the whole game is ours! But — Which way blows 
The wind ? 

Pri. Right from the south. 

Crom. It must be, shall be. 

Ireton, I gave thee yesterday a scroll 
Of the malignants in the Commons — Hark ye ! 
The Commons, our great masters! If Charles Stuart 
Have friends in England, he will find them there 
'Mid those self-seekers. 

Pri. Wherefore not arraign 

The King before the Council ? 

Crom. Sir, we need 

The Commons' name. I would not that our just 
And righteous cause lacked any form of law 
To startle lender consciences. I have thought 
Afore of this. Didst never see the thrasher 
Winnow the chaff from the full grain? Good Colonel, 
Thyself shalt play the husbandman, to cleanse 
This sample of foul corn. Take yonder scroll, 
And with a troop of horse, go post thyself 
Beside the Commons' door, and seize each man 
Whose name stains that white parchment. Treat all 

well. 
But let none enter. 

Pri. And my warrant? 

Crom. Sir, 

My word. If any question, say the General — 

Pri. Lord Fairfax ? 

Crom. Ay, the good Lord General 

Shall hear of thy good service. Fear it not. 
Myself shall tell him. Thy good service, dearer 
Than half-a-dozen battles; better worth 
And richlier guerdoned. Haste! Lord Grey of Groby 
Will aid thee to detect the knaves. Away ! 
Full many a goodly manor shall change masters 
To-morrow 'fore the sequestrators. [Exit Pride. 

Ire. So ! 

That work will be well done. 

Crom. I loathe myself 

That I employ the mercenary tool ; 
But we are in our great aims justified, 
Our high and holy purpose. Saints and prophets 
Have used uncleanly instruments. Good son. 
Keep between Fairfax and these men. The weak 
Wife-ridden faintling would demur and dally, 
And pause at every step, and then draw back. 
Unapt for good or ill. He must know nought. 

Re-enter Harrison and Pride. 

What make ye here again ? 

Pri. Dost thou not hear ? 

A mutiny amongst the soldiers. 

Ilar. Nay, 

But half-a-score malignants, who would fain 
Stir up the soldiery. 

Crom. And they ? 

Har. They listen, 

But move not 



Scene II.] 



CHARLES THE FIRST. 



655 



Crom. Seize the traitors. Shoot them dead ; 

If any murmur, still them too. Let death 
Follow offence as closely as the sound 
or the harqiiebiiss the flash. Art thou not gone ? — 
What stops thee ? 

Har. Be more merciful. 

Crom. Why this 

Is mercy. If thou saw'st one, match in hand, 
Approach a mine hollowed beneath some rich 
And populous town, vvould'st strike him down at once, 
Or wait till he had fired the train? 

Har. At once! 

At once ! 

Crom. Well ! — Go thou too, fair son ! away ! 
I'll follow on the instant. Look I find 
The guilty quiet. [Exeunt Harrison and Irelon. 

We have been too easy, 
And fostered malcontents. Yet this swift vengeance 
Will strike a wholesome terror, and the echo 
May reach to higher miscreants. Good Colonel, 
Thou loiterest overlong. Go, block the door. 
And let none pass. Be sure thou let none pass. 
I must to yon poor traitors. Let none pass. [Exeunt. 

SCEiNE n. 

An Apartment in Carisbrooke Castle. 

The King and Herbert. 

King. Herbert! 

Herbert. My liege. 

King. Put up my book. I wait 

The grave Commissioners, and to be seen 
Poring o'er Shakspeare's page — Oh heinous sin! 
Inexpiable deadly sin! 

Herb. Your Grace 

Speaks cheerily. 

King. Why I have fed my thoughts 

On the sweet woodland tale, the lovely tale 
Of Ardenne Forest, till the peaceful end, 
The gentle comfortable end, hath bathed 
My very heart in sunshine. We are here 
Banished as the old Duke, and friends come round, 
And foes relent, and calm Forgiveness hangs. 
An Angel, in the air, to drop her balm 
On all our wounds. I thank thee, royal spirit, 
Thrice princely poet, from w'hose lightest scene 
Kings may draw comfort. Take yon sprig of bay 
And lay between the leaves. I marvel much 
Where loiter the Commissioners. 

Herb. Your Grace 

Hath vanquished them so often, that they creep 
Fearfully to the field — a beaten foe. 

King. Nay, we are near agreed. I have granted 
more 
Than they durst think for. They set forth to-day 
Bearing my answer to the Commons. Look 
To see a sudden peace. Many will deem 
I have yielded overmuch ; but I keep quick 
The roots of kingly power, albeit the boughs 
Be shrewdly lopt. And then to see again 
My wife, my children, to reward my poor 
And faithful servants, to walk free, to reign ! 
Look to see sudden peace. 

Herb. Heaven speed the day! 



Yet, Sire, — forgive my fear! — would thou had'st ta'en 
The proffered means of safety, had escaped 
The island prison ! 

King. What ! when I had pledged 

My word, my royal word ! Fie! fie! good Herbert; 
Better, if danger were, a thousand fold 
Perish even here than forfeit that great bond 
Of honour, a King's word. Fie ! fie ! Yet sooth 
Thou mean'st me kindly, Herbert. Ha! the Sea, 
That day and night hath chafed so angrily. 
Breaking around us with so wild a coil, 
An elemental warder, smiles again, 
Merrily dancing in the cold keen light 
Of the bright wintery Sun. We shall have boats 
From England. 

Herb. One hath landed. Sire. 

King. And they 

May bear my message without pause. W'ho comes ? 

Enter Hammond. 
Ham. May 't please you. Sire, the high Commis- 
sioners 
Crave audience of your Majesty. 

King. Admit them. 

Enter Lord Salisbury, Lord Say, Sir Harry Vane, 

and other Commissioners, some of them Ministers. 
See, Vane hath lost his frown ! We shall have peace. 
Good morrow, my good Lord of Salisbury ! 
Lord Say, Sir Harry Vane, and gentles all, 
A fair good morrow. The sun smiles at last 
Upon our meeting. 

Say. Sunshine after storm ; 

A happy omen, Sire, a typo of peace. 

Salis. Yet clouds are gathering. 

Say. Tush ! the noon-day sun 

Will overcome them. 

Vane. Cease this heathenish talk 

Of omens. Hath your grace prepared your answer 
To the proposals of the Commons ? 

King. Reach 

Yon paper, Herbert. Set ye forth to-day ? 

Vane. With the next tide. 

King. So speed ye wind and wave, 

And send ye swiftly hence, and swifter back, 
Blest messengers of peace, winged like the dove 
That bore the olive token. Take my answer, 
A frank compliance with each article 
Save twain, save only twain. 

Say. And they — I pray thee 

Be wholly gracious, Sire ! Peril not thus 
Your country's weal, your freedom, and your crown. 
By timeless reservation. 

King. I have yielded 

Power and prerogative, and state and wealth. 
For my dear country. All that was mine own, 
All that was mine to give, I freely gave ; 
That I withhold is of the conscience. Look 
On these white hairs, and think if one so signed. 
Marked for the grave, may for the vain respect 
Of crowns or kingdoms offer up his friends 
Or his old worship. Mark me: I '11 not yield 
\ man of that devoted seven, nor bate 
A word of my accustomed prayer, to save 
My limbs from cankering fetters, or win back 



656 



CHARLES THE FIRST. 



[Act II. 



That velvet prison, a throne. No more of this. 
Bear }'e the treaty, Sirs ; and use but half 
That godly gift of eloquence for me 
That ye to me have shown, and be but heard 
With half the grace, and we shall meet full soon 
Subject and King, in peace, in blessed peace. — 

{Harrison heard without. 
Whoso asks entrance with so wild a din ? 
Give him admitlance quickly. 

Vane. Yet, my liege, 

For these seven cavaliers — 

King. No more ! no more ! 

Thou hast my answer. — By the iron tread, 
A soldier. 

Enter Harrison, 

Salis. Harrison ! What brings thee hither? 

Har. A sad and solemn message to your prisoner. 

King. Speak out thy tidings. Speak thine errand, 
Sir. 
I am strong-hearted — sovran privilege 
Of them that tower so high ! — Strong as yon eagle 
That nests among the cliffs. I have borne loads 
That vi'ould have sunk a meaner man in gulfs 
Of deep despair. Thine errand. Slop! Who sent 
thee? 

Har. The Commons. 

King. Now thine errand. 

Har. To demand 

The body of Charles Stuart, sometime King 
Of England— 

King. Sometime King? 

Har. Whom I attach 

Of treason. 

King. Treason and the King ! Ofl) Sir! 
I warn thee touch me not. Some natures feel 
A shuddering loathing at cold-blooded worms, 
Snakes, aspics, vipers, toads — my flesh doth creep 
And shiver if the reptile man approach 
Too closelj^ Show thy warrant. 

Har. Look you. Sir, 

The warrant be obeyed. 

Vane. Dost thou not see 

{to Salisbury) The master hand of Cromwell in this 

deed ? 
{to Harrison.) Where is the General ? 

Har. Come victorious home — 
Know'st thou not that? — to lend his pious aid 
To our great work. 

Salis. But thou art from the Commons, 

Nol_^from the Council, — sura thou saidst the Com- 
mons? 
And they were earnest for the treaty. 

Har. Ay, 

But in that coodly field grew tares, rank tares, 
Which have been weeded out: stiff" presbyters. 
Bitter maligiiants, and those sons of wrath 
Who falter in the better path — dead boughs 
Upon a noble tree. Some fifty horse 
Swept off the rubbish. 

Say. But the men are safe? 

Har. Even as thyself. — Now, Sir, hast thou enough 
Studied yon parchment ? 

King Treason ! to arraign 



A crowned King of treason! I am here 

Treating with these same Commons on the faith, 

The general faith of nations. I appeal 

To thee, ray foes; to thee, my gaoler. What! 

Stand ye all mule? high lords and learned law-men, 

And reverend ministers ? Ye had glib tongues 

For subtle argument, and treasonous craft. 

And cobweb sophistry. Have ye no word 

For faith, for honour? not one word ? Shame! shame! 

Vane. We are the Commons' servants, and must 
needs 
Obey their mandates. 

Say. Yet with grief of heart — 

Har. Silence ! 

King. Ay, silence! Sir, I thank thee yet 

That sparest me that sharpest injury, 
A traitor's pitj'. For that gentle deed 
I yield me gently to thy hands. Lead on 
Where'er thou wilt; I follow. 

Har. Straight to London, 

To bide thy trial. 

King. What ! will they dare that ? 

Doth not the very thought, the very word. 
Appal the rebels? Trial! When we meet 
Confronted in that regal Hall, the King 
And his revolted subjects, whoso then 
Shall be the Judge ? The King. Whoso make in- 
quest. 
Whoso condemn, and whoso fling a pardon, 
A scornful pardon on your heads? The King, 
The King, I tell ye. Sirs. Come on! I pant 
To meet these Judges. For ye, solemn mockers. 
Grave men of peace, deceivers or deceived. 
Sincere or false, boots little, fare ye well ! 
Yet give me yon vain treaty — Now, by Heaven, 
1 shame to have communed with ye ! This slight paper, 
That shivers at a touch, is tough and firm 
Mated with such as ye. Bear to the Commons, 
Your masters, yon torn fragments, fitting type 
Of their divided factions! — fitting type 
Of ye, men of a broken faith! Farewell! 
I wait thy pleasure. Sir. 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. 

The Painted Chamber. A labia at which are trated 
Commissioners, Lawyers, cj'c. ; a gothic window be- 
hind the table, through which objects that pass may 
be seen. 

Brndshaw, Fairfax, Ireton, Doivnes, Conic, Marten 
Tichbnrne, <^'c. Fairfax comes forv)ard, followed by 
Bradshaw, Ireton, and Downes. 

Fairfax. Soon as the day be fi.xed, apprise me. Sir; 
The halberdiers shall wait ye. 

Bradshaw. Good my lord, 

Thou wilt not leave us? When did Fairfax fly 
A post of danger? And his honoured name 
Stands foremost in our roll. 

Fair. Sir, I am sworn 



Scene I.] 



CHARLES THE FIRST. 



657 



The soldier of the Commons, and as soldier 

Obey them loyally. All that ye need 

For state or for defence in this sad pageant, 

Our camp shall furnish. Save their General, 

You may command the army. For this trial, 

I like it not. I am no gownsman. Sirs, 

The halberdiers shall wait ye. [Exit Fairfax. 

Mar. What a nice 

And peevish conscience Fairfax bears! Will send 
Arras, horses, men, to escort the prisoner, line 
The Court, defend the judges, guard the scaffold — 
If so our wisdom wills — yet hold himself 
Content and harmless, so his single voice 
Swell not the general doom. 

Dow. Yet 'tis a wise 

And noble gentleman. 

Brad. Tush ! a good sword-blade, 

Keen in the field, but at the council dull 
And heavy as the scabbard. 

Enter Cromwell. 

Lo ! where comes 
One whose bright spirit knows no dimness. Cromwell! 

Croni. Hear ye the news, my masters ? Harrison, 
That bold and zealous soldier of our Israel, 
Is here. 

Brad. Where is the King? 

Crom. The King of kings 

Delivers him unto us. Harrison 
Awaits his landing. We must be prepared 
For instant trial. Glad am I and proud 
To greet with looks so firm and resolute 
This full and frequent council. 

Brad. Yet you met 

A great one who forsakes us. 

Crom. The Lord General ? 

Why, on the battle-day such loss might cause 
An hour's perplexity. Now — Hark ye. Sirs! 
Passing awhile Lord Fairfax's door, I saw 
The Queen. 

Ire. In England ! Didst thou see her face ? 

Crom. No. But I knew her by the wanton curls, 
The mincing delicate slep of pride, the gait 
Erect and lofty. 'T was herself, 1 say, 
Vain Jezebel ! 

Doio. At Fairfax's gate ! Alas ! 

Poor lady ! 

Crom. [Aside.) Ha ! And must we watch thee, too? 
No word of this, good Sirs. (Going to the table.) 

Why, master Cook, 
What needs this long indictment ? Seems to me 
Thou dost mistake our cause. The crime is not 
A trivial larceny, where some poor thief ' 
Is fenced and hemmed in by a form of words 
In tedious repetition, endless links 
Of the strong chain of law, lest at some loophole 
The paltry wretch escape. We try a King, 
In the stern name of Justice. Fling aside 
These cumbering subtleties, this maze of words. 
And in brief homely phrase, such as the soldier 
May con over his watchfire, or the milk-maid 
Wonderingly murmur as she tends her kine. 



Or the young boy trace in his first huge scroll. 

Or younger girl sew in her sampler, say 

That we arraign Charles Stuart, King of England, 

For warring on his people. Let this deed 

Be clear and open as beseems the men 

On whom the Lord hath set his seal. Besides 

That will let loose thy stream of eloquence. 

Ice-bound by this cold freezing plea. What says 

Our learned President? 

Brad. Thou art right. Thou art right. 

Our fair intent needs not a veil. Be sure 
He shall have noble trial and speedy, such 
As may beseem a King. 
Dow. What is his bearing ? 

Crom. Resolved and confident. Lately at Windsor, 
Eating a Spanish melon of choice flavour, 
He bade his servant Herbert send the seeds. 
To be sowed straight at Hampton. 

Mar. Many men 

Plant acorns for their successors ; this King seta 
A gourd. 

Crom. The Prophet's gourd. We are all mortal. 
Sow but a grain of mustard, the green thing 
Which soonest springs from death to life, and thou 
Shalt wither ere the leaflets shoot. 

Ire. The King 

Deems that ye dare not try him. 

Brad. Dare not! Cromwell, 

How soon dost think — 
Crom. Was 't not the plash of oars ? 

Brad. Cromwell! 

Ire. He hears thee not. His sense rejects 

All sound save that for which with such intense 
And passionate zeal he listens. See his cheek 
Quivers with expectation. Its old hue 
Of ruddy brown is gone. 

Crom. ■ Hark ! Hark ! my masters I 

He is come ! He is come ! We are about to do 
A deed which shall draw on us questioning eyes 
From the astonished nations. Men shall gaze, 
Afeard and wondering Oii this spot of earth. 
As on a comet in the Heavens, fatal 
To kings of old. Start ye ! Why at the first 
I started, as a man who in a dream 
Sees indistinct and terrible grim forms 
Of death and danger float before his glazed 
And wondering eyes ; but then as one who wakes, 
The inspiring light fell on me, and I saw 
The guiding hand of Providence visibly 
Beckoning to the groat combat. We are His soldiers. 
Following the Cloud by day, the Fire by night: — 
And shall we not be constant ? We are arrayed 
Against the stiff combined emlxjdied spirits 
Of prelacy and tyranny — Shall we not 
Be bold ? 

{The King, Herbert, Harrison, <^c. pass Ike mndow.) 
See ! See ! he passes ! So shall pass 
The oppressor from the earth. His very shadow, 
The very traces of his foot are gone. 
And the English ground is free, the English air 
Free, free! — All praise be to his mighty name! 
This is the crowning work. [The Scene closes. 



658 



CHARLES THE FIRST. 



[Act II. 



SCENE II. 
A Gallery leading to the King's Prison. 
The Queen, Lady Fairfax, a Sentinel. 

Lady Fairfax. Another guard ! Tlie pass-word that 
hfith served us 
Through court, and gate, and hall, will fail us here; 
This is the immediate prison of the King. 
Say, Rr)yal Madam, had we best accost 
Yon sentinel ? 

Queen. The prison of the King ! 

And I have lived to hear those words that pierce 
My heart like daggers spoken familiarly 
As she would say good day or fare ye well ! 
The prison of the King ! England hath been 
His prison — but this one leads — My lady Fairfax, 
Command him to admit us. 

Ladi/ F. He draws nigh. 

Senfinel. Fair mistresses, how won ye here ? This 
gallery 
Leads to the prisoner's chambers. 

Lady F. We would see him. 

Admit us. 

Sent. Be ye frenetic ? know ye not 
That, save the Lords Commissioners, none dare 
Approach the prisoner? 

Queen. Say the King. 

Sent. Who art thou. 

That speak'st with such command ? 

Lad If F. Know'st thou notwie? 

Thy General's wife. 

Sent. I am of Cromwell's soldiers, 

And own no woman's rule. 

Queen. Admit us, slave ! 

I am the Queen, thy Queen, the Queen of England ! 
Make way. 

Sent. Stand back, I say. 

Queen. I am a wife 

Seeking her husband in his prison. Soldier, 
If thou have a man's heart ! 

Lady F. Here's money for thee — 

Admit her. 

Sent. I have fought in twenty fields, 
A veteran of the cause. Put up your gold. 
And, madam, please you, home! 

Queen. Here is my home, — 

My husband's prison gate. I'll live here, die here. 
Here will I watch without as he within. 
Till death, the great deliverer, comes to free 
The captives. This shall be my grave. Charles! 
Charles! 

Lady F. Peace ! Peace ! 

Queen. I thought I heard him. Charles! my Charles! 
My King ! My Husband ! 

Sent. There are many chambers 

Between thee and the King. I prythee hence! 

Lady F. Madam, take patience. 
Queen. Charles! He must be dead 

Already, that he answers not. 



Enter CromvxlL 



Crom. 



What means 



This clamorous din of female tongues so near 
The prison of the King ? The Lady Fairfax ! 

Queen. Cromwell! 

Crom. The Queen ! 

Queen. Crnmvvell, I hated thee. 

Yet open yonder door, and I'll pray for thee 
All my life long. Yon churlish sentinel — 

Crom. Did but his duty. Lead her to her husband. 

Queen. Be quick! Be quick! 

Crom. The word is Naseby. 

Queen. On ! 

Be quick! Be quick! [Exeunt Queen anrl Sentinel. 

Crom. Now my good Lady Fairfax, 

Right well beseemeth Christian charity 
To succour them that suffer ; howsoe'er 
'Midst strict professors it may breed some marvel 
That one so famed for rigid sanctity. 
The gravest matron of the land, should herd 
With yonder woman. 

Lady F. With the Queen ? 

Crom. A papist; 

A rank idolater; a mumming masquer; 
A troller of lewd songs ; a wanton dancer ; 
A vain upholder of that strength of Satan 
The playhouse. They that be so eminent 
As thou will find maligners ; 't is the curse 
Of our poor fallen nature. Be not seen 
Hovering about these walls. I speak in love 
Of the Lord General. 

Lady F. The Lord General, 

And many a godly minister, and I, 
Weak woman though I be, mourn that these walls 
Should come between the King and people. Peace 
Had been a holier bond. 

Crom. Peace ! that onr General, 

The good Lord Fairfax, Captain of the guard. 
Should tend the popish ladies to their mass; — 
A high promotion ! Peace! that every dungeon 
May swarm with pious ministers ; — forget they 
Their old oppressions ? Peace ! that the grave matron. 
The Lady Fairfax, may with troubled thoughts 
Sit witness of lewd revels ; mock and scorn 
Of the light dames of the chamber, and the lordlings 
Their gallants ;— popinjays who scoff and jeer 
At the staid solemn port, the decent coif. 
The modest kerchief I have heard such jeers 
When yon gay Queen hath laughed. 

Lady F. Laughed ! Hath she dared ! 

Vain minion ! 

Crom. And to see thee with her ! Thou 

That shouldst have been a Jael in this land, 
A Deborah, a Judith! 

Lady F. Nay, we live 

Under a milder law. Whate'er their crimes, 
Urge not this bloody trial. 

Crom. Whoso sailh 

That the trial shall be bloody 1 He who reads 
All hearts. He only knows how my soul yearns 
Toward yonder pair. I seek them now, a friend, 
With friendly proffers. As we reach thy coach 
I '11 tell thee more. Come, madam ! [Exeunt. 



Scene III.] 



CHARLES THE FIRST. 



659 



SCENE III. 

The King's Apartments. 
The King and Herbert. 

King. Herbert ! 

Her. An' please your Majesty. 

King. Go seek 

The General. 

Her. Fairfax ? 

King. Cromwell! Cromwell! say 

The Kmg commands his presence. [Exit Herbert. 

To fore-run him, 
To plunge at once into this stormy sea 
Of griefs, to summon my great foe, to front 
The obdurate Commons, the fanatic army. 
Even the mock judges, they who dare to reign 
Over a King, to breast them all ! Then trial. 
Or peace! Death, or the crown! Rest comes with 

either 
To me and England, comfortable rest, 
After my many wanderings. 

Enter the Queen. 

Henrietta! 
My wife, my Queen, is't thou ? Is 't not a dream? 
For I have dreamed so, and awakened — Heaven 
Shield me from such a waking! Is 't a truth ? 

Queen. Do not my tears give answer? Did that 
vision 
Rain drops of joy like these ? 

King. To see thee here 

Is to be young and free again ; again 
A bridegroom and a King. 

Queen. Ever my King ! 

King. I have heard nothing like that voice of hope 
Since we were parted. 

Queen. Wherefore dost thou pause ? 

Why gaze on me so mournfully ? 

King. Alas! 

Thou art pale, my Henrietta, very pale; 
And this dear hand that was so round and fair, 
Is Ihin and wan — oh, very wan! 

Queen. 'T was pining 

Vor thee that made it so. Think on the cause, 
And thou 'It not mourn its beauty. 

King. And this grief 

Will kill her! Joined to any other man, 
She might have lived on in her loveliness 
For half an age. She 's mine, and she will die. 
Oh, this is a sad meeting ! I have longed, 
Have prayed to see thee — now — would thou wast safe 
In France again, my dear one! 

Queen. Say not so. 

I bring thee comfort, safety. Holland, France, 
Are firmly with thee; save the army, all 
This rebel England is thine own : and e'en 
Amid the army, some the greatest, some 
That call themselves thy judges. 'Tis the turn 
Of iale; the reflux of the tide. 

King. Forget not 

That I am a prisoner, sweet one; a foredoomed, 
Discrowned prisoner. As erewhile I passed 
Sadly along, a soldier in his mood 



Spat on me : none rebuked him, none cried shame; 
None cleft the coward to the earth. 

Queen. Oh, traitors ! 

Oh, sacrilegious rebels! Let my lips 
Wipe off that scorn. My Charles, thou shalt resume 
Thy state, shalt sit enthroned, a judge, a King, 
l-lven in the solemn Hall, the lofty seat 
Of their predestined treason. For Ihy life 
It is assured — Lord Broghill and a band 
Of faithful cavaliers — But thou shalt reign. 

King. Dost thou remember Cromwell ? Ere thou 
quitted 'st 
England he was most like the delving worm 
Hypocrisy ; that slough is cast, and now 
His strong and shining wings soar high in air 
As proud ambition. First demand of him 
What King shall reign. 

Queen. He is my trust. 

King. Hast seen him ? 

Queen. He sent me to thee now. 

King. Ha, wherefore ! But I've learned to trust 
in nought 
Save Heaven. Since thou art here, I am content 
To live and reign, but all in honour. I '11 
Renounce no creed, resign no friend, abandon 
No right or liberty of this abused. 
Misguided people ; no, nor bate one jot 
Of the old prerogative, my privilege, 
The riglit divine of Kings. Death were to me 
As welcome as his pleasant evening rest 
To the poor way-worn traveller; — and yet 
I fain would live for Ihee — Cheer up, fair wife ! — 
Would live for love and thee. Hast seen thy chil- 
dren ? 

Queen. Not yet. They say Elizabeth, whose face 
Even when a little child resembled thine 
To wonder, hath pined after thee, and fed 
Her love by thinking on thee, till she hath stolea 
Unconsciously thy mien, and tone, and words 
Of patient pensiveness; a dignity 
Of youthful sorrow, beautiful and sad. 

King. Poor child! poor child ! a woeful heritage! 
When I have gazed on the sweet seriousness 
Of her young beauty, I have pictured her 
In the bright May of life, a queenly bride, 
Standing afore the altar with that look 
Regal and calm, and pure as the azure skies 
Of Paradise ere tears were born. Now 

Enter Cromwell. 

Cromwell! 

Crom. Didst thou desire my presence ? 

King. I sent for thee 

To bear my message to thy comrades. 

Crom. Sir, 

I wait thy pleasure. I would welcome thee 
Unto this goodly city 

King. Doth the gaoler 

Welcome his prisoner? I am Charles Stuart, 
And thou — Now shame on this rebellious blood. 
I thought that it was disciplined and schooled 
Into proud patience. Let me not appear 
Discourteous — Sir, the King is bounden to thee! 
Now hear mine errand. 



660 



CHARLES THE FIRST. 



[Act n. 



Queen. Tush ; hear me ! 

Crom. The Queen ! 

Queen. Fie ! doff this strangeness, when it was 
thyself 
That sent me hither! Cast aside the smooth 
Obedient looks which hide thy thoughts. Be plain 
And honest, Cromwell. 

Crom. I have ever been so. 

Queen, Open in speech, and heart, even as myself, 
When I, thy Queen, hold out the hand of peace 
And amity, and bid thee say what title 
The King shall give to his great General. 

Crom. None. 

Thou bad'st me answer plainly. 

Queen. Yet thou wast 

Ambitious once. 

Crom. Grant that I were, — as well 

I trust I had more grace, — but say I were so, 
Think'st thou not there be homely names which sound 
As sweetly in men's ears, which shall outlive 
A thousand titles in that book of fame. 
History ? All praise be to the Lord • I am not 
Ambitious. 

Queen. Choose thine office. Keep the name 
Thy sword hath rendered famous. Be Lord V icar; 
Be Captain of the Guard; forbid this suit — 
Thou canst an' if thou wilt — be Charles's friend, 
And second man in the kingdom. 

Crom. Second ! Speak'st thou 

These tempting words to me ? I nor preside 
O'er Court or Parliament ; 1 am not, madam. 
Lord General of the army. Seek those great ones. 
My place is in the ranks. Would'st ihou make me 
The second in the kingdom ? Seek those great ones. 
The second ! 

Queen. Thou, and well thou know'st it, Cromwell, 
Art the main prop of this rebellion! General, 
Lord President, what are they but thy tools. 
Thy puppets, moved by thy directing will 
As chessmen by the skilful player ? 'T is thou 
That art the master-spirit of the time. 
Idol of people, and of army, leader 
Of the fanatic Commons, judge, sole judge 
Of this unrighteous cause. 

Crom. And she would make me 

The second man of the kingdom ! Thou but troublest 
Thyself and me. 

Queen. Yet hear me but one word. 

Crom. No more of bribes ! — thou bad'st me to speak 
plainly : 
Thou hast been bred in courts, and deemest them 
Omnipotent o'er all. But I eschew 
The Mammon of unrighteousness. I warn ye, 
Ye shall learn faith in one man's honesty 
Before ye die. 

Queen. Never in thine ! At Holmby 

We trusted — Fool again — 'T was not in fear; 
I dread thee not. Thou darest not try the King. 
The very word stands as a double guard, 
A triple armour, a bright shield before him; 
A sacred halo plays around the head 
Anointed and endiademod, a dim. 
Mysterious glory. Who may dare to call 



For justice on a King ? Who dare to touch 
The crowned and lofty head ? 

Crom. Was it at Hard wick, 

Or Fotheringay — fie on my dull brain — 
That the fair Queen of Scot-s, the popish woman, 
The beautiful, his grandame, died ? 

Queen. A i^ueen, 
A vain and envious woman, yet a Queen, 
Condemned Queen Mary. Ye are subjects, rebels : 
Ye dare not try your King ; all else ye may do ; 
All else ye have done: fought, imprisoned, chased, 
Ay, tracked and hunted, like that pious Henry, 
The last of the red rose, whom visiting 
Helpless in prison, his arch enemy 
The fiendish Richard slew ; — even as perchance 

Crom. Shame on thy slanderous tongue! There 
lays my sword. 
Did'st take me for a murderer? Hearken, madam ; 
When thou shalt speak again of Henry's death, 
Remember 't was the restless shrew of Anjou 
That drove her gentle husband to his end. 

King. Take up the sword; and, wife, I pr'ythee 
peace ! 
r yet am King enough to end these brawls. 
Take up thy sword ! Albeit my breast be bare. 
And I unarmed before him, he'll not strike. 
That were an honest murder. There be ways 
Stiller and darker; there be men whose craft 
Can doom with other tongues, with other hands 
Can slay. I know thee. Sir. 

Crom. I would not slay 

A sinner unprepared. 

King. Go to ! I know thee. 

Say to the Parliament that I demand 
A conference. Lords and Commons. 

Crom. Sir, the Commons 

Will grant no conference. Thou must address thee 
To the High Court of Justice, to thy judges. 

King. Oh, vain and shallow treason! Have j^e not 
The King's High Court, the judges of the land ? 
I own no other. Yet if they 

Crom. Expect 

Nothing of them but justice. I came to thee, 
As to a brother, in pure charily. 
In meek and Christian love, when these sharp taunts 
Arose betwixt us. Still I fain would save thee. 
Resign the crown. 

King. Never! 

Crom. Oh vanity 

Of man's proud heart ! cling to that sinful toy, 
A sound, an echo, a dim shadow, weakening 
As the true substance flies — cling to that word. 
And cast away thy life ! 

King. Hold, Henrietta ! 

What ! Dost thou ask me for so poor a boon 
As life to change fair honour? I 've a son, 
A gallant princely boy — would'st have me yield 
The old ancestral crown, his heritage. 
For the small privilege to cravil awhile 
On this vile earth, mated with fouler worms 
Than they that sleep below ? Would'st have me sell 
My kingdom for a little breath ? 

Crom. Thy kingdom \ 

Thou hast not a strong-hold left. 



Scene I.] 



CHARLES THE FIRST. 



661 



Ki7ig. I have one here. 

Thou know'st my answer. 

Queen. Yet if there be danger 

King. Peace, dearest, peace ! Is tlie day fixed ? 

Crom. The day. 

The very hour, is set. At noon to-morrow. 
Heaven permitting 

King. The decrees of Heaven 

Be oft to man's dark mind inscrutable; 
The Hghtning flame hath fired the straw-thatched 

roof 
Of harmless cottagers, hath rent the spire 
of consecrated temples, hath struck down 
Even the dumb innocent oak that never lied, 
Never rebelled, never blasphemed. A veil 
Hangs before Heaven's high purpose. Yet when man 
Slays man, albeit no King, a reckoning comes, 
A deep and awful reckoning. I '11 abide 
The trial. 

Crom. At thy peril. 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. 

Wesf7ninsfer Hall, Jilted up for the King's Trial. 
Brai/shaw, seated as President ; Cromwell, Ireton, 
Harrison, Doiunes, Marten, Tichhurne, and other 
Judges, on benches ; Coofc, and other Lawyers, 
Clerks, (^c, at a tahle ; a chair of Slate for the King 
on one side ; the Queen, veiled, and other ladies in a 
Gallery behind ; the whole stage filled with Guards, 
Spectators, ^c. <^c. 

Brad. Hath every name been called ? and every 
Judge 
Appeared at the high summons? 

Clerk. Good my Lord, 

Each one hath answered. 

Ire. {to Cromwell.) The Lord General 

Is wanting still. 

Crom. The better. 

Ire. How! 

Crom. Fair son, 

We have enow of work — Doth not yon cry 
Announce the prisoner ? — enow of work 
For one brief day without him. Downes, sit here 
Beside me, man. We lack not waverers ; 
Men whose long doubts would hold from rosy dawn 
To the slow lighting of the evening star 
In the clear heaven of June. Of^uch as they, 
One were too many. How say'st 

Dow. Even as thou say'st. 

Crom. Yet 'tis a valiant General, 

A godly and a valiant. Ha ! the prisoner ! 

Enter the King, attended by Herbert and other Ser- 
vants, Hacker and Guards. 

(The Soldiers, <^c. as the King walks to his chair, cry 
"Justice! Justice!") 

Crier. Peace! silence in the court! 

Brad. Ye shall have justice. 
My Lords Commissioners, while T stood pausing 
How fitliest to disclose our mighty plea, 

56 



good Downes ? 



Dallying with phrase and form, yon eager cry 
Shot like an arrow to the mark, laying bare 
The very core of our intent. Sirs, we 
Are met to render justice, met tojudge 
In such a cause a.s scarce the lucent sun 
That smiles upon us from his throne hath seen 
Since light was born. We sit tojudge a King, 
Arraigned by his own people; to make inquest 
Into the innocent blood which hath been spilled 
Like water; into crime and tyranny. 
Treason and murder. Look that we be pure, 
■My brethren ! that we cast from out our hearts 
Ail blinding passions: Fear that blinks and trembles 
At shadows ere they come ; Pride that walks dazzled 
In the light of her vainglory ; feeble Pity 
Whose sight is quenched in tears; and grim Revenge 
Her fierce eyes sealed with gore. Look that we chase 
Each frail affection, each fond hidden sin, 
Each meaner virtue from our heart.s, and cling 
To Justice, only Justice ! Now lor thee, 
Charles Stuart, King of England : Thou art here 
To render compt of awful crimes, of treason, 
Conspiracy, and murder. Answer! 

Cook. First 

May it please you hear the charge ? 

King. Slop ! Who are ye 

That dare to question me ? 

Brad. Thy Judges. 

King. Say 

My subjects. I am a King whom none may judge 
On earth. Who sent ye here >. 

Brad. The Commons. 

King. What ! 

Be there no traitors, no conspirators. 
No murderers save Kings, that they dare call 
Stern justice down from Heaven ? Sir, 1 fling back 
The charge upon their heads, the guilt, the shame, 
The eternal infamy — on them who sowed 
The tares of hate in fields of love; who armed 
Brother 'gainst brother, breaking the sweet peace 
Of country innocence, the holy tics 
Of nature breaking; making war accurst 
As that Egyptian plague the worst and last 
When the First-born were slain. I have no answer 
For them or ye. I know ye not. 

Brad. Be warned : 

Plead to the accusation. 

King. I vv'ill die 

A thousand deaths, rather than by my breath 
Give life to this new court against the laws 
And liberties of England. 

Brad. Sir, we know 

Your love of liberty and England. Call 
The witnesses. Be they in court ? 

Cook. They wait 

Without. 

Brad. Send for them quickly. Once again, 
King, wilt thou plead? 

King. Thou hast my answer, never ! 

(A pause of a few moments, during which the head 
of the King's staff on ichich he was leaning falls and 
rolls across the stage.) 



662 



CHARLES THE FIRST. 



[Act hi. 



Mar. (to Ireton.) What fell ? The breathless silence 
of this vast 
And crowded court gives to each common sound 
A startling clearness. What has fallen ? 

Ire. The head 

Of the King's staff See how it spins and bounds 
Along the floor, as hurrying to forsake 
The royal wretch its master. Now it stops 
At Cromwell's feet — direct at Cromwell's feet! 

Crom. The toy is broken. 

Har. What is the device? 

Some vain idolatrous image ? 

Crom. No, a crown ; 

A gilded crown, a hollow glittering crown, 
Shaped by some quaint and cunning goldsmith. Look 
On what a reed lie leans, who props himself 
On such a bauble. 

Dow. It rolled straight to thee ; 
If thou wast superstitious 

Crom. Pass the toy 

On to the prisoner! he hath faith in omens — 
I — fling him back his gewgaw ! 

Brad. Master Cook, 

We wait too long. 

Cook. My Lord, the witnesses 

Brad. Call any man. Within our bleeding land 
There lives not one so blest in ignorance 
As not to know this treason. None so high 
But the storm overtopped him ; none so low 
But the wind stooped to root him up. Call any man ; 
The Judge upon the bench, the Halberdier 
That guards the door. 

Cook. Oliver Cromwell! 

Crom. ' Ay .' 

Cook. No need to swear him ; he hath ta'en already 
The Judges' oath. 

Crom. The Judges' oath, not this. 

Omit no form of guardian law; remember 
The life of man hangs on our lips. 

King. Smooth traitor ! 

(Cromwell is sworn.) 

Cook. Lieutenant-General Cromwell, wast thou 
present 
In the great fight of Naseby ? 

Crom. Was I present ? 

Why I think ye know that. I was. 

Cook. Didst see 

The prisoner in the battle ? 

Crom. Many times. 

He led his army, in a better cause 
I should have said right gallantly. I saw him 
First in the onset, last in ihe retreat. 
That justice let me pay the King. 

Brad. Raised he 

His banner 'gainst his people? Didst thou see 
The royal standard in the field ? 

Crom. My lord, 

It rose full in the centre of their host, 
Floating upon the heavy air. 

Cook. The arms 

Of England ? 

Crom. Ay, the very lion shield 

That waved at Cressi and at Azincourt 



Triumphant. None may better know than I, 
For it so pleased the Ruler of the Field. 
The Almighty King of Battles, that my arm 
Struck down the standard-bearer, and restored 
The English lion to the lion hearts 
Of England. 

Cook. Please you. Sir, retire. Now summon 

King. Call not another. What I have done boldly 
In the face of day and of the nation, that, 
Nothing repenting, nothing derogating 
From the King's high prerogative, as boldly 
As freely I avow — to you — to all men. 
I own ye not as Judges. Ye have power » 

As pirates or land-robbers o'er the wretch 
Entrapped within their den, a power to mock 
Your victim with a form of trial, to dress 
Plain murder in a mask of law. As Judges 
I know ye not. 

Brad. Enough that you confess 

The treason 

Kivg. Stop! Sir, I appeal to them 

Whence you derive your power. 

Brad. The people ? King, 

Thou seest them here in ns. 

King. Oh, that my voice 

Could reach my loyal pi»/ple ! That the winds 
Could waft the echoes of this groined roof 
So that each corner of the land might hear, 
From the fair Southern valleys to the hills 
Of my own native North, from the bleak shores 
Of the great ocean to the channelled V/est, 
Their rightful Monarch's cry. Then should ye hear i 
From the universal nation, town and plain. 
Forest and village, the stern awful shout 
Of just deliverance, mighty and prolonged. 
Deafening the earth, and piercing Heaven, and .smit- 
ing 
Each guilty conscience with stich fear as waits 
On the great Judgment-Day. The wish is vain — 
Ah! vainer than a dream? I and my people 
Are over-mastered. Yet, Sir, I demand 
A conference with these masters. Tell the Commons 
The King would speak with them. 

Brad. We have no power 

To stay the trial. 

Dow. Nay, good ray lord, perchance 

The King would yield such reason as might move 
The Commons to renew the treaty. Best . 
Confer with them. 

Crom. (to Downes.) Art mad ? 

Dow. 'T is ye are mad, 

That urge with a remorseless haste this work 
Of savage butchery onward. I was mad 
That joined ye. 

Crom. This is sudden. 

Dnie. He 'sour King. 

Crom. Our King! Have we not faced him in the 
field 
A thousand times? Our King! Downes, hath the Lord 
Forsaken thee? Why, I have seen thyself 
Hewing through mailed battalia, till thy sword 
And thy good arm were dyed in gore, to reach 
Yon man. Didst mean to save him ? Listen, Sir, 
I am thy friend. 'Tis snid— I lend no ear 



Scene I.] 



CHARLES THE FIRST. 



663 



To slanderers, but this tale was forced upon me — 

'Tis said tliut one whose grave and honoured name 

Sorts ill with midnight treachery, was seen 

Stealing from the Queen's lodging! — I'm thy friend, 

Thy fast Iriend ! We oft see in this bad world 

The shadow Envy crawling stealthily 

Behind fan- Virtue; — I hold all lijr fiilse 

Unless thou prove it true ; — I am thy Iriend ! 

But if the sequestrators heard this tale — 

Thou hast broad lands, (aloud.) Why do ye pause ? 

Conk. My high 

And honouring task to plead at this great bar 
For lawful liberty, for suffering conscience, 
For the old guardians of our rights, the Commons, 
Against the lawless fiend Prerogative, 
The persecuting Church, the tyrant King, 
Were needless now and vain. The haughty prisoner 
Denies your jurisdiction. I call on ye 
For instant judgment. 

Brad. Sir, for the last time 

I a.sk thee, wilt thou plead ? 

King. Have I not answered ? 

CooJc. Your judgment, good my Lords ! 

Brad. All ye who deem 

Charles Slnart guilty, rise ! (TTie Judges all stand up. 

King. What, ail ! 

Brad. Not one 

Is wanting. Clerk, record him guilty. 

Cook. Now, 

The sentence! 

Queen, {from the Gallery.) Traitors, hold! 

Crom. {to Ireton.) Heard'st thou a scream ? 

Jre. 'Tis the malignant wife of Fairfiix. 

Crom. No ! 

A greater far than she. 

Queen. Hold, murderers ! 

Crom. {alonrJ.) Lead 

Yon railing woman from her seat. My Lord, 
Please you proceed. 

Queen {rushing to the King.) Traitors! here is my 
seat — 
1 am the Queen ! — here is my place, my seat, 
My Lord and Sovereign — here at Ihy feet. 
I claim it with a prouder, humbler heart, 
A lowlier duty, a more loyal love, 
Than when the false and glittering diadem 
Encircled first my brow, a queenly bride. 
Put me not from thee ! scorn me not I I am 
Thy wife. 

King. Oh, true and faithful wife ! Yet leave me, 
Lest the strong armour of my soul, her patience, 
Be melted by thy tears. Oh, go! go! go! 
This is ho place for thee. 

Queen. Why thou art here ! 

Who shall divide us ? 

Ire. Force her from him, guards ; 

Remove her. 

King. Tremble ye who come so near 

As but to touch her garments. Cowards ! slaves! 
Though the King's power be gone, yet the man's 

strength 
Remains unwithered. She's my wife; my all. 



Crom. None thinks to harm the lady. Good my 
Lord, 
The hour wears fast with these slight toys. 

Queen. 1 come 

To aid ye, not impede. If in this land 
To wear the lineal crown, maintain the laws, 
Uphold the insulted church, be crimes, then I 
Am guilty, guiltier than your King. 'T was I 
That urged the war — ye know he loved me ; I 
That prompted his bold councils; edged and whetted 
His great resolves, spurred his high courage on 
Against ye, rebels! I that armed my knight, 
And sent him forth to battle. Mine the crime- 
Be mine the punishment! Deliver him. 
And lead me to the block. Pause ye ? My blood 
Is royal too. Within my veins the rich 
Commingled stream of princely Medici 
And regal Bourbon flows; 'twill mount as high, 
'T will stain your axe as red, 't will feed as full 
Your hate of Kings. 

Crom. Madam, we wage no war 

On women. 

Queen. I have warred on ye, and now — 
Take heed how ye release me! He is gentle. 
Patient and kind ; he can forgive. But I 
Shall roam a frantic widow through the world. 
Counting each day for lost that hath not gauied 
An enemy to England, a revenger 
Of this foul murder. 

Har. Woman, peace! The sentence ! 

Queen. Yoi/.r sentence, bloody judges ! As ye deal 
With your anointed King, the red right arm 
Of Heaven shall avenge him : here on earth 
By clinging (ear and black remorse, and death. 
Unnatural, ghastly death, and then the fire. 
The eternal fire, where panting murderers gasp 
And cannot die, that deepest Hell which holds 
The regicide. 

Brad. Peace! I have overlong 

Forgotten my great office. Hence ! or force 
Shall rid us of thy frenzy. Know'st thou not 
That curses light upf)n the curser's head. 
As surely as the cloud which the sun drains 
From the salt sea returns into the wave 
In stormy gusts or plashing showers ? Remove her. 

Queen. Oh mercy ! mercy ! I '11 not curse ; I '11 
Be as gentle as a babe. You cannot doom him 
Whilst I stand by. Even the hard headsman veils 
His victim's eyes before he strikes, afeard 
Lest his heart fiiil. And could ye, being men. 
Not fiends, abide a wife's keen agony 
Whilst — I '11 not leave thee, Charles ! 1 '11 never leave 
thee ! 

King. This is the love stronger than life, the love 
Of woman. Henrietta, listen. Loose 
Thy arms from round my neck ; here is no axe ; 
This is no sca(F>ld. We shall meet anon, 
Untuuched, unharmed ; I shall return to thee 
Sale, sale, — shall bide with thee. Listen, my dear 

one ; 
Thy husband prays, Ihy King commands thee— Go ! 
Go ! Lead her gently, very gently. 

[Exil the Qtieen, led. 



J 



664 



CHARLES THE FIRST. 



[Act IV. 



Now 
I arn ready. Speak your doom, and quickly. 

Brad. Death. 

Thou art adjudged to die. Sirs, do ye all 
Accord in this just sentence ? 

{The Judges all stand up. 

King. I am ready. 

To a grey head, aching with royal cares, 
The block is a kind pillow. Yet once more — 

Brad. Silence. The sentence is pronounced ; the 
time 
Is past Conduct him from the Court. 

King. Not hear me ! 

Me, your anointed King! Look ye what justice 
A meaner man may hope for. 

Crom. Whv refuse 

His death-speech to a prisoner ? Whoso knoweth 
What weight hangs on his soul ? Speak on and fear 
not. 

King. Fear! Let the guilty fear. Feel if my pulse 
Flutter? Look if my cheek be faded ? fJearken 
If my calm breathing be not regular. 
Even as an infant's who hath dropt asleep 
Upon its mother's breast ? As I lift up 
This Sword, miscalled of Justice, my clear voice 
Hoarsens nor falters not. See, I can smile 
As, thinking on the axe, I draw the bright 
Keen edge across my hand. Fear ! Would ye ask 
What weight is on my soul ? I tell thee none, 
Save that I yielded once to your decree. 
And slew my faithfullest. Oh, Strafford ! Strafford ! 
This is a retribution ! 

Brad. Better weep 

Thy sins, than one just holy act. 

King. For ye 

My subject-judges I could weep ; for thee. 
Beloved and lovely country. Thou wilt groan 
Under the tyrant Many, till some bold 
Arid crafty soldier, one who in the field 
Is brave as the roused lion, at the Council 
Watchful and gentle as the couchant pard, 
Tlie lovely spotted pard, wliat time she stoops 
To spring upon her prey ; one who puts on, 
To win each several soul, his several sin, 
A stern fanatic, a smooth hypocrite; 
A fierce republican, a coarse buffoon. 
Always a great bad man ; till he shall come. 
And climb the vacant throne, and fix him there, 
A more than King. Cromwell, if such thou knowst, 
Tell him the rack would prove an easier couch 
Than he shall find that throne ; tell him the crown 
Of an Usurper's brow will scon^h and burn. 
As though the diamonded and ermined round 
Were framed of glowing sleel. 

Crom. Hath His dread wrath 

Smitten thee with frenzy ? 

King. Tell him, far thou know'st him. 

That Doubt and Discord like fell harpies wait 
Around the Usurper's board. 15y night, by day, 
Beneath the palace roof, beneath that roof 
More fair, the summer sky, fear shall appal 
And danger threaten, and all mtural loves 
Wither and die ; till on his dying bed, 
Old 'fore his time, the wretched traitor lies 



Heart-broken. Then, for well thou know'st him, 

Cromwell, 
Bid him to think on me, and how I fell 
Hewn in my strength and prime, like a proud oak. 
The tallest of the forest, that but shivers 
His glorious top and dies. Oh ! thou shalt envy, 
In thy long agony, my fall, that shakes 
A kingdom, but not me. 

Crom. He is possessed ! — 

My good Lord President, the day wears on — 
Possessed of a fierce devil ! 

Brad. Lead him forth. 

King. Why so. Ye are warned. On to my prison, 
^Sirs ! 
On to my prison ! 

{The Soldiers, ^c. cry "On to ETCculion T "Justice 
and Execution .'") 

Crom. Nay, my comrades, 

V^ex not a sinner's partmg hour. The w rath 
Is on him, Harrison ! 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. 
An Apartment in CromwelVs House. 
Cromwell, alone. 
Crom. So, my Lord Broghill! We are shrewdly rid 
Of one bold plotter. Now to strike at one. 
Ere fresh conspiracies — 

Enter Ireton. 

What mak'st thou here, 
Fair son ? 

Ire. The Lords Commissioners refuse 
To sign the warrant. He 'II escape us yet. 

Crom. Refuse ! What, all ? 

Ire. No ; Harrison and Bradshaw, 

And Marten, still hold firm. 

Crom. Too few ! too few ! 

Ay, he'll escape. They'll treat. What say the trai- 
tors? 

Ire. The most keep stubborn silence. Harrison 
Is hoarse with railing. 

Crom. Overhot! But that 's 

A fault may pass for virtue. Overcold 's 
Your modish sin. Weakness or treachery! 
Peters or Judases! They'll treat. They'll treat. 
Where lies thy regiment ? 

Ire. At Westminster. 

One glance of their bright swords, one stirring note 
Of their war-trumpet, and these dastard Judges — 
I'll seek them instantly. 

Crom. Son, thou mistak'st. 

Foul shame it were here in a Christian land 
To govern by brute force — How many hast thou ? 

Ire. A thousand horse. 

Crom. Or turn their very guards 

Against the Judges — Be they trusty? 

Ire. Sir, 

I '11 answer for them as myself. 

Crom. Nay, go not. 

No force, good son ! No force ! 



Scene II.] 



CHARLES THE FIRST. 



665 



Enter a Servant, 

What wouldst thou ? Speak. 

Servant. The Colonel Harrison sends me to crave 
Your Excellency's presence. 

Crom. A)' ! I come. 

Didst meet thy fellow Robert, and the gallant 
Whom thou saw'st here this morning? 

Serv. Sir, they passed me. 

At speed. 

Crom. I come. No force, good son. Remember 

Thi.s is a Christian land. We must keep pure 

The Judgment-seat. No force. [Exit Irelnn. 

At sppe<l ! Ere now 

They have crossed the Thames at Kew. We are 

quit of one 
Bold Cavalier.— What said the Colonel ? 

Serv, Prayed 

Your instant presence, and between his teeth 
Muttered "Faint craven souls!" 

Crom. Fie ! fie ! to speak 

Irreverently of such great ones. Faint 
And craven souls! Follow my son ; thou'lt find him 
Heading his valiant horse. Bid him he still 
Till I send to him — slill as night. And now 
For ye, wise Judges ! [Exeunt. 

SCENE ir. 

The Painted Chamber. Bradskaw, Harrison, Cook, 
Downes, Tichhurne, Marten, and oilier Judges. 

Har. Be ye all smit with palsy ? Hang your arms 
Dead at your sides, that ye refuse to sicn 
The warrant ? Be ye turned idolaters ? 
Rank worshippers of Baal ? 

Brad. They refuse not. 

Mar. They parley, Sir ; they dally, they delay. 

Cook. The wiser if they did. 'T were vantage 
ground, 
The keen axe swincing o'er his head, to treat 
With yon great prisoner. 

Har. Treat ! Was yonder trial 

A mummery, a stage-play, a farce? Oh blind 
And stubborn generation! 

Dow. The whole people 

Are struck with awe and pity. Each man'.s cheek 
Is pale; each woman's eye is wet ; each child 
Lifts up its little hands, as to implore 
Mercy for the poor King. 

Har. % Captivity 

And bondage will o'ertake them! They fall off" 
Like the revolted Tribes. Egyptian bondage ! 

Enter Cromwell, 
Crom. Wherefore so loud, good Colonel ? Sirs, I 
shame 
To have held ye waiting here. A sudden cause, 
I pray ye believe it urgent, hindered me. 
Where is the warrant ? — Have ye left a space 
For my poor name ? 

3Tar. Thou wilt find room enow. 

There ! 

Crom. What, unsigned ? Harrison ! He came 
hither 
To crave your signatures. 



Har. I did my message. 

But these Philistines — 

Crom. Do ye shame to set 

Your names to )'our own deeds ? Did ye not pass 
This solemn sentence in the face of day, 
Belbre the arraigned King, the shouting people, 
The Majesty of Heaven ? 

Tich. Thou dost mistake us. 

Crom. I crave your pardon, Sirs. I deemed ye 
were 
The judges, the King's judges, the elect 
Of England, chosen by her godly Commons 
As wisest, boldest, best. 1 did mistake ye. 

Dow. Listen ere thou accuse us. 

Mar. Listen! sign! 

And we will listen though your pleaded reason 
Outlast Hugh Peter's sermon. 

Dow. Hear me first. 

Crom. Well ! 

Dow. We have here Commissioners from Scotland 
Praying our mercy on the King. 

Crom. They gave him 

Into our hands. 

Har. And they are answered. Sir. 

Thou know'st that Cromwell singly put them down. 
As Ihcy had been young babes. 

Doiv. The pensionary — 

Crom. Pshaw ! 

Dow, Hath sent pressing missives; Embassies 

From every court are on the seas ; and Charles 
Proffers great terms. 

Crom. Have we not all ? 

Covk. But he 

Will give a fair security, a large 
And general amnesty. So we are freed 
From fear of after-reckoning. 

Crom, Master Cook, 

No wonder that a lawyer pleads to-day 
Against his cause of yesterday — if feed 
To the height. But thou art not of us ; thy part 
Is o'er. 

Mar. He will give large securities ! 
For what ? 

Dow. The general safety and our own. 

Mar. Safety! — say liberty! Securities. 
Marry, large promises! An ye will trust, 
Ye may be Earls and Marquesses, and portion 
This pretty islet England as a manor 
Amongst ye. Shame ye not to think a bribe 
Might win your souls from freedom ? 

Hiir. From the Lord ! 

Would you desert His people ? sell for gain 
His cause ? 

Crom. Hush! hush! none thinketh to forsake 
The cause ! 

Tich. Let Bradshaw sign. What need more names 
Than the Lord President's ? 

Brad. I am ready, Sirs, 

An ye will follow me; the instrument 
Were else illegal. When ye are prepared. 
Speak. 

Crom. My good mastere, ye remember me 
Of a passage of my boyhood. 

(Then aside to Bradshaw and Harrison. 



56* 



666 



CHARLES THE FIRST. 



FACT IV. 



Deem me not 
A light unmeaning trifler, recollect 
How Nathan spake to David. {Then aloud.) Being a 

child, 
Nutting with other imps in the old copse 
At Hinchinbroke, we saw across a wide 
But shallow stream one overhanging hazel. 
Whose lissome slalks were weighed by the rich fruitage 
Almost into the water. As we stood 
Eyeing the tempting boughs, a shining nut 
Fell from its socket, dimpling wide around 
The dark clear mirror. At that sight one bold 
And hardy urchin, with mysell] no less 
In those young days a daring wight, at once 
Plunged in the sparkling rivulet. If rose 
Above our ancles, to our knees, half up 
Our thighs; and my scared comrade in the midst 
Of the stream turned roaring back, and gained the 

bank 
Niitle.ss and wet, amidst the scoffing shouts 
Of the small people. 

Brad. And thou? 

Crom. Why I bore 

My course right on, and gained the spoil. Sirs, we 
Have plunged knee-deep in the waters; are midway 
The stream : will ye turn now and leave the fruit 
Ungathered, recreants ? or hold boldly on 
And win the holy prize of freedom ? Give me 
The warrant, {signs) So ! methinks an it were not 
Over ambitious, and that 's a sin, 
My homely name should stand alone to this 
Most riglitcousscroll. Follow who list. I've left 
A space for the Lord President. 

Brad. I fill it 

With an unworthy name, {signs.) 

Crom. Now swell the roll, 

My masters ! Whither goest thou. Marten ? None 
Shall stir till he hath signed. Thou a ripe scholar. 
Not write thy name! I can write mine i' the dark, 
And oft with my sword-point have traced in air 
The viewless characters in the long hour 
Before the joy of battle. Shut thuje eyes, 
And write thy name ! Anywhere ! See — 

{Marking Marten's clieeh imtli a pen. 
Nay, Marten, 
Stand still '. — See ! see! how fair and clerkly! Yet 
This parchment is the smoother. 

Mar. Hold thee sure 

I 'II pay thee. General. 

Tick. Why he hath marked thee 

Like a new ruddled sheep. 

■^?^""- I '11 pay thee. 

Crom. Sijn. 

Mar. Willingly; joyfiilly. (signs.) 

Crom. Why so. Where goes 

Our zealous alderman ? I deemed to see 
His name the first. 

Brad. ITe fen rs the city's safety, 

Full, as he says, of the King's friends. 

Crom. IJe fears I 

They be bold men who fearlessly do own 
Their fears. I dare not. Fear! Sir, didst ihou come 
By water hither? 

Tick No. 



Crom. And flidst liiou meet 

No soldiers on thy way ? 

Tick. Many. The streets 

Are swarming with them. 

Crom. Were they silent ? 

TicL No, 

They called aloud for execution. 

Crom. Sa}', 

For justice and for execution. Marry, 
My Ironsides know not the new slate trick 
To separate the words. Well! are not they 
A nearer fear ? Sign boldly. 

{Cromiuell, Marten, and Downes, advance to the front. 

Mar. They flock fast. 

Crom. 'Tis time, for plots are weaving round 
about us, 
Like spiders' nets in Autumn. But this morning 
I swept one web away. Lord Broghiil — 

Mar. What! 

Hath he been here? 

Dow. Is he discovered ? 

Crom. Sir, 

I have a slow-hound's scent to track a traitor. 
He "s found and he 's despatched. 

Drii). How ? 

Mar. Where? 

Crom. To Ireland, 

With a commission 'gainst the rebels. 'T is 
An honest soldier, who deserves to fight 
For the good cause. He but mistook his side; 
The Queen beguiled him, and the knightly sound 
Of loyalty. But 'tis an honest soldier. 
He will prove faithful. 

Mar. How didst win him ? 

Crom. How ? 

\ word of praise, a thought of fear. How do men 
Win traitors ? Hark ye, Downes ! Lord Broghiil left 
A list of the King's friends amongst us here; 
(trave seeming Ronndlieads, bold and zealous soldiers. 
High officers — I marvel not ye look 
Disirnstfully — one of renown, a Colonel. 
A Judge too! Downes, hast thou signed yonder war- 
rant ? 

Mar. What was the plan ? 

Crom. Go sign, T say! The plan ! 

A sudden rescue, to o'erpower the guard. — 
Ha! Ingolsby! 

{Seizing one of the .Judges, and leading him to the 
table.) 
Nay, man, if thou be questioned 
Some dozen years hence, say that I forced thee, swear 
Thy wicked kinsman hold thy hand. Ay, now 
The blank is nobly filled, and bravely! now 
I know ye once again, the pious .Judges, 
The elect and godly of the land ! 

{A trimtpet heard, without. 
Ha !— Marten, 
Haslo to my son ; bid him disband his force ; 
Tho peril is gone by. [Exit Marl'n. 

Hnr. What peril ? 

Crom. Ye 

That are assembled here, should lift your voice 
In earnest thanks for quick deliverance 
From sudden danger. Ye knew nought of this 



Scene III.] 



CHARLES THE FIRST. 



667 



Great jeopardy, nor need ye know. Give thanks, 
And question not. Ye are safe. 

Brad. Art sure of that ? 

Crom. Did ye not hear me even now take order 
The guard should be dispersed? Question no more. 
Ye are so safe, that this .slight parciiment, sirs. 
May be your shield. 

Brad. The deed is incomplete. 

It hath no date. 

Crom. Ah ! well reminded I write 

The Thirtieth. 

Dow. To-morrow ? that were sudden. 

Crom. Why so we must be. There be plots astir, 
And speed is our best safely. — Thou hast signed ? 
Thy name is here amongst us ? — I must haste 
To overtake the hour. 'T is still unsealed. 
Add thou my signet, Bradshaw. [Exit Cromwell. 

Tick. What intends 

The General ? 

Brad. Question not of that. A taper! 

Your seals, my Lords Commissioners ! Your seals ! 
[Tlie Scene closes. 

SCENE iir. 

The King's Apartments. 

Enter the King leading in the Princess Elizabeth and 
the Duke of Gloucester. 

King. Here we may weep at leisure. Yon fierce 
ruffian 
Will scarce pursue us here. Elizabeth, 
I thought I had done vviih anger, but the soldier 
Who gazed on thpe awhile, with looks that seemed 
To wither thy young beauty, and with words — 
My child ! my child ! And I had not the power 
To shield mine o n sweet child ! 

Eliz. I saw him not; 

I heard him not : I could see none but thee ; 
Could hear no voice but thine. 

King. When I am gone, 

Who shall protect thee ? 

GIoii. I shall soon be tall ; 

And then — 

King. Poor boy ! Elizabeth, be thou 
A mother to him. Rear hiin up in peace 
And humbleness. Show him how sweet Content 
Can smile on dungeon floors; how the mewed lark 
Sings in his narrow cage. Plant patience, dear ones. 
Deep in your hearts. 

Enter Herbert. 

Herbert, where stays the Queen ? 
Still on that hopeless quest of hope, though friends 
Drop from her fast as leaves in Autumn I 

Herb. Sire, 

Fler grace is absent still. But general Cromwell 
Craves audience of your Majesty. 

King. Admit him. 

Wipe off those tears, Elizabeth. Resume 
Thy gentle courage. Thou art a Princess. 
Enter Cromwell. 

Sir. 
Thou secst me with my children. Doth thine errand 
Demana tlieir absence ? 



Crom. No. I sent them to thee 

In Christian charity. Thou hast not fallen 
Amongst the Heathen. 

King. Ilovv'soever sent, 

It was a royal boon. My heart hath ached 
With the vain agony of longing love 
To look upon those blooming cheeks, to kiss 
Those red and innocent lips, to hear the sound 
Of those dear voices. 

Crom. Sir, 'twas meet they came, 

That thou might'st see them once again, raight'st say — 

King. Farewell! — I can endure the word — a last 
Farewell! I have dwelt so Ion* upon the thought. 
The sound seems nothing. Ye have signed the sen- 
tence ? 
Fear not to speak, sir. 

Crom. 'T is a grievous duty — 

King. Ye have signed. And the day ? 

Crom. To-morrow. 

King. What ! 

So soon ? And yet I thank ye. Speed is mercy. 
Ye must away, poor children. 

Crom. Nay, the children 

May bide with thee till nightfall. 

King. Take them, Herbert! 

Take them. 

Children. Oh ! no, no, no ! 

King. Dear ones, I go 

On a great journey. Bless ye once again. 
My children! We must part. Farewell. 

Eliz. Oh father. 

Let me go with thee ! 

King. Know'st thou whither ? 

Eliz. Yes ; 

To Heaven. Oh lake me with thee! I must die ; 
When the tree fiills, the young buds wither. Take 

me 
Along with thee to Heaven! Let us lie 
Both in one grave ! 

King. Now bless ye ! This is death ; 

This is bitterness of love. 

Crom. Fair child, 

Be comforted. 

King. Didst thou not pat her head ? 

Crom. She minded me, all in her innocent tears, 
Of one in mine own dwelling. 

King. Thou hast daughters ; 

Be kind to her. 

Crom. I will. 

King. And the poor boy — 

He comes not near the throne. Make not of him 
A puppet King. 

Crom. I think not of it. 

King. Take them, 

Good Herbert! And my wife — 

Crom. She shall be safe ; 

Shall home to France unharmed. 

King. Now fare ye well ! — 

Cromwell, come back !— 7N0, bring them not again — 
No more of parting — bless them ! bless them I See 
The girl, the poor, poor girl, hath wept away 
Her tears, and pants, and shivers like a fliwn 
Dying. Oh ! (or some gentle face to look on 
When she revives, or she will surely die. 



668 



CHARLES THE FIRST. 



[Act V. 



Crom. She shall be cared for. 

[Exeunt Herbert and the Children. 

King. Are they g:one? quite gone? 

I might have kissed them once again, have charged 

ihem 
To love each other. — No, 't is best. 

Crom. Thou bad'st me 

Remain. What is thy will ? 

King. Be kind to them! 

Be very kind to them ! 

Crom. Have I not promised ? 

Was that what thou would 'st say ? 

King. No. But the love. 

The o'ermastering love that was the death-pang, 

Cromwell. 
Thou wilt be kind to them ? 

Crom. Wonld'st have me swear ? 

King. Nay, swear not, lest I doubt. I will believe 
thee. 
And f()r the human pity thou hast shown, 
The touch of natural truth, I pray thee take 
My thanks. 

Crom. I would have saved thee. By this hand, 
This sinful hand, I would have saved thee, King, 
Hadst thou flung by yon bauble. 

King. There is One 

Who reads all hearts, one who pursues ail crimes, 
From silver-longued and bland hypocrisy 
To trerisonoiis murder. The unspoken thought. 
And the loud lie, and the aecursing act. 
Mount lo his throne together. Tempt him not. 
I know Ihee for the worker of this deed. 
And knowing pardon thee : — but teinpt not Ilim ! 

Crom. Thy blood be on thy head ! I would have 
saved thee — 
Kven now the thought stirred in me. Pardon, Lord, 
That gazing on the father's agonies. 
My heart of flesh waxed fijint, and I forgot 
Thy glory and Thy cause, the suffering saints, 
The tyrant's tyranny, atid Thy great word. 
Freedom ! Thy blood be on thy head. 

Ki7)g. So be it. 



ACT V. 

SCF,NE I, 

The King's Bedrhamber. 

The King, starling from his Couch ; Herbert, asleep. 

King. Herbert ! Is 't time to rise ? He sleeps. 
What sounds 
Were those that roused me? Hark again! The clang 
Of hammers! Yet the watch-light burns; the day 
Is still unborn. This is a work of night. 
Of deep funereal darkness. F.ach loud stroke 
Rings like a knell, distinct, discordant, shrill ; 
Galheriup, redoubling, echoing routid my head, 
Smiting me only with its sound ; amid 
The slumbering city, tolling in mine ear — 
A passing bell ? It is the scafli)ld. Heaven 
Grant me to tread it with as calm a heart 
As I bear now. His sleep is troubled. Herbert! 
'T were best to wake him. Herbert ! rouse thee, man ! 

Herb. Did your Grace call ? 

King. Ay ; we should be to-day 



Early astir. I 've a great business toward. 

To exchange the kingly wreartr; my crown of thorns. 

For an eternal diadem ; to die — 

And I would go trim as a bridegroom. Give me 

Yon ermined cloak. If the crisp nipping frost 

Should cause me shiver, there be tongues would call 

The wintry chillness Fear. Herbert, my sleep 

Hath been as soft and balmy as young babes 

Inherit from their blessed innocence, 

Or hardy peasants win with honest toil. 

When I awoke, thy slumbers were perturbed, 

Unquiet. 

Herb. Vexed, my liege, with dreams. 

King. Of what ? 

Herb. So please you, sire, demand not. 

King. Dost thou think 

A dream can vex me now ? Speak. 

Herb. Thrice I slept, 

And thrice I woke, and thrice the self-same vision 
Haunted my fancy. Seemed this very room. 
This dim and waning taper, this dark couch, 
Beneath whose crimson canopy reclined 
A form august and stalely. The pale ray 
Of the watch-light dwelt upon his face, and showed 
His paler lineaments, where majesty 
And manly beauty, and deep trenching thought. 
And Care the wrinkler, all were blended now 
Into one calm and holy pensiveness, 
Softened by slumber. I stood gazing on him 
With weeping love, as one awake ; when sudden 
A thick and palpable darkness fell around, 
A blindness, and dull groans and piercing shrieks 
A moment echoed ; then they ceased, and light 
Burst forth and music — light such as the flood 
Of day-spring at the dawning, rosy, sparkling. 
An insupportable brightness — and i' th' midst. 
Over the couch, a milk-white dove, which soared 
Right upward, cleaving with its train of light 
The Heavens like a star. The couch remained 
Vacant. 

King. Oh that the spirit so may pass! 
So rise ! Thrice, did'st thou say ? 

Herb. Three times the vision 

Passed o'er my fancy. 

King. A thrice-ble.ssed omen ! 

Herbert, my soul is full of serious joy. 
Content and peaceful as the Autumn sun. 
When smiling for awhile on the ripe sheaves. 
And kissing the brown woods, he bids the world 
.A calm good-night. Bear witness that I die 
In charity with all men ; and take thou. 
My kind and faithful servant, follower 
Of my evil fortunes, true and tender, take 
All that thy master hath to give — his thanks. 
His poor but honest thanks. Another King 
Shall better pay thee. Weep not. Seek the Bishop; 
And if thou meet with that fair constancy. 
My mournrul Henrietta, strive to turn 
Her steps away till — I 'm a coward yet. 
And fear her, lest she come lo plunge my thoughts 
In the deep fountain of her sad fond tears. 
To win me — Ha! can that impatient foot. 
That hurrying hand, which shakes the door — 
Enter the Queen. 

Queen. My Charles!] 



Scene I.] 



CHARLES THE FIRST. 



669 



King. Haste to the Bishop. [Exit Herbert. 

Queen. Charles ! 

King. Already here ! 

Thou did'st fall trembling in my arms, last night, 
Dizzy and faint and spent, as the tired martlet, 
Midway her voyage, drops panting on the deck. 
And slumbers through the tempest. I kissed off 
The tears that hung on those fair eyelids, blessing 
Thy speechless weariness, thy weeping love 
That sobbed itself to rest. Never did mother 
Watching her fevered infant pray for sleep 
So calm, so deep, so long, as I besought 
Of Heaven for thee when half unconscious, yet 
Moaning and plaining like a dove, they bore thee 
With gentle force away. And thou art here 
Already ! wakened into sense and life 
And the day's agony. 

Queen. Here ! I have been 

To Harrison, to Marten, to Lord Fairfax, 
To Downes, to Ireton, — even at Bradshaw's feet 
I 've knelt to-day. Sleep now? shall I e'er sleep 
Again ! 

King. At Bradshaw's feet ! Oh perfect love. 
How can I chide thee ? Yet I would thou had'st spared 
Thyself and me that scorn. 

Queen. Do hunters scorn 

The shrill cries of the lioness, whose cubs 
They 've snared, although the Forest-Queen approach 
Crouching ? Do seamen scorn the forked lightning. 
Albeit the storm-cloud weep ? They strove to soothe ; 
They spake of pity ; one of hope. 

King. Alas ! 

All thy life long the torturer Hope hath been 
Thy master ! — Yet if she can steal an hour 
From grief — whom dost thou trust ? 

Queen. Thyself and Heaven 

And a relenting w-oman. Wrap thyself 
Close in my cloak — Here ! here ! — to Lady Fairfax! 
She 's faithful ; she '11 conceal thee. Take the cloak; 
Waste not a point of time, not whilst the sand 
Runs in the glass. Dost fear its shortne.ss ? See 
How long it is ! On with the cloak. Begone ! 

King. And thou ! 

Queen. My post is here. 

King, To perish ? 

Queen. No, 

To live to a blest old age with thee in freedom. 
Away, my Charles, my King ! I shall be safe — 
And if I were not, could I live if thou — 
Charles, thou wilt madden me. 'T is the first boon 
I ever craved ; and now, by our yotmg loves, 
Yiy our commingled griefs, a mighty spell. 
Our smiling children, and this bleeding land, 
Go! I conjure thee, go! 

King. I cannot. 

Queen. King, 

Begone! or I will speak such truth — and truth 
Is a foul treason in this land — will rain 
Such curses on them, as shall force them send me 
To the scaffold at thy side. P'ly ! 

King. Dost thou see 

Fierce soldiers crowded round, as if to watch 
A garrisoned fort, rather than one unarmed 
Defenceless man, and think'st thou I could win 
A step unchallenged ? Nor though to escape 



Were easy as to breathe, the vigilant guard 
Smitten with sudden blindness, the unnumbered 
And stirring swarms of this vast city locked 
In charmed sleep, and darkness over all 
Blacker than starless night, spectral and dim 
As an eclipse at noontide : though the gates 
Opened before me, and my feet were swift 
As the Antelope's, not then, if it but perilled 
A single hair of friend or foe, would I 
Pass o'er the threshold. In my cause too much 
Of blood hath fallen. Let mine seal all. I go 
To death as to a bridal ; thou thyself 
In thy young beauty wast not welcomer 
Than he. Farewell, beloved wife ! My chosen ! 
My dear one ! We have loved as peasants love. 
Been fond and true as they. Now fiire thee well! 
I thank thee, and I bless thee. Pray for me, 
My Henrietta. 

Queen. Charles, thou shalt be .saved. 

Talk not of parting. I '11 to Fairfiix ; he 
Gave hope, and hope is life. 
King. Farewell ! 

Queen. That word — 

I pr'ythee speak it not — withers me, lives 
Like a serpent's hiss within mine ear, shouts through 
My veins like poison, twines and coils about me, 
Clinging and killing. 'T is a sound accurst, 
A word of death and doom. Why should'st thou 

speak it ? 
Thou shaltbe saved ; Fairfax shall save thee. Charles, 
Give me a rmglet of thy hair — No, no — 
Not now ! not now ! Thou shalt not die. 

King. Sweet wife, 

Say to my children that my last fond thought — 
Queen. Last ! Thou shalt live to tell them of thy 
thoughts 
Longer than they or I to hear thee. Hearken : 
Promise thou wilt await me here ! Let none — 
They will not dare, they shall not. I but waste 
The hour. To Fairfax, the good Fairfax ! Charles, 
Thou shalt not die. [Exit Queen. 

King. Oh truest, fondest woman ! 

My matchless wife ! The pang is mastered now : 
I am Death's conqueror. My FaithfuUest ! 
My Fairest! My most dear ! I ne'er shall see 
Those radiant looks again, or hear the sound 
Of thy blithe voice, which was a hope; or feel 
The thrilling pressure of thy hand, almost 
A language, so the ardent spirit burned 
And vibrated within thee! I 'II to prayer. 
And chase away that image! I '11 to prayer, 
And pray for thee, sweet wife ! I '11 to my prayers. 

[Exit. 
SCENE n. 
T/ie Banqueling-House at W/iitehall, glass folding- 
doom npf^ning to the Scaffold, v;hich is covered with 
lluck. The block, axe, <^-c. visible ; OJicers and other 
persons are busy iii the back-ground, and Cromwell 
is also there giving directions. 
Ireton, Harrison, and Hacker, meeting CromweU. 
Har. Cromwell! Good-morrow, Ireton! Whither goes 
The General ? 

Ire. To see that all be ready 

For this great deed. 



670 



CHARLES THE FIRST. 



[Act V. 



Hack He hath the eager step, 

The dark light in his eye, the upward look, 
The flush U|xin his cheek, that I've marked in him 
When marcliing to the battle. 

Har. Doth he not lead 

To-day in a great combat, a most iioiy 
And glorious victory ? 

Crom. (a! the hacknfthe Stage.) Hast thou ta'en order 
That soon as the head 's off' the Abbey bell 
Begin to toll ? 
Officer. I have. 

Cro?n. Look that the axe 

Be keen, and the hand steady. Lot us liave 
No butchery. [admticiiig to the front of the Stage. 

If he die not, we must perish — 
That were as nothing! but witH us will die 
The liberty for which the blood of saints 
And martyrs hath been spilt, freedom of act. 
Of speech, of will, of failh ! Belter one grey 
Discrowned head .should fall, albeit a thought 
Before the time, than God's own people groan 
In slavery for ever. 

Har. Whoso doubteth 

But he shall die ? 

Crom. 'T is rumoured, sirs, amongst 

The soldiery, that one of a high place, 
Fairfax — But I believe it not. Hast thou 
The Warrant, Hacker ? 
Hack. No. 

Ire. Since when doth Fairfax 

Dare to impugn the sentence of a free 
And public court of England — 

Har. Of the Great 

All-Righteous Judge who halh delivered him 
Manifestly to us ? 

Hack. Will he dare oppose 

Army and people ? He alone ! 

Crom. Be sure 

The good Lord-General, howsoe'er some scruple 
May trouble him, will play a godly part 
In this sad drama. Ay, I have the Warrant! 
It is addressed to thee. Thou must receive 
The prisoner, and conduct him hither. 

Hack. Hath 

The hour been yet resolved ? 

Crom. Not that I hear. 

Enter Fairfax. 
Ha ! our great General ! Well met, my Lord ! 
We that are laden with this heavy burthen 
Lacked your sustaining aid ! 

fair. Cromwell, I too 

Am heavy laden. 

Crom. You look ill at ease ; 

'Tis this chill air, the nourisher of rheums, 
The very fog of frost, that turns men's blood 
To water. 

Fair. No, the grief is here. Regret, 
Almost remorse, and doubt and fear of wrong, 
Press heavily upon me. Is this death 
Lawful ? 

Ire. His country's sentence, good my Lord, 
May be thy warrant. 

Fair. An anointed King ! 

Har A bloody tyrant. 



Fair. Yet a man, whose doom 

Lies on our conscience. We might save the King 
Even now at the eleventh hour ; we two 
Hold the nice scales of life and death, and shall not 
Fair mercy sway the balance? Dost thou hear me? 
Wilt thou not answer? Canst thou doubt our power ? 
Crom. No. Man hath always pov\er for ill. I know 
We might desel't our friends, betray our country. 
Abandon our great cause, and sell our souls 
To Hell. We might do this, and more ; might shroud 
These devilish sins in holy names, and call them 
Loyalty, Honour, Faith, Repentance — cheats 
Which the great Tempter loves ! 

Fair. Yet hearken, Cromwell ! 

Bethink thee of thy fame. 

Crom. Talk's! thou of fame 

To me ? I am too mean a man, too lowly. 
Too poor in state and name to need abjure 
That princely sin ; and for my humbleness 
I duly render thanks. Were I as thou — 
Beware the lust of fame. Lord General, 
Of perishable fame, vain breath of man. 
Slight bubble, frailer than the ocean foam 
Which from her prow the good ship in her course 
Scattereth and passeth on regardlessly. 
Lord General, beware! 

Fair. I am Lord General ; 

And I alone by mine own voice have power 
To stay this deed. 

Crom. Alone? 

Fair. 1 'II answer it 

Before the Council. 

Crom. Ha ! alone ! — come nearer. 

Fair. What would'st thou of me ? 
Crom. Yonder men are fim 

And honest in the cause, and brave as steel ; 
Yet are they zealots, blind and furious zealots! 
I would not they should hear us — bloody zealots! 
Fair. Speak, sir, we waste the hour. 
Crom. I would confess 

Relentings like thine own — They hear us not ] 
Fair. I joy to hear thee. 
Cram. Thou art one elect, 

A leader in the land, a chosen vessel, 
And yet of such a mild and gracious mood, 
That I, stern as I seem, may doff" to thee 
This smooth and governed mask of polity. 
And show the struggling heart perplexed and grieved 
In all its nakedness. Yes, I have known 
The kindly natural love of man to man 
His fellow ! — the rough soldier's shuddering hate 
Of violent death, save in the battle : lastly, 
A passionate yearning for that sweetest power 
Born of fair Mercy. 

Fair. Yet but now thou chidd'st me. 

And with a lofty scorn for such a weakness. 
The change is sudden. 

Crom. Good my Ivord, I strove 

And wrestled with each pitying thought as born 
Of earthly pride and mortal sin. Full oft 
We, that are watchers of our wretched selves, 
Aiming at higher virlties, trample down 
Fair shoots of charity and gentle love. 
Yet still my breast was troubled. And since thou 
Art moved by such relentings — 



ScENs ni.] 



CHARLES THE FIRST. 



671 



Fair. And a promise 

Mnde to my wife. 

Crom. A wise and pious lady ! 

Fair. Thou wilt tiieii save the King? 

Crom. Sir, we must have 

Some higher warrantry than our wild will. 
Our treacherous human will, afore we change 
The fiat of a nation. Thou art a man 
Klect and godly — Harrison! — go seek 
The presence of the Lord. Perliaps to thee 
A guiding answer, a divine impulsion, 
May be vouchsafed. Go with him, Harrison ! 
Seek ye the Lord together. 

Fair. 'T is a wise 

And pious counsel. 

Crom. Step apart awhile ; 

We will wait ye here. 

[Exeunt Fairfax and Harrison. 
Cromwell gives the Warrant to Hacl;er. 

Now I now ! be quick ! [Exit Hacher. 
Is the scaffold all prepared ? The headsman waiting 
With shrouded visage and bare arm ? The axe 
Whetted ? Be ready on the instant. Where 
Be the guards to line the room, mute wondering faces, 
A living tapestry, and men of place 
To witness this great deed ? A King should fall 
Decked with the pageantries of Death, the clouds 
That roll around the .setting sun. 

Ire. If Fairfax 

Return before he come — 

Crom. Dost thou rnistrust 

Harrison's gift in prayer ? The General 's safe. 
Besides I sent erevvhile the halberdier.^ 
To guard Charles Stuart hither. Hacker '11 meet 
His prisoner. 

Ire. Bui should Fairfax — 

Crom. Wherefore waste 

A word on such a waverer! 

Ire. What hath swayed him ? 

Crom. His wife ! his wife ! The Queen hath seen 
again 
That haughty dame, and her fond tears — 

Ire. I marvel 

That thou endur'st that popish witch of France 
So near. 

Crom. I watch her. He must die! Tis borne 
Upon my soul as what shall be. The race, 
The name shall perish. 

Ire. Ay, the very name 

Of King. 

Crom. Of Stuart. 

Ire. And of King. 

Crom. So be it. 

Will Bradshaw never come ? 

Enter Bradshaw, Cook, Marten and others. 

Ah welcome ! welcome ! 
Ye are late. 

Brad. Yon living mass is hard to pierce 
By men of civil calling, 'i he armed soldiers 
Can scantly force a passage for their prisoner. 

. Crom. He comes ! 

Brad. He 's at the gate. 

Ire. What say the people ? 

Brad The most are pale and silent, as a Fear 



Hung its dull shadow over them; whilst some 
Struck with a sudden pity weep and wonder 
What ails them ; and a few bold tongues are loud 
In execration. 

Ire. And the soldiers? 

Mar. They 

Are true to the good cause. 

Crom. The righteous cause! 1 

My friends and comrades, ye are come to witness 
The mighty consummation. See, the sun 
Breaks forth ! The Heavens look down upon our work 
Smiling! The Lord hath risen ! 

Ire. The King ! 

(Enter the King, Hacker, Herbert, a Bishop, Guards, ^c.) 

King. Why pause ye ! 

Come on. • 

(Herbert gives the King a letter.) 

Herb. Sire, from thy son. 

King. My boy ! My boy ! 

No ; no ; this letter is of life, and I 
And life have shaken hands. My kingly boy ! 
And the fair girl ! I thought to have done with this. 
But it so clings ! Take back the letter, Herbert. 
Take it, I say. Forgive me. Now, sirs, 
What see ye on that platform? I am as one 
Bent on a far and perilous voyage, w ho seeks 
To hear what rocks beset his path. What see ye ? 

Brad. Only the black-masked headsman. 

King. Ay, he wears 

His mask upon his face, an honest mask. 
What see ye more ? 

Brad. Nought save the living sea 

Of human faces, blent into one mass 
Of sentient various life: woman and man, 
Childhood and mfancy, and youth and age, 
Commingled, with its multiiudinous eyes 
Upturned in expectation. Awful gaze! 
Who may abide thy power ? 

Kijtg. I shall look upward. 

Why pause we here ? 

Crotn. Ay, why ? 

Brad. May it please thee, sir, 

To rest awhile ? Bring wine. 

King. I need it not. 

Yes! fill the cup! fill high the sparkling cup! 
This is a holiday to loyal breasts. 
The King's accession day. Fill high ! fill high] 
The block, the scaffold, the swift sudden axe. 
Have yet a privilege beyond the slow 
And painful dying bed, and I may quaff" 
In my full pride of strength a health to him, 
Whom pass one short halfhour, the funeral knell 
Proclaims my successor. Health to my son! 
Health to the King of England ! Start ye, sirs. 
To hear the word ? Health to King Charles, and peace 
To this fair realm! And when that blessed time 
Of rightful rule shall come, say that I left 
For the bold traitors that condemned, the cowards, 
Who not opixising, murdered me (I have won 
So near the Throne of Truth that true words spring 
Unbidden from my lips) say that I left 
A pardon, liberal as the air, to all, 
A iree and royal pardon ! — Pr'ythee speed me 
On m^ rough journey. 



672 



CHARLES THE FIRST. 



[Act V. 



Crom. Wherefore crowd ye there ? 

Make way. 

King. I thank thee, sir. My good Lord Bishop, 
Beware the step — 

[Exeunt King, Herbert, Bishop, and guards. 
(A paiiae.) 

Crom.. Doth he address the people ? 

M"r. Not so. He kneels. 

Crom. 'T were fittest. Close the door. 

This wintrr air is chill, and the Lord President 
Is of a feeble body. 

{Srrcam wilhout.) 

Brad. Hush ! 

Crom. 'T is one 

Who must be stayed. 

Brad. The Queen ? 

Crom. Go stop her, Ireton. [Exit Ireion. 

It were not meet that earthly loves should mingle 
Wilh yonder dying prayer. Yes! Still he kneels. 
Hacker, come hither. If thou see a stir 
Amongst the crowd, send for my horse; they're 

ready ; — 
Or if, 'midst these grave men, some feeble heart 
Wax faint in the great cause, as such there be ; — 
Or on the scaffijid, if he cling to life 
Too fondly ; — I'd not send a sinful soul 
Before his time to his accompt, good Bradshaw ! 
But no delay! Is he still kneeling? — Mark me, 
No idle dalliance. Hacker ! I must hence, 
Lest Fairfax — flo weak dalliance ! no delay ! 
The cause, the cause, good Bradshaw ! 

[Exit and the scene closes. 

SCENE in. 

Another Gallery in Whitehall. 

Enter Cromviell. 

Crom. Methought I heard her here. — No ! — If she 
win 
To Fairfax! — he must die, as Ahab erst 
Or Rehoboara, or as the great heathen 
Whom Brutus loved and slew. None ever called 
Brutus a murderer! .And Charles had trial — 
'T was more than CfEsar had ! — free, open trial, 
If he had pleaded. But the Eternal Wrath 
Stiffened him in his pride. It was ordained, 
And I but an impassive instrument 
In the Almighty hand, an arrow chosen 
From out the sheaf If I should reign hereafter. 
Men shall not call me bloody. — Hark! the bell! 
No — all is hush as midnight. — I sliall be 
Tenderer of English lives. Have they forgot 
To sound the bell ? He must be dead. 

Queen, {wilhonl.) Lord Fairfax ! 

Crom. The Queen ! the Queen ! 

Enter the Queen. 

/ 
Queen. They told me he was here — 

I see him not, — but I have wept me blind : — 

And then that axe, that keen, bright edgy axe, 

Which flashed across my eyeballs, blinding me 



More than a sea of tears. — Here 's one. — Oh fly 

If thou be a man, and bid the headsman stay 

His blow for one short hour, one little hour. 

Till I have found Lord Fairfax! Thou shalt have 

Gold, mines of gold ! Oh save him ! save the King ! 

Crom. Peace ! peace ! Have comfort ! 

Queen. Comfort ! and he dies. 

They murder him; the axe falls on his neck; 
The blood comes plashing ! — Comfort ! 

Enter Lady Fairfax. 

iMdy F. Out alas! 

I can hear nought of Fairfax, royal Madam ! 
Cromwell, the Master-murderer! 

Queen. Oh forgive her ? 

She knows not what she says. If thou be Cromwell, 
Thou hast the power to rescue : See, I kneel ; 
I kiss thy feet. Oh save him ! Take the crown ; 
Take all but his dear life! Oh save him, save him ! 
And I will be thy slave! — I, a born Princess, 
I, a crowned Queen, will be thy slave. 

Crom. Arise! 

My Lady Fairfax, lead this frantic woman 
To where her children bide. 

Queen. Thou wilt not make 

My children fatherless ? Oh mercy! Mercy! 
I have a girl, a weeping innocent girl. 
That never learnt to smile, and she shall be 
Thy handmaid ; she shall tend thy daughters. I, 
That was so proud, offer ray fairest child 
To be thy bond-woman. 

Crom. Raise her ! Undo 

These clasping hands. I marvel. Lady Fairfax, 
Thou canst endure to see a creature kneel 
To one create. 

Lady F. Out on thee, hypocrite ! 
Where lags my husband ? 

Queen. Save him, save him, Cromwell! 

Cram. Woman, arise ! Will this long agony 
Endure for ever ? 

Enter Ireton on one side, followed hy Fairfax and 
Harrison on the other. 
Is he dead ? 

Fair. What means 

This piercing outcry? 

Queen. Fairfax ! He is saved ! 

He is saved f 

Ire. The bell ! the Abbey bell ! Hark ! 

Crom. There, 

The will of Heaven spake. The King is dead. 

Fair. Look to the Queen. Cromwell, this bloody work 
Is thine. 

Crom. This work is mine. For yon sad dame, 
She shall away to France. This deed is mine, 
And I will answer it. The Commonwealth 
Is firmly 'stablished, Ireton. Harrison, 
The Saints shall rule in Israel. My Lord Genera 
The army is thine own, and I a soldier, 
A lowly follower in the cause. This deed 
Is mine. 



THE END. 



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